Do you ever rummage through old photos to find the answer to your brokenness? Why is it every time I find myself in the same situation, and I can’t seem to act better.
My problem is how to treat the men in my life. I grew up in a home dominated by them, my Father and three brothers. Every day was a fight for attention, it just seemed I failed to win. I feel like I spent my young life trying to please them, and also trying to be completely different from them. Trying to be brave and yet being ashamed when my true nature bled through at the sight of any unsightly spider.
My childhood was lived in the shadow of a fishing pole. It was a happy childhood, but I still hate fishing. My children have mentioned going fishing and I nod and stare off into space. The idea of actually going overwhelms me. What would we bring? What do you wear? And do you really just stand in the grass at the side of a lake, just stand there with a dangling string in the water? For how long? And what if it is muggy?
The truth is, it might mess up my hair, and if I have that sticky lip gloss on and there is even a slight breeze it will get my hair stuck in it, like a fly in a Venus fly trap. Ashamed I have to admit, I have hit a wall. Looking through old photos I try to pinpoint what went wrong?
A few days ago I talked to my older brother on the phone. All traces of rivalry or disdain have been removed by time and maturity. His voice was warm and affectionate, concerned for me and my family. I shook my head as I held the phone thinking, I would never have imagined that we would be friends. In adolescents we were enemies. I never wanted to be distant I just didn’t know how to be close. He loved basketball and the outdoors. I loved music and the arts and hated nature (still do).
I have a son, fourteen years old, and I find myself on the outside looking in. It’s almost as if I have a fishing pole in my hand. What in the world do I do with this thing? I know how to clothe and feed this creature, but I fail to understand his passion for sports and video games. I find myself offering another fried mozzarella stick as a response to his rant on how the Panthers should have beat the Saints. How about a carrot stick? And can you just take a shower and brush your teeth?
I look at his baby pictures and think, how did time fly? We spent hours together reading about Elmo and Big Bird. Now I spend my days working and checking in for brief moments to make sure he gets to school and does his homework. I remember his bubbling conversations on trains and automobiles while he munched on cheerios. Now I get a mumble here and an uh-huh there as he eats a late night bowl of cereal.
It turns out, the past doesn’t whisper the answers we need through its still life photographs. The quandary is only solved as we stop to stare into the present at the mess we have made. The truth is, I need to connect with my son, but I can’t use plastic cars and train sets. Though the means are different I still must roll up my sleeves and dig deep for this one.
I am still squeamish at the thought of a fishing trip. Let’s face it, prissy girls weren’t made for nature. I don’t have manicured nails, but I would almost go out and get some just so I didn’t have to touch a worm. But my hope is this, I am finally close to the brother I thought was untouchable. Maybe there is a chance that the story doesn’t end with the half a dozen photos of younger simpler times spread out on my kitchen table. Perhaps it is time to get the camera out for some new moments just waiting to transpire.
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