Late Night Existentialism

A brief feeling-toned letter to my sons

I’m still reeling after my eight-day vision fast excursion, and I promise I am writing about that in immense detail. I’ll post separately about that soon.

Tonight, as an experiment, I want to write directly from my heart, which seems more in tune since I’ve returned home from the fast. My wife and I just returned a few hours ago from a weekend trip to the Poconos Mountains with some good friends. And our five collective children. Lake kayaking, pool time, fun, and laughter with the kids – a sensational summer weekend.

At bedtime tonight, both my sons cried immensely as they pleaded with me not to travel to Philadelphia over the next few days to film two commercial projects. This time, something felt different, especially from our older son, J, who is almost eight years old. (protecting complete name privacy). He begged to come with me to work and watch me work, proclaiming he’d do anything in this world to come.

I watched him crying quietly as I rubbed his chest, trying to get him to calm down and fall asleep. He noticed the tears in my eyes, and we stared at each other – a shared moment of visceral pain, grief, and sorrow. I asked him to tell me why he’s so upset, and he just begged, “Let me come with you, please.” Logistically, it just won’t work for this one, and I know it.

“How many times have I already broken this kid’s heart?” This is what I kept murmuring to myself inwardly as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

These moments are imprints of felt reality that I know shape the deepest counters in my psyche – and I’m sure his as well. A boy who aches to see his dad work in the world, and a dad who wishes for nothing more than for his son to know how he hopes that could always be the case.

This is what keeps me up at night. I have to leave at 5 am, and it’s nearly midnight, but my soul refuses to let me write these words.

I worry I’m missing things – that I’m not taking enough pauses to realize this is all that fucking matters.

As both my boys sleep less than fifty feet from me right now, I hope they know and can feel my immense love and respect for them. I hope they know I’m selfish sometimes and can be more present; I hope they know I don’t have to scream, but that I’m trying my best. I hope they know that as the lines between reality and artificiality become more blurred, that this fucking love, this ache of my soul, has a frequency of real that cannot be denied. That reality means what is sensed and felt, and remembered in their bones.

I don’t want to be so busy trying to “find myself” that I miss the brilliance of their beauty and innocence right in front of me. They want to know and feel that I enjoy their presence, that who they are matters to me. Am I allowing them to see that, my god, yes, I want them so much it’s painful – even though they drive me bonkers half the time.

I don’t know if they’ll ever read these posts someday – that’s up to them. However, I want both boys to understand that this is the best way for me to express my innermost joys, doubts, fears, and sorrows.

J and C, don’t give up on your dad and the bond between us. You have taught me what it means to be a man, to love, to be afraid of how much I love.

I keep asking myself where all this creative energy wants to go in my life – to write, to utilize my Jungian coaching certification, and so on. Maybe the answer has been in front of me for the last eight years - right smack dab in my damn face. Perhaps you both have been longing for this creative spark in how I raise you. You deserve it. I promise you I’ll give it all I've got.

Love,

Dad