The Jar is Always There

The Jar is Always There

Yeah we made up our minds. The bell unanswered was one of those slippery songs you only listen to when the edge is a foregone conclusion, the ground already met, a pretty hard fall.

Esmir as a dream ....

Esmir as a dream ....

We lost Esmir in September.

The Clouds Have Turned to a Hard Rain...

The Clouds Have Turned to a Hard Rain...

Sometimes 100 yards is too much and too far to be away from your offspring, your child, your hopes and dreams that build the momentum to write and become the particle acceleration of each letter typed, a sort of comeuppance regarding the soul. Children are pretty much everything that makes a life just a little more palatable on the mainstream of reckoning that we call our sense of “self worth”. They make us noble when at times we are not.

That type of loss takes time, perhaps in reverse.

Imagine...

Imagine...

Sometimes you take a picture of life, and as you do you really don’t get the impact that at a later date the picture brings to you. My wife Kashmir is the love of my life. Above she dreams of a son or daughter, all I see when I look at her is pure unedited love.

Hi :)

Hi 🙂 Dumb ass- You DO realize that a bear is probably stalking me?

So anyway, we got the deer pictures somewhere west of Hwy 24- deep into the Rockies at a place we could see the back end of Pikes Peak from the deck of the mountain cabin we had rented.

Climbing THAT- Tomorrow....

Climbing THAT- Tomorrow....

There was so much laughter, fun, a moment in time with daughter in tow, my wife Kashmir so honest and so willing to deliver her soul and heart to the trip, and me turning into a full on Bear pussy.

Yip. I thought I was all big and strong, but all I could think of was Bear, Bears, Brown, Black, or in my face bears, just the bears, and peanut butter and jelly desserts for the bears, after they had ripped off my lips and eaten my face bears. Forget Yogi and the Mr. Ranger sir… I had become a total bear pussy.

My wife and daughter smelled my fear.

I got Skills- and some Bad as* friends that r gonna drop by :)

See... He's running too...

I woke up at 3 in the morning to a thump- and decided we wouldn’t be staying the next night, then had to figure out a way to make it a magnificent retreat instead of a seriously putrid defeat of soul and confidence.

I managed to avoid the more serious issues underlying my fear, and what the hell, will bring a bigger gun the next time.

CYA... Pussy ....  :)

CYA... Pussy .... 🙂

There is a gladiator part of me that screams out- but probably more comforted with a 44 mag Ruger Super Blackhawk.

I am so absolutely convinced that I am going to lose in a direct, unarmed, confrontation with some sort of wife sniffin’, daughter munchin’ after i finish- will run you down and chisel my teeefs on your rib bone kinda bear.

Such a Pure Dream .....

Such a Pure Dream .....

Somewhere this smile of pure contentment should raise a few eyebrows. This is a woman happy and safe. As she shares her heart for the lens of my camera, I realize she has accepted me as her Gladiator- the man to defend her.


Bargaining ....

Bargaining ....

People bargain when they fear that they might lose a child, born or yet to be born, that rustle in the leaves of a possible departure drowns out all the side show venues of the circus around you.

Somewhere as you listen to all the pretty much worthless crap on TV the Radio, and what not, you resettle yourself, pick on new rocks to hold on to, and at some point, without anyone knowing it, no news story, no blog, twitter, Facebook, Myspace, or anything with a name for a title that is a total lie- after all of that, you try to avoid it all..

And should you succeed? Will you have the same feeling, the same sense of loss, to come back home from the mountainous woods you released yourself to?

A total white out....

A total white out.... Sadness on a very different level.

A sense of tragedy follows. How can anyone know that pain? A misstep down the ladder as the picture of the white picket fence disappears and life seems opposed to what we have been taught.

For us it was always about babies, it wasn’t not having babies, it wasn’t you shouldn’t have babies, and it wasn’t about you can’t have a baby, it was always about the family on Oak street, in a nice college town, with a great prep school to send those babies to.

Now this loss for us was that tragic. Anyone that takes a stand one way or another- well go for it.. But you haven’t lived the loss of a baby you thought was joining- but didn’t make it.


It's not OZ- Saw it coming

It's not OZ- Saw it coming

Unlike Oz, it really isn’t all that green here. This is a tough, dry, and hot Texas town.

We really need to adapt and grow our family. But it’s not like you wake up one day and decide to buy a plant, and go to Home Depot to figure out what kind of fertilizer you need to get. This isn’t some sort of “patch job”, nothing will bring back your first dream, but somehow you need to crash that car of sorrow into a seriously bad and rocky cliff side, if you don’t do that you will probably keep trying to do it and ultimately do yourself for a lot longer than can possibly be sustained.

Just sit back and cry- because honestly?

There is no fertilizer at the Home Depot or any other store, that stuff you grow plants, animals, and your kids with, is stuff that really isn’t for sale. That stuff is you. All of it. They are your mirror and they reflect you at the same time.

So you may have been punked. No biologicals for you. No expression of the genome.

Brown eyes instead of blue? Well 20 – 20 is good anyway you look at it. Hind sight tends to render less.

Whatever color or wind flies by…

So what is the next move?

Maybe that Bear will make the move for you- and nuzzle you back to the land of the living.

Maybe your life sucks- But... You haven't met me yet :)

See that bear?

So back to reality and the process of going forward to adapt. That’s what unclaimed and unloved kids are by the way, they are sort of like pickles ironically in a pickle of sorts…

A kinduv Kinderheim, orphanage or wayside rest stop for kids that haven’t been picked yet is what a pickle jar is.

And the jar is always there. Full of sprouts and misplaced orphans.

Get Me Outta Here !!!

Get Me Outta Here !!!

Stacked, packed and racked like in a New York ghetto, their home is like a thick old glass jar, the kind you saw in your grandma’s basement staring at you with some sort of stained glass silhouetted attitude from the reflected light behind it, but now instead of sitting on a dusty web filled shelf 15 feet below whatever mischief a bad storm will churn out, this particular jar is going to be opened.

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