Riding around on the tractor this past weekend, going slow to admire the changes at my Walden after we had some of it rid of much undergrowth that was suffocating and choking off the land’s potential, I noted that many of the scrubby plants that had been chopped down substantially by a large mulching machine were now sprouting leaves.  I smiled.  “As long as there are roots in the ground, there is life,” I thought to myself. So true.

We have many roots in the ground.  As long as we keep them, we have another chance of life and living.  Life naturally does not want to be denied.

What is our tap root?  In plants, it is the straightest root that grows down vertically and from which all our other roots ultimately come.  It provides the resources to gather nutrition (through the other roots) and great stability.  Is your tap root your faith, your sense of purpose, your family…what is your tap root?  Protect it and keep it in the ground for nourishment and stability.

Despite the scrub – yaupon, greenbrier and more – being ravaged by the machine as part of the clearing process to strengthen the pines, oaks and others, most are sprouting.  Life does that to us, too – ravages us, in ways large and small.  We get beat up and torn down.  But the life within us continues, allowing another chance to sprout our own new leaves, they being indicators of the life within.  The leaves, too, then get nourishment and help sustain life.

I stopped the tractor and gazed at one particular yaupon stalk.  Ragged at the top and only now about a foot tall, leaves were coming out of its side, gathering light and processing carbon dioxide:  living and sustaining.  The tractor idled and I looked deeper into the space and a magnificent oak showcased its leaves on long, thick boughs.  Except where it couldn’t.  It, too, has been ravaged, apparently for many years.  I do not know the cause of the damage to branches and trunk, but it looks like a combination of lightning, pests, and who knows what else.  Yet, two-thirds of its branches sustain it. Its roots are in the ground.

The land is full of reminders of the potential for survivability and flourishing if roots are kept solid and intact.  The offshoot roots bring various forms of nutrition to the plants they serve, and I ponder that, too, while easing further along the road.  Relationships, creative outlets, entertainment, education and learning, exercise…all these things that naturally come from our tap root provide us more sustenance, more stability and more life.  I consider how many times people create what they think are roots, but they don’t come from their tap root.  They create processes or a lifestyle that they think will provide them what they need for living, but they are detached from the tap root, and ultimately fail.  These “solutions” are not of themselves, and that’s a problem.

I nodded to myself.  “Where there are roots, there is life.”  I then continued my drive, feeding my roots.

(c) Dion McInnis 2016

 Sitting around awaiting my turn to speak at the It’s Your Time Women’s Conference, I reconnected to the moment I fell in love with writing.

On the coffee table were containers full of pens, each with four colors of ink and a cigar-width barrel to accommodate the options.  To the supplier of these pens, the writing instruments were advertising specialties – giveaways – but to me, they reminded me of when my love affair with writing transitioned from puppy love to something much more enduring and passionate.

I don’t know whether Mrs. Owens had something in mind or simply made a busy-work assignment so she could grade papers, but her assignment to a room full of seventh-grade students at St. Cecilia’s has truly affected the rest of my life.

The writing assignment was to describe something in the room.  After a bit of searching, I opted for the pen in my hand.

The pen was a giveaway, an advertising specialty (though I did not know the term at that age) that my dad had brought home for me.  It was tan, with advertising text on the side.  The metal collar had lost its sheen to the touches of its owner.  Abundant teeth marks revealed the habits of the pen’s somewhat nervous writer who used it daily.  The assignment became easy as I noticed details on the pen and then used it to complete the descriptive writing task.

I fell in love that day, with writing.  I found another voice.  I wished Mrs. Owens was still around to tell her.

Funny thing, I have no idea what grade I received. It didn’t matter.  I had fallen in love with writing.  The container of pens reminded me of the moments and the life of writing that followed.  I’m glad that I saw the pens today. It is good to remember when you fell in love of any type.

My son was grumbling to me about a meeting he was supposed to have with a guy who was considering buying our backhoe.  Amidst the comments, a pearl of wisdom.

The potential buyer was late, unprepared for discussing the equipment, and piddled around while my son’s wife and daughter awaited a promised campfire with their guy.  When the potential buyer left, it was without a thank you for the time or apologies for being late and taking up two hours of time. 

“I can’t get that time back,” my son said.  “We only have a limited number of minutes.  They should all count for something.”

Many influences can distract us from that reality.  Things that lead us to complacency, ambivalence or hopelessness are dangerous, indeed.  Forces or factors that lead us to believe that our time and use of it “does not matter” is insidious.  Many of these conditions come to us via work culture, family life, friends, colleagues or loss of faith.  Stay alert to conditions that make us value moments and minutes less than they deserve.

That is not to say every minute has to be “busy” or “productive.”  Many of my son’s minutes this weekend was spent exploring our place away from places with his daughter (she caught three fish and many more memories).

“A limited number…they should all count for something…” I’m not sure that I will be able to get the words out of my head, and I’m glad for it.

I wished that we had been able to sell the backhoe, but I got a priceless reminder instead.

“My daughter has…”

Church is a place for quietness, reflection, thought and prayer.  It also provides a wonderful opportunity for context, taking consideration of things much larger than worldly ones as perspective for one’s life and how it is lived.  Context comes in other ways, too.

We usually sit close to her in church, not for any particular reason other than that we like the same area of church from which to observe and participate.  There are times to say hello in special ways:  one is at the beginning of Mass when everyone is invited to greet others around them, and the second is before Communion when the sign of peace is shared with others.  Both opportunities tend to provoke hugs and kisses for family members, and handshakes and well wishes for others.  Yesterday, the first opportunity provided context, too.

During the “good morning” phase, the woman who regularly sits close to us responded to “Good morning, how are you?” with “My daughter was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.”  It was a simple statement:  clear and profound, but not dramatic.  The priest started with the opening prayer almost immediately after she finished the sentence.  No time, nor need, to dwell on her words.  It was hard to tell whether she was numb, shell shocked or stoical.  Mass continued.

At the second opportunity for greeting about midway through Mass, a hug was shared.  

Vulnerability is a powerful thing:  it builds connections and understanding. The contexts gained in sharing are powerful, indeed.  They remind us of perspectives, what is important and that, for everyone, mortal life has a beginning and an end.  In between, we should be able to count on each other.

Listen.  Hug.  Life is short and not easy for anyone.

“I will provide you opportunity, but you’re going to have to work it.”

The 27-year old district manager for the Jersey Mike’s Subs in my area smiled when he finished the sentence, and nodded an exclamation point to the statement.  Cole had been describing his approach to management and mentoring new team members when that nugget of wisdom concluded his views.  His well-chosen words should be engraved in every classroom, office environment and household, and not just for the beneficiaries of opportunity.  It applies to all who provide and who benefit from opportunity.

Managers, friends, partners and spouses find many chances to provide opportunity to those near them.  Opportunity is the open door; it is not carrying the other person across the threshold.  It is incumbent on each person, no matter what their role or status is, to provide opportunity to others.  That responsibility, that obligation, that opportunity should be taken seriously and with intentionality.

For those who receive opportunity, again, don’t expect to be carried across the threshold. Work it, as Cole so succinctly put it.  Don’t work it for a minute, or for a week, or for a 30-day self-improvement period.  Work it…as a way of life.

Sure there are benefits to providing opportunity:  good karma, pay it forward, “givers are gainers.”  Yeah, yeah.  Blah, blah.  Provide opportunity when you can and work opportunity as part of life and living.  Period.  The country you live in:  land of opportunity.  Your community—opportunity.  Your family and friends—opportunity.  Each morning you wake up—opportunity.  Opportunity for creating, laughing, healing, loving, feeling, sensing:  work it.

Thank you, Cole for the poignant reminder.

This first appeared in my 2004 newsletter and then in my book, Listen to Life, in 2005.  It seems as appropriate today as then.

(In)dependence, indeed

“No man is an island,” the famous line by John Donne reminds us.  And there is no island without an ocean.  All is somehow dependent on other.  There is no true independence.

A couple of centuries ago we declared our independence, which possibly helps create in our culture the belief that we can be truly independent.  Independence as a trait or quality of life requires us to actually be “in dependence.”  We depend on each other in order to be individually independent.  “People who need people are the luckiest people in the world,” the lyrics expressed.  It would serve us well to remember that in our personal and professional lives, in love and loss, in success and failure, and in all our dealings.  To be independent means that we can choose who to depend on; our choice, our independence.  When that support is inflicted upon us, we are dependent in a negative way.

A good dependence allows for combined energy, while bad dependence sucks the energy from our souls; good dependence allows us to maximize strengths and minimize weaknesses, but bad dependence magnifies weaknesses while creating victims to others’ strengths; and, good dependence allows for genuineness and vulnerability, while bad dependence negates the need for personal courage and strength.

As we become more full in our own lives, more in possession of our Selves, we can better invite and accept the connection of others.

The world situation, too, reflects a need for “in dependence” for successful independence.  To be independent does not allow for total isolation.  Even the island accepts the fury and affection of the waves in order to be fully what it is.

The roast is cooking in the pressure cooker for Father’s Day dinner with my youngest son.  His older brothers are having their own Father’s Day as dads in their home cities, and they seem to enjoy being dads.  A lot.  As we prepare for the evening of food and championship basketball game on television, I write and he prepares for tomorrow’s fishing trip.  Which reminds me…

Almost 20 years ago, I wrote the musings below.  Parenting is catch and release (a fishing term).  It adds to the fun and the lifelong connection.  I included the piece in the series of writings included at the end of my book, Daddin’:  The Verb of Being a Dad.

Happy Father’s Day to dads and father figures.  And thank you, J. Russell McInnis, for being my dad.

~~~~~~

Cutting the Monofilament

© by Dion McInnis

Yeah, sure, there is a process called “cutting the apron strings.”  Just as surely, there is one called “cutting the monofilament” or whatever string metaphor there is for what a father and son share.  Either way, the process is not for the weak.

In a three-week period, my not-yet 16-year old son, my namesake, had experienced the death of his second, and last, grandmother.  He had packed suitcases for a one-week missionary trip to Mexico.  He had interviewed for a position among 300 students to spend his junior year in Germany, and he received acknowledgement of his acceptance as part of that group.  That interview took place while his last grandmother rested in ICU awaiting to be unplugged from the machines that kept her falsely alive.  He served as a pallbearer and reader in her funeral.  And sure, he’s caught a few fish, caught a few young women’s eyes, sank a few baskets (a lot of them, he would say), lifted some weights and shaved a few fledgling whiskers.  With each occurrence, he is another step away.  Another nick in the monofilament.

In the next three-month period, he was to add driver’s education, testing for his license, and quite possibly his first job. Flashbacks from my mid-teens are creeping in at the most inopportune times.  Old letters, old songs, and old images short-circuit neurons and the arc lights the memories. Our training drives at the ranch in Texas and in the subdivision (he and I having similar experiences to my dad and I), his good ideas, and the young man’s accomplishments as he makes his way, nick the line near the knot that connects us.

In his next year, I expect to see time at a job, time with those interested in stealing his heart, time with those who enjoy his company and humor, and time exploring the world by foot and wheel.  I can expect to see less of my son.

I have to wonder if there is such a thing as a parental leader, a leader similar to those used in fishing:  An extra-strong piece of line or wire that connects the bait, or lure, and the reel’s line.  No matter how far the fish runs, there is always a connection.  As we move closer to the day that he runs off to college, I wonder if my terminal tackle is ready for the task as hand.

A leader should be tougher, nick resistant, and capable of handling the playing of the fish.  It is the best chance of keeping the fish for the duration of time that the fisherman and the fish are joined.  The leader must be flexible, not brittle; tough, but not injurious:  perhaps our parental leader is a braided line of love, patience, understanding and communication.

Fisherman go to great lengths constructing appropriate leaders:  short, long, monofilament, braided steel, supple or stiff.  No matter the size of the fish, there is likely a leader for it.  And so it is with our children.  No matter the age or personality, we construct leaders of various styles.  Yet, they all nick.

Interesting materials make for desirable leaders.

Pool cues are excellent.  Spontaneous games of nine-ball provide quick connections while late night marathons of eight-ball and rotation provide long, supple leaders that allow for substantial playing time with little resistance on the drag.  Despite the rigidity of the stick, this connector flexes well over time.

Six-inch, flat, silver leaders can be deceiving, especially when they are music CDs. Fishing leaders are usually measured in inches; CDs as leaders can span decades. Lounging and listening to tunes uses notes and rhyme to compare stories across the generations.  Each generation’s balladeers sing of love, hate, fun and injustice; the lingo is different.

Fishing line and fishing time, now there’s a natural connector.  Time on the water can join the feisty child to dad for years and years of play, give-and-take, and the struggles of coming of age.

And so I watch that young man of mine and consider that the leader does nick, that the fun is in the playing on both ends of the line, and that, if dad has done his job well, the sport of fatherhood is about catch and release.  The leader keeps us together; mutual respect requires that he be released into his world, and, hopefully, we’ll come together often in years to come.

The weather often makes for a conversation starter, especially in extreme times.  In much of Texas, “extreme” would be an understatement with rainfall being as dramatic now as the draught was a few years ago.  And so it was that a comment about rain this morning took me to a wonderful time.

He’s an electrician.  I parked a few spots from his van when I arrived at work this morning.  Instead of simply getting my stuff from the car and heading to the office, I opted for “Well, it looks like you can enjoy a bit of time without rain.” 

“Yeah, we’ve got a window,” he replied as we headed to the building.  “I’m not sure about whether the same is for where I live,” he continued.

“Where’s that?”

“Simonton.”

For the next two minutes we talked about the area.  I inquired about the rodeo there.  It is gone.  That’s a shame.  The rodeo arena hosted a frequent rodeo that often had Coach Bum Phillips and members of the Houston Oilers lead the flags in on horseback.  Many, many good memories there.  And a scary one, when my then-wife’s brother decided to try the amateur division of bull riding.  He lasted about two seconds, and it wasn’t pretty, but he survived.  The rider before him was thrown and made a rough landing – perpendicular to the ground, head first.

I asked about the big softball park out there, “or was it Fulshear?”  He beamed and provided the name as I struggled to find it among the sheets of memory pages in my mind.  “Papa Blakely’s,” he said.  “Closed,” he continued.

It was a brief conversation, with him speaking proudly of his area and fondly of places that he experienced as a kid.  For me, it was a brief journey down a nostalgic path of fond memories and good times.  I’m glad that I commented about the weather.  I would have been without a great chat that started my day and week with pleasantries and pleasantness.  Say something about the weather to someone today, and see where it takes you.

…any younger.”

Dad would say that at appropriate times when reminding his young son about learning new things, whether it was riding a bike as a youngster or more challenging experiences later in life.  “You ain’t gonna learn any younger” has echoed in my ears for years as comforting encouragement to experiment, explore and learn.  Sometimes the wisdom stuck and some time it took longer to get to it.  Like today.

I can swim now.  60 years and nine days into my life span, I swam.  It wasn’t for lack of trying by my three sons over the years.  They each tried to teach me.  They, good teachers, had a challenged student.   Something about each of them turning eight or nine seems to have inspired them to teach their dad to swim.  Their last attempt was when the youngest was eight.  Fifteen years ago.  I learned to swim, but I never got the breathing part down.

That is hardly swimming when you can only kick and stroke until your lungs are about to burst and then hope there is something to cling to at the end of all breath.

I wanted to learn by the time I hit 60.  I missed by nine days.  But today, I swam five lengths freestyle and five on my back, which is definitely not the same as backstroke. It wasn’t real pretty.   I know a little something about strokes, too, because all three of the boys began swimming while in diapers.  Collectively, they have been on swim teams and water polo teams, and my middle son is a master SCUBA diver and is trained in fast water rescue. When I sent the boys a short video of me freestyling one length, and coasting on my back for the return trip, middle son said, “Hard to believe we come from those genes.”  I had to laugh.  The three water boys are excellent swimmers. The granddaughters are also getting into water familiarity early.

The “experts” say that learning to swim later in life is harder.  I have to agree with that.  I spend way too much time analyzing what I am doing right or wrong whereas kids just learn to make play of swimming and vice versa.  Shoulders too high, turning at hips instead of neck, taking too long to inhale, head rocking back and causing shoulders to tighten which then…but today, I got the issues worked out enough to swim casually instead of frantically. Now that I know it is not a lost cause, I’ll return to get better at swimming and then to get in better condition.  It won’t hurt to know how to swim for future fishing trips, either.

It is never too late to learn something, whether for simple pleasure or the principle of it, or any reason in between.  You ain’t gonna learn in younger.  Never give up learning, exploring or experimenting, even if you have to wait until there is hardly anyone else in the pool.