Before we dive in, I just want to say Welcome to those of you who have subscribed recently. I am touched by your presence, and honored to be connected with you in this way. Please feel free to engage in the comments. I’m curious to hear where you’re at in your journey, and what brought you to Engaging Fatherhood.
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For the first time since baby was born six months ago, I was gifted 48 hours to navigate Earth alone. A heat wave hit Portland last week, and my wife, Heather, remembering the awful 117-degree heat wave in 2021 and not wanting to be trapped in the laundry room opening the chest freezer every few minutes for relief, fled with the babe and our huskyqueen to the Oregon Coast. It was her first solo adult adventure away from the nest, managing the creatures alone.
And there I was, on the back side of a sweaty work day, instinctively whistling for her when I walked in.
Silence.
Glee.
Confusion.
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Solitude is more nourishing to me than food. And, it has often been difficult for me to prioritize, arrange, or pursue. This flavor of attachment wounding is a nasty paradox, perhaps traceable to infancy: overwhelmed by other humans, I needed to titrate or pull away for a while, but didn’t have the agency; or, when I did pull away, it may have meant losing love.
So I learned to do what so many of us do: override my own needs to take care of others: even if I’m a humbug to be around, I figure, at least I’m around.
Fatherhood has given me an opportunity to prioritize our little human’s needs & development in ways that I have never prioritized my own. It’s been a deeply rewarding, life-giving, and sometimes painful exercise in anti-narcissism.
And, my mindbody is in rough shape. I often wake up foggy and depleted, adhere to the most important piece of parenting advice I heard (remember to take your vitamins every day!), and just get through the day, often crashing into bed early without doing all the things that need my doing.
Are these the longer-term effects of too little and disrupted sleep? Or is it something else? I can only imagine what Heather is experiencing. She has said that the only real sleep she ever gets is in the hour after I wake up to take the beasts for a walk.
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In the stillness, disorientation. Like a ship adrift in the foggy doldrums, I floated through the house, tasking, wanting to seize the moment somehow, but could only follow the deeper grooves of life: I washed the dishes, started the laundry, showered (thank you, water).
As if sensing my automation, my sister-in-law invited me over for a couple of ciders. “What are you going to do with this time?” she asked.
The question hung in the air, like a clutch ball or a crinkle cloth on the baby’s activity center.
The rush hour sun beat down on us, and the world began to open. I had forty hours remaining, and only the faintest idea of who I was alone anymore.
Turned out that didn’t matter much. This body needed sleep. I crashed for eleven hours—two nights in a row. Waking was such sweet sorrow, but for the first time in six months, I felt rested.
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The afternoon before the family came home, I embarked on a psychedelic journey that helped me drop into my body, into the present moment, and to just witness what wanted to unfold.
In that space, a familiar set of images, archetypes, stories, and sensations emerged: things I’ve struggled with, wanted more from, stuffed away, forgotten about. They were all right there, on a dusty shelf of my consciousness, waiting to dance again. I was elated.
Feeling spiritually refreshed, I was able to meet the family’s arrival home with just a little more fuel in my tank. There’s something important for me about this slow refueling.
For example, this week, I began leaving for work fifteen minutes earlier than usual. I stop at a park, bring my attention to my breath and body, drop into a qi gong practice, drink some water, and greet the morning.