Having spent a wonderful
weekend with kindred spirits, I feel mentally nourished. Enjoying long adult conversation over a
variety of topics is a nice change of pace from my usual primary school
banter. This project received some
attention and the ensuing conversation was an eye opener. It was commented that the content of this
blog does not often seem intended for the general public. That much I know to be true. It is personal and unedited . . . exactly as
I hoped it would be. The notable lack of
an editorial process and some dinner conversation to that end shed some light
on my recent bout of “writer’s block”.
The truth is, despite my assertion that I write for myself, there are
times when the audience becomes my sole concern. It is an audience of one, and their
perception of what is being written matters to me a great deal. That “one” is my wife. She is an avid reader of this crap, for
reasons I still cannot conceive, and when she is away the process changes a
bit. When she is home, I am in the habit
of reading to her what I have written.
In doing so, she receives the message as the author intends it. Inflection is heard and meaning is inferred
from my tone. I know that despite the
skill with which any author crafts the written word, cold words printed on a
page can never provide the tone of voice necessary to completely grasp the
writer’s intent. Because of this
limitation, I tend to choose my words wisely while she is away and reading this
on her own. How she receives the “news from
home” will certainly impact her greatly from afar. Being a captive of circumstance, there is
little she can do to help if my words carry even a hint of anguish or the
slightest misgiving. And so, the editing
room floor begins to fill.
Having her back with us after
a week of separation means that I can collect the recent out-takes and blooper
reels in hopes of composing them into a “best of” compilation. Just as suddenly and staggeringly as this
bout of “writer’s block” arose, so too has it subsided. The three of four chapters worth of content
are finally making it to print and the burden I felt over carrying around this
excess baggage is starting to subside.
So, I apologize in advance for the multi-post days that will likely
follow as I “take out the trash” so to speak.
In an effort to get a head start on that project, I want to leave you
with a piece from our day today. Not
wanting to favor one child over the other, I will share a little from each of
their days. I find myself humbled by
both and proud beyond compare. The
youngest will receive applause this day for his mastery of the language. He has spoken more French in the last day or
so than he has in the entire year we have been living here in France. The one notable exception being our trip to
the US, but I think he was just trying to pick up waitresses with that crap. His counting has improved as has his
vocabulary. It has been my concern that
perhaps he wouldn’t ever get it and that all we have done by moving this boy to
a foreign country is stunt his intellectual growth and regress his progress with
his native tongue. Having parents that
don’t speak the language well, means that both boys are not privy to
reinforcement of what they learn at school.
We try to use French when we can at home, but it is rudimentary at
best. The eldest absolutely speaks with
more proficiency than his parents and the youngest will apparently be rapidly
following suit.
The eldest’s accomplishment
for the day was less academic and more soulful.
I feel very comfortable in referring to him as a “martial artist”. He has been training for several years and
has had the opportunity to do so in two different schools on two different
continents. Becoming well accomplished
at something, only to be told that you must start again is a difficult pill to swallow
for anyone, let alone a 9 year old child.
He left the US with an advanced belt (Senpai) that would not receive
recognition here in France. He would
have to start again . . . Kohai . . .back to white. His years of training are self-evident and he
is already eligible for his first test, a test he has chosen not to take. This is the way of the Warrior. The color upon your belt is meaningless and
does not bestow ability. It is a trophy,
a symbol. Warriors do not have time for
trophies and symbols. He trains for the
sake of training. His accomplishment
measured in skill, not color. The
maturity of his decision astounds me. In
an age where children get a damned trophy and ribbon for everything in life, my
son selected the path leading to enlightenment, not hardware. I rest easy tonight with the knowledge that
despite my many failings as their father, both boys are succeeding all the
same. R
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