Rhythm of Life and the Return of the Mack

Life in the Butler household now carries forth to the rattle and hum of an 4 beat rhythm alternating between Open E and A emanating from my eldest son’s second hand electric guitar.  I say second hand because we are not the first owners, however, I would scarcely say that it has ever seen much use.  If anything, I believe in being well rounded.  I have made good on my promise of a few posts ago and have taken up the guitar.  As with many of my most joyous endeavors, the parity of my soul with that of my eldest son means that we will be learning this craft together.  I have opted for the acoustic where he has chosen electric, but perhaps that is just a comment on our age.  I feel very fortunate to share this time with him.  As a parent, I have noted the joy in actually sharing an activity with your child.  Simply coaching their little league team or sitting in the stands at their next basketball game will never compare to actually participating with your child.  You learn a lot from each other and learn to play on each other’s strengths and weaknesses.  Be warned however, criticism of performance is a two way street, and children can be brutally honest with their assessment.

The truth is, I couldn’t be more pleased that he has taken so keenly to an instrument despite the fact that the roar from his axe woke me up in the wee hours of the morning.  He spent the better part of the day playing it and blistered his fingers in the process.  Dedication . . . the mark of an artisan.  Ultimately, and like everything else in his life, I wish to give him the opportunity to be better than I in every way.  I will proudly note that to be a pretty tall order.  That is not prideful boasting you hear.  I believe myself to be ever evolving and still growing at a prodigious rate myself.  My laundry list of achievements and abilities will one day nullify the need for a bucket list.  No time for regrets, life is too short.  And so, one of my deepest desires for my children is that they are able to take all of my progress and build upon it in their own way.  Where I end, that is where they will begin.  If I am the best I can be and they are better still, I have done all I can for their future.   Perhaps the best way I can describe what it is that I wish for my heirs is this . . . "I have a fascination".  I have a fascination with fascinating people.  Those in life that have a story to tell.  Those who have been on adventures I would dare say came straight out of a story book.  Pirates and Poets, Writers and Musicians, Artists and Adventurers, Scientists and Soldiers . . . these are the things I hope someday to be.  And this in turn is the hope that I have for my sons . . . to be FASCINATING.   I tell my eldest these things and his eyes glass over and the lights go out.  And so I have changed my approach.  I now tell him that being fascinating will help him get girls . . . he seems to understand that concept and is pleased.

Wednesdays are our days together, the boys and I.  Weather and life often get in the way of grand adventures, but even the mundane everyday stuff has a way of putting a smile on my face.  Don’t get me wrong, I am pleased as hell when they return to school on Thursday, but letting them set the rhythm midweek is a nice change of pace from my daily routine.  As the dull hum of electrified riffs fades into silence, it is replaced by a more familiar beat . . . that of our life here in France.  This recent focus on acoustics and notable silence that seems present this morning reminds me of a thought I had recently while sitting in my parked car along side a very busy street.  I closed my eyes and simply listened as I often have a want to do.  Everything in the world sounded vaguely familiar and yet still so foreign.  The murmur of passing voices, a dog barking in the distance, a honk from a passing motorist and the scream of a supercharged Vespa barreling toward its final destination (likely to be a fiery accident a mere block or two from my current location).  When I opened my eyes again, I felt deeply troubled.  While we have achieved a certain comfort level with our lives here in France, I still feel as though I am a stranger in a strange land.  A feeling of shame swept over me for a moment and in the next instant it was gone.  I realized something today.  I will never be French, nor should I aspire to be.  I have so busied myself in the past year with trying to acclimate and to a certain degree blend in with my surroundings that I have lost sight of what makes this experience important in my life.  I have hidden from my cultural heritage and felt shameful for being American when I should have shown pride and been less apologetic for my inadequacies.  It is my unique status of being an American living in France that makes me someone worth getting to know.   I will never be judged harshly here for my heritage because I am wise enought I pay great respect for their culture and do my best to comprehend and utilize their language.  So, why should I feel so apologetic? 

The short answer is, I guess I shouldn’t.  As I have said before, the best part of this experience has been getting to know those who share in the Ex-patriot experience.  They are truly fascinating people and perhaps in the end, so am I.  I have been trying to teach this lesson to my eldest son (becoming fascinating), but perhaps it was I who should have been learning from him.  I discovered this morning that he already has it figured out.  He doesn’t hide himself or his identity.  He is proud of where he comes from and comfortable with who he is.  His vast life experience at the age of 9 and amiable presence make him fascinating all on their own.  Speaking a second language, playing an instrument, participating in every sporting event under the sun are just the trappings of what make one fascinating . . . just the shiny veneer.   It is the mystery of their soul that supports this, and that is what people truly find fascinating.  As I dropped him off to school this morning, it is apparent that this is a fact that has NOT been lost on the young ladies in his class.  Upon entering the school yard he disappeared into a mob of 6 or 7 girls, the most brazen of which had the audacity to grab him by the hand and lead him away from me as we were saying our goodbyes.  Now that my friends is Fascination for you . . . or is it Infatuation?  We will leave that as a topic for another day.  Take care . . . R.