I’m looking at stacks of paper. Stacks upon stacks upon stacks of working out my frustrations.
I learned one thing above all else from this year-long journey: I did all this to myself. Every rock that was ever thrown, came back to hit me, all at once.
…
I see the world around me, people in masks, and all I asked for was a season or two where there weren’t people crowding the streets. I didn’t ask for a pandemic.
The Universe knew I wanted to walk down the emptied streets of Division Del Norte in Mexico City but that would screw up many a workday. The universe assures it can make this happen for a while if one wished to catch the Jacaranda blossoms in March. Oh, missed them in March? Let’s throw a few more variants out there and put the city in Code Red, just until you get a good enough look. They are most purple. Haven’t seen anything like it? We should make this a yearly thing then. So peaceful. No one in the streets.
In 2021, I learned that my thoughts are powerful. Proof’s in my children.
I’m divorced now, but when I was married, I gave it my best, and one of the ways I thought to give it my best was to constantly imagine my children being perfect. So from the point of their conception to the point they were born to the point where I am thinking about them now I’m always thinking they are well fed, well dressed, well cared for, all questions answered, all truths revealed, and all patience given. They have that. But before they became little people of their own, they were gestating in the womb. And my ex-wife can be challenging at times, only because I must have imagined her being challenging, as she was not at all challenging when we were in the United States, falling in love. And the moment we went to Mexico it was like a light switch, I had the curtain drop on me and started feeling the kicks in my side before I could even say “para!’.
Just kidding. It wasn’t that bad. And even it was, it doesn’t matter. The one thing I can say about my ex-wife is that she wanted perfect children. So the day would come where we’d get the ultrasound, and I told her that I was imagining the most perfect baby and I had seen this baby in my dreams, and so did my ex-wife, and so we had an image of perfection that we blended together and the result was a perfect child. In all elements and particles. And that was child number one. Soon my ex-wife liked to just be pregnant for the sake of collecting photos of a perfect child in the womb. I swear it to be true. Even the child in fetus form was perfection.
That said, our first kept me up for about a year with colic.
Here’s the thing about colic. It corresponds to what the mother eats, if she’s breast feeding. How do I know this? Because every night that my ex-wife got cravings for Oaxaca cheese, which is highly acidic, and full of fresh fermentation culture from sitting out room temperature on a park table all day, I soon found myself sleeping next to a crying baby, exhausted, with my arms holding a pillow that was holding my daughter while she just watched me raise and lower her with a fake smile looking at her with desperation while saying — shh, shh, shh, shh, shh — and then a barn burner like Get Lucky comes on my phone, and this wakes her up so I have to do it all over again. All because of the cheese. It’s that kind of thing that builds character. To get through that without ever mentioning it at all. Because there’s no sense to wait until the morning after we all get a good night’s rest, kind of thing. Who am I to complain — I have a lifetime of stories now, thanks to my failed marriage and exploits while I was in Mexico. It’s a good thing.
Best part is I get to leave all the stories with my children.
There will come a day when my children know the reason I kept writing was to maintain an indelible link with them.
I want it to be known that I do not miss a day.
If I must miss my children, then they get stories to read. That’s the exchange. This way, when we’re not together, we can still stay in touch. Even after I’m long gone. There will always be a direct channel to my spirit through my writing. This writing comes from my heart. The heart is tied to spirit. Spirit is the breath that never dies, and thus remains our connection. So do not fear about me being away from you. That’s a lie. I work all day to maintain a clear connection with you, and I am sending love to you all the time, all day long, my love for you is in form of lighthouse beacon. I will always come around, and my light can be seen between the words on a page.
Thank you for reading, and supporting writers. We are mostly solitary creatures. Often misunderstood, yet eager to serve through the medium we find comes to us most naturally. Please be good to us. Please return. Please receive our offerings.
And may all your wishes be fulfilled in 2022.
-W.V.Carleton
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
***
If you believe in the work we are doing here at The Good Men Project and want a deeper connection with our community, please join us as a Premium Member today.
Premium Members get to view The Good Men Project with NO ADS. Need more info? A complete list of benefits is here.
—
Photo credit: iStockPhoto.com