You Can't Force It

Sometimes the muse is with you. And sometimes she's vacationing on a tropical island, allowing sun-bronzed locals to feed her fruit and massage her sides. Meanwhile you're weathering a Boston blizzard, and the only way to escape the 39-inch gift that's accumulating on your doorstep is a plastic shovel you bought for $2.99 and never expected to use in May.

The hardest part of writing is allowing the words to come, because the mind is an automatic editor and interrupts the flow of the real. Revisions are important, though, and the best writers are the ones who first create chaos and then clean up the mess.

There is no rush.
There is no rush.
No rush.

Little kids are a great mirror for adults, a chance to reflect on the simple joys of splashing your hands in water or picking a flower from a tree. Moment to moment they live, undaunted by the whats-to-comes and how'd-this-happens. Not a perfect outlook, but definitely peaceful.

Today, I spent an unexpected eight hours at Jill and Larry's house. Jill's dad, George, is my dad's little brother. They're separated by two years, but George, who's approaching 60, looks younger than my father, who died when he was 52, ever did in my lifetime.

Quick story: My dad was diagnosed with lymphoma right around St. Patrick's Day, 2000. For my whole life, our family and George's lived within two blocks of each other. So when I say that George became an even more consistent presence in my house after the diagnosis, I'm talking a move from 60-to-120 rather than 0-to-60.

Anyway, George went with my mom and dad to a particular oncologist appointment. The doctor needed to discuss something sensitive with my father, so he asked him if he wanted to excuse his wife and son so that they could speak privately. My mother--a Miss Massachusetts contestant back in the day, always more beautiful than her age suggested--said she thought it was hysterical until she realized that the doctor was implying George was also her son. Any way you chop it, I'm still laughing.

My favorite picture of my dad and George was taken at some party we hosted at the American Legion across the street from Forest Hills station in Jamaica Plain. My dad--a classic boomer dad, all stoic and controlled veneer--was never one to express his affection physically. My brothers and I kissed the top of his head every night before bed, but short of that, I can only remember a handful of times that I ever hugged the man. Or saw him and my mom really kiss.

... Anyway, the picture. My dad is looking at the camera, and George is kissing his cheek. Devilish, genuine in its display of brotherly love. In that moment, my dad's eyes projected layers of joy and comfort that rarely surfaced in moving life.

I think about my brothers a lot. The way we were with each other growing up. The very different men we have become. The most mundane aspects of childhood foreshadow the rest of the journey. Twenty years ago, Joey was the persuasive showman, I was the emotional volcano, and Sean was the passive clown. Same could be said of each of us today, although we've refined the prototypes.

Back to my visit with Jill and Larry. Jill is less than a decade older than me. She coached my little league team when I was probably 10--the Royals, I believe, and we were terrible. I recall winning maybe one game, but that could be a bit of revisionist history. Point is, back then, the thought of Jill being a mom or the two of us being friends would've seemed impossible. Not that we weren't close, just that to me she was always more of a grown-up, if not an adult, than a peer. But now, Jill--the mother of three boys under the age of five--is as kindred a spirit as one can find in family.

A blessing to watch Jill and Larry's boys interact with one another, forming the bonds that will carry them through their grandkids and beyond. At one point, the oldest son did something to upset the middle son. Jill, full-on mom mode, talked to them about how important it is to be nice to your brothers. And before the older one could muster a sorry, the younger one wrapped his arms around his brother and forgot about whatever bothered him in the first place. Sometimes the best solutions are the simplest. Knowing that instinctively is the major advantage that little kids have over adults.

Yesterday, my older brother Joey's son turned one. I know I'm repeating myself when I say this, but it's so hard to imagine Joey--the guy who slept above me on the top bunk for half of my life--as a father.

My brother Joey is one of the most charismatic people I'll ever know. He looks exactly like me, only with red hair, straight teeth and thirty pounds of muscle (give or take). A personality that leaves a mark on everyone he encounters. He's the guy who could get a nun to do body shots of transubstantiated wine, were he a drinker and had the desire. Point being, Joey is a leader in this life.

In the days when my brothers and I shared a bedroom on Knoll Street, we assumed different roles. Joey, the harlequin, the joker who quietly ran the show. Sean, my younger brother by 14 months, his sidekick. But like Silent Bob to Jay, Sean was always the smartest, quietest O'Malley boy. And then me, textbook middle child, conflicted with desires for attention and independence.

At family parties, like the one where the picture of my dad and Uncle George was taken, I transformed into a double-dare addict. Most of my stunts involved ingesting odd combinations of condiments for pay. Once I ate a serving-spoon piled inches high with mayonnaise; another time I drank a bottled mixture of every salad dressing in my mother's fridge. With the latter experience, I learned that treating dressing like water is a fine way to turn your bum into an uncorked bucket of oil. The toilet became my best friend for about 48 hours. But hey, I made 20 bucks and felt momentarily butch before my über-jock brothers.

I struggled throughout adolescence to assimilate to this vague notion of masculinity that hinged on overwhelming neediness. Needing to be heard, validated, supported, respected, feared, powerful, understood.

I've learned/am learning that it's impossible for people to understand you when you're betraying your character. How can others comprehend or embrace what you're promoting if it's the very thing with which you are the least familiar? Feeling misunderstood--I'm not saying always, but often--is a sign that you need to start projecting more truth and hearing, really listening to, your initial guiding voice.

Right now, I'm euphoric in my gratitude to the roots that feed this tree. The same roots that sprouted from a dime-sized seed a handful of years ago will keep it alive until the time comes to fall over and rejoin the earth.

Without my brothers, I don't know that I could interact comfortably with other men today. They taught me how to fight, to take a beating, to know when to back down, to listen to others, to respond to myself. They also taught me how to forgive and move forward. Watching Jill and Larry's sons--four and two years old--patch up a problem in two seconds made me turn around and wave to the chances my brothers and I have given one another.

Back to Jill and Larry for a moment. What a treat for me--two great people I get to call family. You gotta understand, if you don't already know, that I have a fantastically huge extended family. Irish Catholics from the old country, and you know how they felt about birth control. I love all my cousins, but sometimes it's difficult to connect with people when you see them once, maybe twice a year. So many us only get together when we're wearing our family face--the face that hides our worries or shortcomings or weaknesses from other generations, even if the only thing separating the moment from truth is a squinting smile and hug.

Jill and Larry live in the real. Talking to them, together and separately, is encouraging because they bring what they've got and encourage me to do the same. Conversations flow into memories that inform the thing that's most important to me, my writing. They inspire, challenge, feel, collaborate, teach. No hesitation. So easy. And necessary.

A blessed day with beautiful people. I'm left incapable of not writing prose. This hasn't happened in a while. Feels good to revisit the foundation, tend to the roots. Tree's got a lot more growing to do. What a feckin sweet watering can is family.