"Therefore, we are going away to be Kings."

Alexander Solzhenitsyn wrote an intense book called Cancer Ward. Not for the faint of heart. First of all, it's long, much longer than A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, Solzhenitsyn's contribution to the high school reading list (or it used to be). And it is as intensely gut-wrenching as Ivan D, so Cancer Ward is really exponentially harder than that book. Anyway, while I was reading one night, one quote in particular (among many great ones) jumped out to me. Dr. Oreschenkov is discussing a former colleague:

"And on the actual day of his retirement it turned out he wasn't a radiologist at heart at all, he didn't want to spend another day of his life on medicine. He'd always wanted to be a beekeeper, and now bees are the only thing he'll take an interest in. How do these things happen, do you think? If you're really a beekeeper, how is it that you waste the best years of your life doing something else?"

Now, as a counterpoint to Dr. O, practically speaking, the things that derail us from pursuing our passions (beekeeping, for instance) are legion: a temporary job that was supposed to simply finance the first hives becomes a career out of necessity, or by attrition. A sick family member forces a relocation to a place where beekeeping is impractical. The realization that beekeeping holds no financial security. And even if one were to become a beekeeper, pursuing that passion, nothing guarantees that the passion will hold for a lifetime--sometimes we just lose our passion for something.

That said, Solzhenitsyn's point is valid: if what we are doing is keeping us from doing what we want to do, what we know we should be doing, then why are we still doing what we're doing? Hm. Somehow I think Solzhenitsyn put it more clearly than I just have.

I think everyone has those daydreams that begin with the phrase, "Maybe someday I'll..." Many of those thoughts are about hobbies, like beekeeping would be for a person in our society. But I've often had a "Maybe someday I'll..." thought about careers, like I think Dr. Oreschenkov is implying.

I've had many jobs (vocational or avocational) that I've enjoyed and only a few that I hated. I've had three that I thought of as career-track. I'm on my third career, teaching, and I think this one will stick. The problem with the first two was that I couldn't see myself years from now as an "old guy" in those careers. Or, I could see other "old guys" in those fields, and I didn't like what I saw. The visions I had of me sitting in their places was not at all comforting.

When I thought about teaching, I was suddenly able to see myself as an O.G. (no, not that kind of O.G.). The wise old sage, a legend on campus from decades-old tales, teaching the children of former students, Mr. Chips (or Mr. Grepps, if you know your Mad Magazine parodies)....  I can even look forward to the "doddering" stage, the point where parents, coworkers, and students might one day whisper, "Why is he still hanging around? It's time he retired."

One of my favorite professors in college was, truly, an old guy. In fact, one of our nicknames for him was Hrothgar, the old besieged king in Beowulf (this professor used to read to us in Old English, and it was easy to imagine that he was so good at it because it was his native tongue). So I have a fond image in my head of old guy teachers, sitting around in dark-paneled offices, smoking cheap cigars, nipping from a flask, and reciting ancient poetry. Someday I'll be there.... Oh, the dreams I have, happy in my work, doing what I love!

But still. Maybe someday I'll.... It still pops up in my head. I think it's natural--we all have those thoughts, either as a fantasy (maybe someday I'll be in the Major Leagues) or as a warning bell to alert us to tack away from a rocky shoal (maybe someday I'll get out of this dead-end job). And now, some "maybe somedays" in my life:

Maybe someday I'll...
build furniture. write novels. understand the stock market. grow all my own vegetables. take up canning. join a basketball league, a softball league, a soccer league. post more than once a month. actually get good at rock climbing. write letters again. go get a checkup. floss. run a 7-minute mile again. help sail a tall ship. solo skydive.

I could go on and on. Maybe someday I'll actually finish this post.

"When we've got our kingdom in going order we'll let you know."

On Day One of vacations, I often have a long list of things to do around the house, fixing and cleaning and sorting and all that. By the end of Day One, when I've not checked off one thing, but rather have spent the day playing with children and reading books and magazines, I get frustrated. Then I wake up on Day Two and make a new to-do list: 1) Play with children. 2) Read. 3) Accomplish one thing from Previous To-Do List. And by the end of Day Two I feel much better!

This is because I have simply changed the focus of what my "kingdom" is. Not the house and grounds and vehicles, but rather the people who occupy it. So if I spent my vacations saying to my children, "I'll play with you after I [insert task]," I'd spend all my time getting my kingdom "in going order" and would miss actually living in that kingdom.

I have to keep reminding myself that the broken things around the house will simply stay broken until I fix them. They aren't going to go away, or grow up, or change, except for getting worse. A bathroom door that doesn't quite latch is just going to sit there not latching until I fix it. Perhaps I won't get around to fixing that latch before a house guest is embarrassed when a dog pushes open the door for a visit. Oh well. I hope our house guests have good senses of humor, because I guarantee that my kids will think it's hilarious, and I want to be there to share in their laughter, and I hope the house guest can laugh with us.

Of course things need to get done--rust on the bulkhead, leaks, painting, cabinet hinges...the list is, really, endlessly regenerating itself. My only point is that I need to keep reminding myself that the priority work of being a father is being present in my kids' lives.

I'll have plenty of opportunities to fix stuff around the house, but I only have a limited number of chances to see my kids be 3, or 6, or 7-and-eleven-twelfths. And I don't want to miss out.