Self-Help

Every situation can provide us with a lesson. Look at common annoyances during the day as opportunities to explore what wants to change.

The two socks come together in a motion that is magnetic. My two hands are simple vessels that guide them, rolling up the ragged cotton pieces until they are one unit. Toss into the wicker basket. Repeat until the washing stand is empty as a tree without its leaves. Now the two sides fold on themselves becoming one flat unit. Two to one.

…requires three things: safety, connection, and dignity. Sensations in your body can shine a light on these essential aspects. What can you feel in your body?

The church bell signals its six o’clock hour, or it signals to me that it’s time to start cooking dinner. God, I hear you, just give me a minute. A sharp piercing in my back reminds me that I’ve been hunched over too much today. I run the fingertips through my hair, feeling that I am overdue for a shower. The buildup leaves a greasy feeling on my fingers. Is it already the end of the day?

The laundry basket reshifts as I hitch it up with the help of my thigh. I glance over to my father, perched on the couch. The only movement being the endless kneading of the tasseled throw pillow between his hands. His eyes are fixated on the glowing screen of the television. Cars whooshing by. Commentators eagerly announcing names and numbers on low volume. A year ago, I would’ve made a joke about his mindless consumption of media. Now I’m wondering if this is perhaps a rare moment where something in his locked-up mind connects to the familiar dancing pixels on the screen, something that eases the constant confusion he drowns in.

I slink out of the room, careful not to disturb this hypnotic moment of peace. In the kitchen, sunlight pours in through the top of the window, grazing the top of my head. I pull soggy carrots out of the fridge, grab onions and potatoes from the cabinet. Placing the wooden hunk of a cutting board down with the thunk, I instantly worry that I have popped that tranquil bubble that my father rests in. When I peek around the corner, his empty stare still catches the television’s blue glow. I grab the ends of the counter with both my hands, holding on with as much force as if I were pulling myself up out of a swimming pool. Oh, to sink back and float in that chlorinated cerulean vastness again. The soft lapping of water, other children's laughter, the slap of flip flops on pavement.

…what comes next. Imagine you are walking through an open door. Do you feel more anxious or more excited?

Today I am lucky because he remains still. I can prepare our food without the constant putting down and picking up of a knife as I redirect my father somewhere safe. No, it’s not time to bathe. Please put the books back on the shelf. That locked room is not for you to explore. We can nearly feign relaxation as I plunge the spoon into the mashed potato mound, allowing it to hover before him. He registers that it’s time to eat and grabs the spoon from me. He looks suspiciously at the contents on the spoon, taking a whiff.

“Well now, Lou, that was a good one,” he says after taking a bite. Lou is not my name. His eyes close. I know now that it is futile to ask what the good one is referring to – the food, the race, some event briefly passing through a window of his mind. It’s easy to get lost with him. I used to attempt to track his paths like a well-trained scout. Crisscrossing pieced together memories of starting the house painting business, being deployed in Italy for nearly a decade, picking apples in the local orchard with me.

It’s all muddied up now – one big rainbow pool of spilled gasoline. I’m learning to let it go, to let him go. It’s hard when it feels like all the years have been thrown in a blender. The time when I reeled in my first fish in my too big waders while he cheered me on. Or the time when I came home after curfew and he whacked the back of my head. The father I knew is becoming a ghost before my eyes. At the same time, there’s a scream in my head that says, Look, he’s right there. Same balding sun-spotted head, oil-stained hands, near smirk of tightened lips. Even so, I am often a stranger to him, too.

…especially focusing on what brings you satisfaction. Can you call on your inner child?

I clear the plates and slide them into their slots in the dishwasher. The snap of the machine closing. A sigh escapes me. I grab a glass of water from the sink and let my eyes drift to the droning fridge. Yellowed home improvement store coupons, sun-bleached family photos, a frayed painting of an old-time ice cream parlor from me. Sloppy wallpaper lines bleed into ice cream cones and cherries. My fingers caress the fading image, the colors dulled from decades' exposure.

I rush over to the supply closet, pushing past cans of paint and rusted tools until I find the little drawer of art supplies. I gather them up as if I were cradling an armful of treasure.

Back in the living room, I clear off the table of puzzle pieces in one big swoop. I lay down the water glass, scatter the papers all about, and open up the white plastic case of colors. Dipping a brush in water, I offer it up to my father with the tenderness of offering milk to a kitten. My father gives a perplexed look. He's never picked up a brush for anything but work. I take another brush and demonstrate by dipping into an aquamarine and dragging the color across the paper. He mimics with a sage green, letting the color seep onto the blank sheet. Another dip into the green and then he switches to another brush. I show him to dip the brush in the water; he nods along. A subtle hum begins to emanate from him as he continues.

After some reminders, he no longer needs my instruction. I follow his lead and allow an oceanic image to come to life before me as I hum alongside him. The colors blend into a swirl of teal and sapphire. Glancing over, I see that he’s made a magnificent field with varying tones of green. His face is no longer vacant, but rather has a look of calm attentiveness. His painting is interspersed with trees of varying heights. He begins adorning them with fruits.

Bright, red apples.