Death and Distance

It’s about five in the morning Montana time. The sun is out though not yet shining as brightly as I hope it will the rest of the day. I am in bed. I hear the familiar, rhythmic buzz of my phone. A call is coming in. Someone back home on the East Coast. Someone who doesn’t know where I am. Not that it matters. I’ll only be here a week. I hope I keep my sleep pattern just as it is until I return.

It is a family friend calling. My uncle in Cuba passed away in the night. My mother’s brother. My mom is still sleeping. That’s good. She needs her rest with all she’s been through. The friend asks if she should wake mom and tell her the news or would I like to tell her. I think this kind of news should be delivered in person whenever possible.

I sent a message to my cousin in Cuba, offering her my condolences for the death of her father. She called me a few minutes later. We chat and I again offer my sympathies. My wife is awake now and I tell her what has happened while we were sleeping. The family friend calls a few minutes later to let me know she has spoken with my mom. I call her and she is, understandably, upset. I tell her to stay calm and to not drive or stress herself out. She tells me that if the initial shock didn’t kill her, none of this will. Her little brother is dead. She has to tell her big sister, my aunt.

The news of my uncle’s death passed from Cuba to Hialeah, Florida, to West Yellowstone, Montana, back to Hialeah, to my mother, who was right next to the family friend who called me with the news in the first place. In the meantime, I spoke to my cousin, who is about two thousand miles away but only about three hundred miles away from my mother, who will eventually call her sister who is about ten miles away in Pembroke Pines, Florida.

Because my uncle died in Cuba, we will not be able to attend his funeral. We will not get together and share memories and laugh and cry the way one does to cope with the loss. We will talk or text. We may receive pictures but we will not hear the music or the sobs. Our shoulders will remain dry as we will not be able to offer them to comfort a relative. We will each grieve our own grief and cry our own tears. Our pain will be more personal. The loss will not be shared, but divided. Each of us will carry our own piece of it.

Adolfo Jimenez is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published ten books, which you can find here.

Something About A Horse

If you’ve never ridden a horse, you probably should try it. The younger you are, the better. It’s hard on the knees and the hips. It’s also tough to know that your life is in the hands of an animal that can throw you off and trample you in a heartbeat. If it was so inclined.

As I write this, I can feel the pain in my knees subsiding. I spent three hours on a horse this morning. I am in Montana, one of my favorite and least favorite places in the world. I love it here because it is beautiful and it’s where my daughter lives. I hate it here because the beauty and nature of the place makes me forget that guys with knees as bad as mine probably shouldn’t ride horses up in the mountains for three hours.

Not that I won’t do it again. I will do it until the pain gets to be too much or until the wranglers sit me down and tell me that this particular horse has gone to pasture. I did not grow up around horses. I went on my first horse ride two years ago. I am not sure if I’ll be back. 

But you should definitely give it a try. It’s fun and it’s a nice, relaxing way to give up control for a while. It’s nice to be a passenger and not a driver. I am not speaking for experienced horsemen and women when I say this, but you are never really in control when riding a horse. You are driving in the rain at night in  a car with bald tires. You might get through it in one piece but no one would be shocked if you come home with a busted collarbone. You can kick the horse to make it move. You can pull the reins to stop it or pull them left or right to steer the horse. But these are just suggestions. If the horse doesn’t want to cooperate, it won’t. I don’t know about you, but I don’t kick that hard.

Of course, if you do get through it, if you are able to relax enough to enjoy being a passenger, if you are able to live in that particular moment, listen to the birds, admire the trees and feel the breeze in your face, you might come away with a different perspective. You might find something you didn’t know you were looking for.

 

Adolfo Jimenez is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published ten books, which you can find here.

2 Flights in 22 Years

 The first time I traveled on business, and possibly the first time I flew by myself, was in 1999. I was twenty-eight years old. Now, as I am somewhere above the Rocky Mountains with my wife and daughters, I have to reflect on how much has changed. I remember that first business trip. I flew American from Miami to Dallas on a mostly empty plane. I had a row of seats to myself. I was given a meal. I was even offered seconds. Ditto the return flight. Now, this plane is packed, barely room for a thought. The first leg was Miami to Dallas and now we’re on our way to Bozeman, Montana for a vacation. Our third consecutive year of flying out here and spending a week at a ranch in West Yellowstone. We’ll ride horses, make smores, go whitewater rafting and eat a surprisingly good slice of pizza.

I am, as I write this, sick to my stomach. I had a 7-11 breakfast in Dallas and cookies and a Coke on the flight. We’re three hours or so behind schedule because Texans seem to be afraid of rain. I live in South Florida. Rain is something that’s just… there.

This is not just a fat guy whining because he didn’t get a meal on the flight. I feel bad for the crew. I hope they brown-bagged it today. It’s just that as I evaluate my current situation 26,000 feet above the earth, I can’t help feeling sad. We’ve lost so much.

I remember being on flights, next to complete strangers, and striking up conversations that lasted from wheels up to touchdown. Now, in-flight entertainment, cellphones and tablets have done away with conversations besides that awkward look that says, “Excuse me, I have to go pee. Get up and let me pass.”

It’s not different from all aspects of life, really. Think back to the last time you were in a doctor’s office. Were there magazines to read? Did you chit chat with others who were waiting? Or, did you just stare at your phone? The more connected we are, the more disconnected we are.This is not an original thought and I don’t mean to try passing it off as one. It just seems worth discussing.

There is a certain irony in the disconnected connection we experience now. We’re able to instantly access news, updates, stock quotes, hotel prices, a ride to the airport or pictures of people far away, some we may know, others we may not know. We gawk at celebrities and gush over kittens while ignoring people with whom we are literally rubbing elbows. I don’t know if it’s right or wrong, but it’s weird. 

Adolfo Jimenez is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published ten books, which you can find here.

Counting Down

In five days, my daughter will be going away to college. I am dying. I knew this day would come. In fact, I always encouraged her to look for schools in other states. I told her being away from home is a legit part of the college - learning - growing up experience. The one time the kid listens to her father!

I am happy for her and I am proud. She applied to one school and was accepted. She is the only one of her graduating class that is going to be attending college away from home. She'll be nearly two thousand miles and two time zones away. I've never lived that far from her or even from my own parents. It's scary and it's exciting. And I'm sad that she won't be here every day. I'm sad that this place, which has been her home since before her first birthday, will seem  a little emptier without her. Okay, a lot emptier. She took her first steps here. She was potty trained here. She is an enormous part of what makes this a home.

So, I'm a little depressed and I am hating the march of time this week. I want my little girl to stay forever, but I know this simply cannot be. She will always be my little girl, even when she is far away. I have to accept it, but I sure as hell don't have to like it.

Adolfo Jimenez is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published eight books, which you can find here.

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The Nomadic Imperative

Often you will hear someone tell you they want to live a nice quiet life. We have been convinced that all we really want is some variation of what we see on TV. A spouse, a kid or two, maybe a dog or a cat, perhaps a witty guinea pig or a bird. We want a car and we want two weeks vacation every year plus weekends off. Except the guinea pig and the bird. They're relatively new. And I'm allergic to cats so I have two dogs.

This has been my life for nearly thirty years and I can tell you I was sold a lie.

This is not to say I haven't been happy. I have been. I am happy. But, I am also restless. I feel like I am cheating myself. I feel like I am giving up on my dreams. I remind myself that I am young enough to still go out and do the things I want to do. Then my back hurts, and I remember I am not as young as I imagine myself to be. Young at heart, old just about everywhere else.

Is this what Thoreau meant when he talked about men living lives of quiet desperation? Is this why I work to fill the void? I don't really know. I don't think anyone could know. I do know it sucks and while the intensity of these feelings increases and decreases, they never quite go away.

I've lived in the same area most of my life. I am, as I write this, 30 minutes from where I grew up, went to school, learned to drive, and lost my virginity. I long to move, but I have responsibilities. I want to walk, to seize the road, but I can't. It would be irresponsible, and I can't do that.

Ernest Hemingway said that to live in one land is captivity. Well, shit. He was right. Not that everyone who lives a stable, successful middle-class existence is unhappy. I can see people choosing this life. I can see its appeal. Maybe it's because I have no choice that I feel the urge to move on.

I feel the urge, but I will fight the urge. I ain't going nowhere. For now. But if I do decide to go, you'll read it here first.

The views expressed by the author are his alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of anyone anywhere.

Adolfo Jimenez is the chair of the elections committee of the Libertarian Party of Broward County. He is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published eight books, which you can find here.

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