[Author's note: the first installment of my fictional 9/11 series was written 18-months ago, but listening to Brene Brown, and a trip to New York prompted more writing about the family O'Keafe. Although the tragic events of September 11th are painfully true, everything written below is fiction]
[any connection to deceased is coincidental and not meant as a truthful reference]
Escape
Out on the lake, in this pristine state park, Michael
cleared his head. Fishing pulled his dad out of his comfort zone, onto a
battlefield without sure footing. Whether the quiet nature of the sport, or the
serene isolation of this oasis, Michael’s excursion into the suburbs today
reminded him of Tim McGraw’s song: Live like he was dyin’ “All of a sudden goin’
fishin’ wasn’t such an imposition.” Michael could see things as they are (or
were) meant to be seen on this clear September morning. (see previous post, September 10, 2011; a bad day fishing...) http://rostranovum.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-9-11-tribute-in-fiction.html
Unfortunately today he confronted the rawness and ugliness
his father showed him over the years. A constant, intimidating flow of his
upbringing’s lifeblood, gave course to fear and spread the worst contagion a
parent bestows upon his children, that which is called shame. Today Mike felt
strong enough to “feel,” down to the core, being open to joy and pain; most
importantly owning all the shame poured over him through the years.
Shame wasn't exactly overt in his home, but it represented a
strong O’Keafe family value. It wreaks more damage than a viral outbreak,
because shame says to an immature child that you are not loved or lovable
unless you meet often sensible, yet arbitrary expectations of the parent. Shame
makes a kid feel small. Its potent sting paralyzes creativity and its
anguishing power overcomes even the strongest-willed child.
Shame stunts in a child the ability to learn self-compassion
because it is graceless, watchful, and critical; outweighing any compliment
with a deluge of correction. Michael realized that Jim O’Keafe’s standards were
held up, idolized, and projected upon his children; and to those who could not
reach them; well, they were de-valued and unfit. As Michael engaged in this session
alone with his thoughts on the lake, the engine off and no wind to drift the boat;
his mind wandered off while watching the end of his line for tugs:
“Why didn't I study art in
college?" he thought, "At least, then dropping-out would've been for the honor of art and not
because I skipped too many classes, failed too many tests?” The pursuit of art slipped
away from Michael once enrolled in the Fireman Academy, even though his dream of
painting with oil and watercolor lived vividly in his subconscious. During
unhurried, deliberate days filled with slow creativity, not rushed by pursuit of
disaster; Michael expressed himself carefully, with great fulfillment. Did he become
a fireman for the same reason his brother did, because their father willed them
into the inferno?
Grieving his dreams became more important
than catching fish today.
Existing in warm California, not
New York; his fantasy artist life reflected a contemplative environment reduced
to the priority of communicating the struggle and strength of life on canvas or
paper. He taught art at a Junior College to make a living, but spent most of
his hours pensive, smocked, and painting. Despite his love for impressionists
his painting conveyed a sharp realism. He visualized and illustrated “real
things” with an eye for natural beauty.
“I love to include enough detail so
that the inquisitive mind must take apart the pieces of the scene like a
puzzle,” Michael told his brother Patrick sometimes when they would talk during
one of his exhibits, “The natural world is so complex, even without humans in
my paintings; sometimes it’s beyond the viewer’s skill to unravel it?” Michael
continued passionately, “I relish that difficulty, that tension; it is a big
part of my fascination with art’s mystery.”
Jung said, “Nothing has a stronger
influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children
than the unlived life of the parent;” as I sit here today, I believe my family
denied me the freedom to describe, analyze, and interpret art, or life, for
that matter. I did what I was told, mostly; even to the point of enrolling in
the Fireman Academy; however, art, or the pursuit of art, saved me.
Michael believes his art is a creek
or stream off of a mighty tributary called vulnerability. Art’s headwaters are
from an energetic source which generates creative channels of light and life,
but vulnerability is the courage to engage in all of life, whether good or bad,
fortunate or dreadful. Today, on this lake, he is dealing with his upbringing, relationships
with father and brother, and even the unfulfilled dreams of a thirty-something
fireman from New York City. He sits serenely, the water laps against the boat.
Suddenly, Michael snapped out of his dream when a silver American Airlines jumbo-jet roared overhead flying low along the Hudson River, very close to
Harriman Park. So close to the ground he saw the red glow of the turbo-jet
engines; this airliner seemed to be racing too fast for a typical
coast-to-coast journey of a jumbo-jet coming out of JFK. It pointed southward toward the city, rather than rising ascendant to a normal cruising altitude. His gut
wrenched while his mind puzzled; Michael immediately thought of his
brother Patrick J. O’Keafe, strangely absent from this fishing trip and now
at the center of Michael’s consciousness watching the silver bullet speed toward
Manhattan. (to be continued...)
©Mark H.
Pillsbury
