Sundays are for reflecting... and shaving my legs.
This week, I've been thinking about my Uncle Keith a lot. I've been remembering the times I lived with him in metro Detroit. We chatted a few days ago - our 6 week check in. What usually happens is I'll start thinking about him for 5-7 days and keep telling myself I need to call him and, finally, he'll end up calling me. I don't know why that's a thing for us but it is.
When I moved out of his house in 2012, I didn't realize it would be forever. In that moment, it felt temporary. Like a trial period or a day pass. The move and my decision to do was quick. Naturally, I was afraid to tell him so I waited until the last minute. I remember telling him goodbye from the backdoor after kissing him on his head while he sat in the basement in his computer chair. He was mad, and I was terrified... It was fine. I never imagined that some of those moments with him at his house would become some of my fondest memories. As I poured my coffee this morning, I thought about drinking it out on my deck. Many mornings, him and I would start our day with tea or coffee on his back deck reading - him with his newspaper, and me with my latest spiritual magazine I had picked up at whatever metaphysical bookstore I had stumbled in that week. He never batted an eye when I came out, and when we invited him to Bexley's baby-shower he came 2 days early to cook all the food and help set up. He showed up. He always did. Even if he was mad, even if it was my fault, even if he wasn't in the state, he showed up.
My Mother's death and my childrens' never-ending growth spurts have me contemplating the cycles of life - hard. My Uncle told me the other day he was 68 years old. It felt so hard to believe. 17 years ago when I moved here, he was roller-blading, cycling, playing on a tennis league, and dodging a hockey puck. In my mind, he's still newly retired and fifty-five, out living his best life. Now he does keto to keep his blood sugars in check, and I'm not sure what he does for exercise, but he still seems to be a pretty healthy guy. He still likes to call me when he's feeling a little drunk and chatty, and I can find much humor and love in that.
Next Monday we are going to metro Detroit to pick up his Jeep and bring it home to be ours. It still rocks the dent in the front fender from a telephone pole I hit in a parking lot back in 2008. (Talk about karma and rectification before progress.) We are beyond excited. Our girls are going to be stoked. I know sentimentality can sometimes be the biggest killer to common sense, but that Jeep feels like a piece of him, and a part of my life I've always felt so grateful to have experienced.
Within the last year, and some solid few months of therapy to help me navigate some new found anxieties, fears, and resentment, it was uncovered that living with my Uncle in my early 20's was the first time I had ever felt safe and settled in my life. I was in my 20's. I wrote him a nice long, mush email telling him how much that meant to me. I don't know how I ended up with him, here in Michigan. Fate I suppose. If you ask him, he'll always say Aunt Marcy. He's long sold the house I matured and mentally grew-up in, but I've been thinking of that place recently. My room. My lizard. How Uncle Keith let me burn whatever "stinky shit" I wanted when I began my spiritual journey, and sitting with him on the couch after my second-shift job eating the dinner he left for me in the microwave. It all seems like so long ago. He took care of me in a way no one ever had. It was all so strange to me - someone giving without expectation. It was quiet and pretty uneventful most days. All he ever wanted for me was to succeed and flourish, and I did. Thanks to him. Once in a while, he'll come stay a few nights with us here in Dewitt, almost 2 hours away from where he lives. (I do need to make more time to go to him too, or at-least call more than every 6 weeks.) He's like a father to me - better than the one I was given at birth. After Mother died, I wished I had picked up the phone more. After Shauna died, I wished I had driven to Howell more. After Uncle Denny died, I wish we had made that trip to Hillsdale that last time. For a person like me, who struggles with regret, guilt, feelings of frequent failure to the people I love, I don't want to wish I had called him more when I can't call him anymore. That "How you doing, kid?" has lifted my spirits on more than one occasion. Last week, his "you've done it before, you can do it again" felt like the pep talk I didn't know I needed.
I do truly believe that everything in our lives happens for a reason and every experience helps create us into the people we become, the people we are meant to be. I believe there is always good from every situation, and there isn't anything I would change about my life. Not that I could if I wanted to, right? I have to believe that the painful experiences and struggles early in my life have and will continue to help me be the best version of myself and live out my life purpose with grace, compassion, and understanding. I also believe that my Aunt Marcy and my Uncle Keith, were my chance to pave my own way, and create a life I would be proud of, filled with joy, integrity, and peace. I've done that. There have absolutely been ups and downs, restarts, and humility, but I keep moving, striving to not ever waste this life that I was given that is so full of everything I ever wanted and more. A life I truly don't think would be possible without that casual invite to "move to Michigan and go back to nursing school."
Thanks Uncle K. I love you.
With Grace & Gratitude...
