The Fates command the lengths of our lives. For some, the allotment is long, rolling, and arduous; for others, short and brief, like a bursting nova. This, for us, appears arbitrary. Our final moments are drenched in a thick, gray fog. And while this can drive some to madness, it also imbues our very existence with mystery, a mystery so compelling that all of our learned women and men—our philosophers and theologians—opine endlessly on the soul, the body, and eternal consciousness. The answers provided (always inadequate) range from a suffocating surety to a vertiginous doubt.

What happens upon the Fates extending a thread to its fullest extent, raising their shears, and pronouncing their rightful and final judgment: “Enough?”

The simple answer—the least complex answer—is always the best answer. We do not know. And yet, as if rising from forlorn ashes, a question surfaces: On such a foundation can one build either a philosophy or an ideology for both right and virtuous practices?

Well, who can say? Certainly neither Nim nor Dardan. Yet, these questions, these primordial questions, ran through both their heads as, moving into the darkness of Gaius’ tunnel, they heard a slow, confident voice: “Hold, Dardan. You are betrayed and now held fast in the nets of the Established. Do not move. If you do, you shall die. If you stay, then you will be handled gently.”

“What were you thinking?” I ask. Then: “Mom’s gonna be mad.” I exacerbate the situation.

“No,” she screams, “No. You can’t tell her.” Regan is terrified. Her eyes are darting back-and-forth, searching for a solution. “Quick, bring me my Crayon box.”

“What?”

“Now,” her tiny voice wails.

“Regan, I don’t think your Crayons are gonna help you.” I take a deep, tired breath and move towards her. “Take your finger off the ball and let’s go tell Mom.”

“No! Get me my Crayon box.”

I shove a rising laugh down my throat. “Okay.” I grab the colorful box atop the bookshelf. I walk it to her.

“Great, now dump it.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

I dump it.

“There,” she says, pointing. Her eyes are alight with hope.

“What’s that?” I ask. A small, white sticker is resting atop the pile of overturned Crayons.

“A patch.”

“Why do you have a patch in your Crayon box?”

“Give it to me, hurry.”

I hand it to her. She peels the back of the patch off and slams it onto the ball.

Relief courses through her body. She sighs: “All better.”

I laugh now and say, “We still have to tell Mom.”

She smiles, too, and deviously reveals her fragile teeth. “Are you sure?”

A little known fact about Magnus’ Father is that he writes a book for each of his children. These books cast each child as the protagonist in a story of emerging identity. Who am I? What is existence? How do the complex realities of life and goodness mingle, oppose, and define one another? Or do they?

Each novel has a similar though different setting. All of the books take place in the fictional world of Elaea, but at varying epochs. The first is high fantasy, the second is steam punk, and the third is post-apocalyptic. After all, there’s no harm in my kids knowing that their Dad is nerd supreme.

Each novel is comprised of two parts. One part is the journey of the child; the other is the journey of the author. In the first novel, I tackled the relationship between children and parents in the character of my oldest daughter, while simultaneously exploring the difficulties of becoming a father. In the second, I wrote about the relationship between father and sons, and how one lives in the looming shadow cast by the imposing realities of “father,” “dad,” and “blood.” In this third and final volume, I am spinning a yarn for Magnus that deals with identity. What happens when a child lives without a name, a family, a foundational understanding of self? In the alternating chapters, I wrestle with the burgeoning truths of my life — a father becoming, a family growing. And the constant tension between being a loving and present father and the inner desire to achieve: to write that book, to start that PhD, to rock that world.

I’m three quarters of the way through Magnus’ book. I hope to finish it by August.

People keep asking me what it feels like to have a son after having two girls, like it’s some great relief. But I love my daughters. Perhaps not in name, but they would have, just as well, carried on the spirit of their father. Yet, having a boy is different. For example, when changing him, I have to tuck his penis down so that he doesn’t pee straight out of his diaper. I did not know that. He wears hoodies where the girls did not and, though I’m partially bias, he digs his Dad’s voice a little more than the girls. I read him Tennyson’s Ulysses on Wednesday, and he sat through the whole thing. I was like, “Some work of noble note, may yet be done/Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.” And he was like, “I dig that shit, Dad.” I don’t remember the girls saying stuff like that.

So, yeah, he’s cool, and I like him. But it is different. I want him to be strong and gentle, wise and honest, witty and vulnerable. I want him to find his identity in our, his family’s, togetherness. Yet, I want him cast out and find those “works of noble note” that only he can accomplish. I want to strengthen and not hamper him. I want Magnus to fail and learn from his mistakes. I want him to be good rather than happy.

I find that the hardest part of bringing children into this world is that you have to, eventually, let them go. Granted, when they’re eighteen it will probably feel like sweet release, but with every new joy comes a plethora of new hurts and doubts. What if I fail him? What if he is diagnosed with leukemia? What if he decides to drop out of college because, “Dad, Burning Man is the bat’s guano. How did you not tell me?”

All of these doubts and worries have led to three indelible truths: I am a dad. I have a son. I am imperfect.

And with that last: How long do I have before he realizes it?

Probably not long, but, hopefully, when he turns twenty one and I hand him his book, he’ll understand my imperfections a little better. And in his understanding, he’ll extend to the Father, Benjamin John Peters, the grace of the son, Magnus Rowan Peters.      

[The Author of the soccer article that I just read and really liked] announced in 2009 that he could, “smell music.” So far, no-one has been able to disprove his claim. In a far-reaching and controversial interview with The Essex Chronicle, he said that Meatloaf’s ‘Bat Out Of Hell’ smelled, “musky and warm, like your Nan’s attic.”

I’m still laughing. And, no, this is not my imagination. I’m not that creative. Feel free to fact check me here.

It is through art and not the news that we feel and begin to understand the long night of suffering and humiliation endured by the [oppressed].

–Chris Hedges on the poetry of Remi Kanazi.

And I thought: Art is both powerful and weighted with responsibility. It has the power to transform that which is external, but only if internally wielded with the full weight of responsibility. Rarely does art tumble and trip accidentally towards both a witnessing and transforming social awareness.

“Well, someday I might die, but you don’t need to worry about that for a long time.”

“No,” she was adamant, “you will never die.”

“Okay,” I said between bites, “why not?”

“Because Eagle Girl will use her magic on you.”

“And with this magic, I can live forever?”

“Yes.” Her tiny hands, indifferent to the world around her, were plucking off the chicken’s  cardamom dressing.

“What, exactly,” my wife asked, “does Eagle Girl’s magic look like? What does it do?”

“Oh,” Regan jumped up from her seat, “it’s filled with hearts that shoot out!”

“Hearts?” I asked.

“Hearts,” my youngest daughter, Ellis, squawked in response to Regan’s enthusiasm.

“Yes, and stars.”

Regan’s eyes were wide with wonder as her little sister echoed, “Stars.”

“Oh, I see,” said my wife, Natasha. “And what exactly does this magic, imbued with hearts and stars, do?”

“It makes Daddy live forever.”

“For—ever,” said Ellis, trying out the word for the first time.

“And me too?” asked Natasha.

“Oh,” said Regan, “well, maybe.” And then, as if remembering something from long ago, “Yes, and the hearts have birds in them!”

“Hearts filled with birds—epic. Do the stars have anything in them?”

“Well, the stars are kind of looking weird.”

“Weird,” mimicked Ellis.

“Weird,” I said.

In Honor of the Birth of a Wife

A poem I composed promptly,
In honor of your newest year.
I decided, however, to delete it,
as Facebook frowns upon festive verses.

Yet in alliteration I will affirm:
My love enlarges leaving me overwhelmed.
Two daughters, a developing son,
And a brilliant wife boldly living.

Few men find themselves so fortunate,
Honored with a heroic beauty.
Your muted glory made manifest,
Condescends by converging with my coarse unworth.

In other words, Happy Birthday to you, my lovely wife.

Dear Benjamin,

It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted into the DU/Iliff Joint PhD Program in Religious and Theological Studies.  Congratulations!  The admissions committee is working to formalize financial aid offerings, so you should expect to receive an official letter of acceptance very soon.  In the meantime, please accept this informal notice of acceptance, with our congratulations. Please do not hesitate to contact me if you have any additional questions or concerns.  We are excited by the prospect of you joining us in Denver and look forward to working with you soon.

Best wishes,

A——

Living in conflict zones requires individuals to make moral choices on a regular basis. How one works to maintain humane values in the midst of inhumane acts is a constant struggle to define one’s humanity. Part of that involves serious evaluation and criticism of one’s own community and traditions, perhaps even of one’s own family’s traditions. This can be emotionally painful and intellectually challenging. The constant struggle for understanding and empathy for those “on the other side” is both profoundly difficult and deeply rewarding. Finding solid ground upon which to make judgments about what is happening around you is extremely difficult, not least because each side has access to different media and information streams. But peacemaking begins there.

I nodded. Beneath a red throw, my four-year old daughter and I were pretending. We were being mercilessly hunted by a band of raving and grotesque lunatics. We were scared. I could hear their haunting screams in the distance. My heart quickened as a tear—one solemn tear—gently rolled down my cheek.

“Father,” Regan said, as scarlet hues painted her face, “don’t be afraid.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because these monsters,” she laughed, “are nothing to Eagle Girl.”

“Who?”

“Eagle Girl, our savior.”

“But, surely,” I said, “Eagle Girl is tucked safely in her eerie. How would she know? Why would she care? She is great, I fear, and we are not. Would she deign to swoop down and rescue us?”

“Father, you do not know of whom you speak.”

“Bah! Eagle Girl is far away, soaring over the mountains. She is no concern of ours.”

“I say again,” Regan chanted with a firm conviction, “you do not know of whom you speak. Eagle Girl is a miracle in being. She is courageous and ferocious. She speaks seven languages, has rainbow feathers, and flies faster than wind.”

“And how, pray tell, will that save us?” My voice was shrill and packed with fright. The moaning voices of the damned were drawing near.

“How?! How, you ask! Eagle Girl’s wings are made of lightening. She kills germs. And, if that wasn’t enough Father, one of her wings detaches from her body. And it is with this arm that she smites her foes. I have seen it.”

“Smite?” I asked.

Regan nodded while moving her hand horizontally across her neck.

“You mean, with her detachable wing, Eagle Girl decapitates ghouls?”

“Yes. And she wears makeup.”

“Ah, I see. Perhaps, then, we are saved.” I smiled. “But how will Eagle Girl know that we are thusly confined?”

“Eagle Girl reads minds, Father. But she also employs her pet hamster, Midnight, on errands of an intelligent nature.”

“Do you mean to say that Midnight is skilled in the arts of reconnaissance?”

“Yes, yes, Father. And he is very good too.”

“Ah. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he?”

“Your words are wise, Father. Why, even now, Midnight is among us, gathering necessary information.”

“Well, in that case, I am no longer frightened. Eagle Girl will find us and I do believe that she will prevail.” And then a thought occurred to me: “But what should happen if Eagle Girl comes upon us at night, will she be able to espy us? Will she be frightened?”

“Father, your audacious thoughts are tiring. Of course! Eagle Girl not only sees into the blackest of nights, but she also glows in the dark. Besides, Eagle Girl fears nothing. You see, Father, we are saved!”

At that, a monster appeared. Bubbling foam poured from the corners of her mouth. At full height, she was six feet tall, but, in her present condition, she was bent over and twisted by the weight of a bizarre mound deforming her body.

She, the monster, ripped our aegis from atop us and began stomping around in a swooning rage. For a moment, I lost sight in my fear, but soon resuscitated as Regan, now transformed into Eagle Girl, rose up from the ashes of our tomb.

Flying into the air she cawed with all of her might and smote the evil, ravaging monster!

“Ouch!” my wife cried. “That really hurt, Regan. Do I need to send you to your room?”

“No,” Regan sulked.

“Good, because it’s dinner time.” My wife, Andrea, stalked off towards the kitchen.

I winked at Regan and placed a finger across my lips, as if to say: “Remain silent, this is our secret.”

A conspiratorial smile spread across Regan’s face, “I told you, Dad. Eagle Girl always comes to the rescue.”