Our brand-new baby boy, <quote-01>Robin Lucas<quote-01>, slid purple and serene into our hands and world this past Sunday. We’ve been marveling at him nonstop for two days now—this sweet, blinking being—swaddling his rosy, wrinkly body in warm blankets, laying him somewhere safe to snooze or gaze at all the light and color around his beautifully brown and strikingly dark eyes. He looks just like Rachel.

I’m in his bedroom with him now, just staring at him, at my boy. I love him, this absolute stranger. It’s odd: I don’t know who he is, what he’s like, who he’ll be, what he’ll be good at, what he’ll enjoy. Neither does he; he doesn’t have much to say. <quote-02>Still, my chest expands with an affection I feel in my throat and ribs when I look at him<quote-02>.

You both are with me too, here in the stillness with Robin.

You told me recently, Wuck, that you’ve begun recording yourself playing Bach. That you’ve been listening over these recordings of yourself, driven by the old panic: Is this something? Is there maybe something unique I’m doing here? Is this my small contribution to the world? I loved how well you named that private anxiety, sizing up every scribble or trill. I wonder about that anxiety—one I share with you. I could be wrong, but I’m guessing that it’s a part of the exhaustion and despair you described in your last letter: wanting it all to be over. All three of us, I assume, were told as children that we were talented—dare I say, special. <quote-03>And we grew into the blessing of those words—and the burden<quote-03>.

This narrative, after all, can become a noose. I felt it tighten around me during those days in Berkeley I told you both about earlier this year—before I started working with Ben.

All of this shapes how I see Robin, what I want for him, which words I’ll let myself whisper to him even in this moment. He’s right here sleeping on my lap as I type these thoughts into my phone, as a November storm bends the trees sideways outside the window. This marvelous little boy we’re already passing around the living room, fawning over his every expression and coo—how do I express my excitement without expectation? How do I bless and not burden him?

Did you know, Murph, that Wuck had decided to send <quote-04>some of his Bach recordings<quote-04> to his mother? She’d told him a while back that she misses the sounds of his playing reverberating through the house. I asked that he send me some, as well.

A couple hours ago, as I was setting up the ladder against our newly painted eaves, your audio files arrived, Wuck, along with that screenshot of a text message from your mother: “Thank you!! How thoughtful!! I will enjoy hearing your playing again! [<quote-05>Heart eyes emoji. Music notes emoji<quote-05>].” I immediately hit play on the first one and slipped the phone in my back pocket, full volume. As I climbed towards our roof with an unraveled string of <quote-06>Murph-approved multi-colored Christmas lights<quote-06>, I heard the creak of your piano bench, your first notes, clean and slow.

For the next half hour—in a blessed window of sunshine between dark showers—as I trimmed our little house in lights to welcome the coming of a child, I listened to you, Wuck, practicing <quote-07>Bach’s Ab Major Fugue<quote-07>. It was not a performance. The taping didn’t stop. So I heard the humble sounds of loving effort: the stutters, the off keys, repeated passes at the trickiest bars, the bright and colorful notes playing all around me. I felt closer to you than if I were there in your apartment. As I stretched the primary colors around our little home, I could hear you breathe, hear you humming behind the notes, could hear your piano keys thunk and lift. Were these the sounds of my friend <quote-08>returning to a place of contentment, of unconditional love<quote-08>—no strings attached? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it was beautiful, imperfect music. Love plainly offered and received. Blessing without burden.

This is the kind of light and song I want to wrap around Robin.

I’m grateful for you both.

<quote-09>Happy Thanksgiving<quote-09>.

November 26th

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<pull-quote>Robin Lucas<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>what a name! i love it!<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>It's a songbird and a badass ally of the poor--both of whom know the forest well.<p-comment>
<p-comment>And Luke is the gospel of the outcast and foreigner.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Short story: Lucas was the first migrant in this valley who welcomed me--a useless, smiling whiteboy--into his cabin at the migrant camps nestled among the raspberry fields. He connected me to his Triqui pueblo down in Oaxaca. I facebook'd Lucas this last week to introduce his namesake, and we messaged for over an hour, swapping pictures of our kids. He's rooted in the Modesto area now, no longer in the migrant loop between states. He picks asparagus and prunes grapes these days in CA, but has also developed his side job DJ'ing at quinciñeras.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Still, my chest expands with an affection I feel in my throat and ribs when I look at him<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Well put. Lovely.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>indeed.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>And we grew into the blessing of those words—and the burden<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>i remember waiting with great expectation for my parents to return from my first parent-teacher conference. they’re going to talk with mrs. paterson? about me? without me there to defend myself? we went over my glowing report card at the kitchen table. every mark that wasn’t perfect caused me worry. why wasn’t i perfect? i wanted to know. to cheer me up they told me something mrs. paterson had told them in confidence. i remember the sincerity in their faces when they said mrs. paterson believed that if i wanted, i could grow up to be the president of the united states. she told us not to tell you this, but… i remember them saying. i remember thinking of all the good i would be able to do for the lord as president.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>You know how people say they just want to be better parents than their own were?<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>This is what I'm talking about.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>i remember feeling grateful to have parents who understood spiritual warefare, who had prepared me to anticipate the wiles of the emeny who would surely want to take down a young president-to-be.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Yup.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>is that when i first began scrutinizing my every thought? i mean, if the mind is a battleground for warring spirits, every thought a tactic deployed by entities more powerful than oneself, then yes, that would make sense.<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Hoke takes the time machine to those empty church halls to rescue wee Wuck. I'm setting the date and time for this moment. "I'm from the future, kid. God is dead. We're getting an ice cream and playing air hockey."<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>some of his Bach recordings<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>it’s been on my mind for years. honestly, my bad for not doing it sooner.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Heart eyes emoji. Music notes emoji<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Fucking beautiful.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>hoke, you must not have expanded the screen shot. just below that was a crying emoji with the words, tears of joy.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>I can only imagine, now as a parent. When I hear Abram sing me something he hasn't since he was two. I'm wrecked.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Murph-approved multi-colored Christmas lights<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>When all was right with the world—mom and dad trimming the tree before a roaring fire, Vince Guaraldi on the stereo, a sugar cookie in each of my mitts—the warmth pouring in through the front window radiated from such ceramic C9 bulbs. They burned into the night, just beyond my open miniblinds, as I slipped into the seven or eight most wonderfully restless sleeps of my life. God bless their singular glow.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Well done, Hoke.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Bach’s Ab Major Fugue<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>this fugue from book one of the well tempered always makes me think of christmas and the guys. i’ve been brushing up on it, looking forward to sharing a hopefully decent performance over zoom with you all on guy night.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Keep sending me your practices.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>returning to a place of contentment, of unconditional love<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Maybe this is what happens to me when those red and white and green and blue and orange bulbs blink on for the first time each winter.<p-comment>
<p-comment>May our sons' childhoods be filled with memories worth recreating.<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Man, I hope so.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Happy Thanksgiving<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>happy thanksgiving, hoke. and welcome to the world, precious robin. we got you.<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>In my experience with guys on the streets, I've come to see "we got you" as a very meaningful blessing, my favorite vow.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
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