I feel the dream in me expire
And there's no one left to blame it on
-Seether (from "Fine Again")
It seems to me the loss of one's life dream, goal, calling significantly stifles hope. Especially when this dream is so attached to the identity of the individual in question. Mental, physical, and emotional lethargy linger when expectations are unmet and dreams are derailed. At what points are vocation and calling appropriately concentric with identity and purpose? At what points do/should they diverge?
Aug 27, 2009
Aug 25, 2009
appropriate parameters
I’m sitting here at Panera in Lake Mary working online. I’m right next to a window and watching a potentially disturbing scenario unfold. Out in a concrete courtyard are two mothers sitting on a bench watching their two daughters, who can’t be older than two and a half, run around and play. Granted, that in and of itself is not disturbing. But the fact that they are precariously toddling up and down the concrete stairway, doing technical maneuvers up the handrails, and otherwise engaged in unrestrained activities around the 3 foot stone wall overlooking a thin patch of landscape connected to the brick portion of the terrace, is what makes me nervous and a bit disturbed. Now their mothers are watching them, but it’s as if their egging them on. I could be an overprotective parent, but these kids are one slip shy of pulling a humpty dumpty. And this scenario certainly does not qualify for my last post, “When falling feels good”.
Parameters. Perhaps we’ve lost our sense as a society what is appropriate behavior and what is not. Perhaps we’re so fixated on our freedoms that the concept has completely gone out the window. This extends far beyond children playing in a concrete courtyard. Obviously that was just a metaphor, but it seems fitting, given the fact that our sense of right and wrong – our ethics are established at a very young age. We pushed the boundaries as children in order to figure out where, in fact, they were. Sometimes, we pushed hard, and if our parents gave way, we determined where the soft spots were. Family experts tell us if they (boundaries) were solid (but not rigid or abusive) then we as children had more security, stability in our family life. If they were not, and we got away with more than we should have or our parents caved at every cry, then subconsciously we figured out that they were not in control – we were, which is not very comforting for a child. Consistency is one of the major keys to good parenting. Likewise in our society consistency should be the key to a good government, education, and penal system. We’re not talking rigid or dictatorial here, but rather systems that demonstrate consequences for good and bad behavior will be appropriately and consistently handled the same way. There should be no doubt in the mind of a child or a citizen that boundaries are solid and are there for a reason.
Parameters. Perhaps we’ve lost our sense as a society what is appropriate behavior and what is not. Perhaps we’re so fixated on our freedoms that the concept has completely gone out the window. This extends far beyond children playing in a concrete courtyard. Obviously that was just a metaphor, but it seems fitting, given the fact that our sense of right and wrong – our ethics are established at a very young age. We pushed the boundaries as children in order to figure out where, in fact, they were. Sometimes, we pushed hard, and if our parents gave way, we determined where the soft spots were. Family experts tell us if they (boundaries) were solid (but not rigid or abusive) then we as children had more security, stability in our family life. If they were not, and we got away with more than we should have or our parents caved at every cry, then subconsciously we figured out that they were not in control – we were, which is not very comforting for a child. Consistency is one of the major keys to good parenting. Likewise in our society consistency should be the key to a good government, education, and penal system. We’re not talking rigid or dictatorial here, but rather systems that demonstrate consequences for good and bad behavior will be appropriately and consistently handled the same way. There should be no doubt in the mind of a child or a citizen that boundaries are solid and are there for a reason.
Aug 24, 2009
When Falling Feels Good
After crashing into the concrete during my jog this evening and feeling rather rejuvinated as a result, I decided to come up with this list. Take "falling" literally or figuratively; I think it works either way.
Falling feels good when:
1) You're able to get back up immediately and keep running
2) You realize someone saw you fall, get up immediately, and keep running
3) There is no shame involved
4) It breaks up the monotony
5) (Along similar lines as number 4) It macerates the mundane
6) Your face is not involved in the stopping of the toppling
7) You learn something from your fall
8) You don't learn something from your fall
9) The sting of the gravel in your scrape reminds you to keep up the pace because you lost time
10) Let's be honest... Falling feels good when it's not concrete that's underneath you
Falling feels good when:
1) You're able to get back up immediately and keep running
2) You realize someone saw you fall, get up immediately, and keep running
3) There is no shame involved
4) It breaks up the monotony
5) (Along similar lines as number 4) It macerates the mundane
6) Your face is not involved in the stopping of the toppling
7) You learn something from your fall
8) You don't learn something from your fall
9) The sting of the gravel in your scrape reminds you to keep up the pace because you lost time
10) Let's be honest... Falling feels good when it's not concrete that's underneath you
Aug 21, 2009
a gnarly run - gnats and all
As I stepped out the door for my run this evening, I was thinking, I’m ready for a gritty run. I’ve found that it takes some measure of self directed trash talk to walk those 50 yards out to the stretching post across the street at the park. That walk and the first mile or so is my least favorite part of the run. In part, it’s due to the fact that no matter how many times or how many miles I’ve run that particular week, I’m unsure if I’m fit for all the factors that go into a good run. Did I stretch enough? Do I have enough energy? The most pressing question is usually do I want to do this? or do I have the will power to persevere? Normally I let these questions stay in the static of my periphery and get on with the business of running, sometimes by means of the aforementioned hype.
This time though it turned into more than hype, in fact, it seems it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. First of all, I ended up running 7.5 miles; more than I’ve done in a couple months at least. I also ran in the evening, and had the sun go down on me, which is not so bad unless part of your path takes you through unlit woods. (Call me a coward if you will, but only after you’ve tried it yourself). The worst of it was the gnats though. For a good quarter mile or so, a cloud of them filled my breathing space like rednecks fill a stadium during a monster truck showdown. At first I tried to wave them away with my hand, but they were too formidable for such a feeble strategy. I took on gnats like a novice swimmer takes on water. Next I created a propeller out of my sweat towel, but that was a big energy zapper and still proved ineffective. Finally, I just held the towel over my mouth and nose, and while this stifled my breathing, I had no other choice. Eventually the satanic scourge disseminated, and I pushed on through to the end of my run.
In spite of the gnats and perhaps because of them, in the end, grit is good because the alternative can lead to apathetic indolence.
This time though it turned into more than hype, in fact, it seems it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. First of all, I ended up running 7.5 miles; more than I’ve done in a couple months at least. I also ran in the evening, and had the sun go down on me, which is not so bad unless part of your path takes you through unlit woods. (Call me a coward if you will, but only after you’ve tried it yourself). The worst of it was the gnats though. For a good quarter mile or so, a cloud of them filled my breathing space like rednecks fill a stadium during a monster truck showdown. At first I tried to wave them away with my hand, but they were too formidable for such a feeble strategy. I took on gnats like a novice swimmer takes on water. Next I created a propeller out of my sweat towel, but that was a big energy zapper and still proved ineffective. Finally, I just held the towel over my mouth and nose, and while this stifled my breathing, I had no other choice. Eventually the satanic scourge disseminated, and I pushed on through to the end of my run.
In spite of the gnats and perhaps because of them, in the end, grit is good because the alternative can lead to apathetic indolence.
Aug 20, 2009
Wiggle Room
Yesterday, I had to restrain my daughter while a nurse gave her four immunization shots. Four? Come on! I don’t ever remember getting four freaking shots in my life. Two, yes, but never four.
When I received those two shots, I was the same age as my daughter – four years old. After forever befell me in that exam room, and with nerves already on edge, sitting on that sterile table and staring at the nimrod of a nurse who seemed quite clueless about the content and quantity of “cure” that she was about to inject into my body, the inoculation finally occurred. Of course, I first felt the prick and then the sting of the vaccine making its way into my muscle, but I was determined not to cry. After all, it would be over in a flash and then… lollipop. With said motivation surging through my mind, I managed somehow to grit my way through it without the waterworks. How proud I was, with stifled tears glassing my gaze and brimming the edge of my eyeballs like water splashing on this side of a scarcely stable dam. I intended to rise, claim my prize, and walk out of that place with a John Wayne like swagger. But lo, the nurse returned viewing some paperwork, and babbling on about another booster. I don’t remember if I lost it before or after the second shot, but I did lose it. Instead of a studly swagger, my exit consisted of a snotty, tearful traipse all the way out to the car. The ineptness of the intern or nurse who dealt with me was evident, and my mom was not happy with the way things went down. I can now sympathize with her anger. Not that the nurse who gave my daughter her four shots did anything wrong; in fact, she was quite competent. But there was something about having to restrain my daughter’s arms and legs while she stuck four needles into her shoulders that didn’t seem right. She told me to be sure to restrain her legs with mine because she didn’t want to get kicked. But as the needle caps flew, and the sticking started and the tears began to flow, I was instinctively inclined to give my girl some wiggle room; just enough for a swift kick. But inclined as I was, for my daughters sake, I restrained her as I was told.
When I received those two shots, I was the same age as my daughter – four years old. After forever befell me in that exam room, and with nerves already on edge, sitting on that sterile table and staring at the nimrod of a nurse who seemed quite clueless about the content and quantity of “cure” that she was about to inject into my body, the inoculation finally occurred. Of course, I first felt the prick and then the sting of the vaccine making its way into my muscle, but I was determined not to cry. After all, it would be over in a flash and then… lollipop. With said motivation surging through my mind, I managed somehow to grit my way through it without the waterworks. How proud I was, with stifled tears glassing my gaze and brimming the edge of my eyeballs like water splashing on this side of a scarcely stable dam. I intended to rise, claim my prize, and walk out of that place with a John Wayne like swagger. But lo, the nurse returned viewing some paperwork, and babbling on about another booster. I don’t remember if I lost it before or after the second shot, but I did lose it. Instead of a studly swagger, my exit consisted of a snotty, tearful traipse all the way out to the car. The ineptness of the intern or nurse who dealt with me was evident, and my mom was not happy with the way things went down. I can now sympathize with her anger. Not that the nurse who gave my daughter her four shots did anything wrong; in fact, she was quite competent. But there was something about having to restrain my daughter’s arms and legs while she stuck four needles into her shoulders that didn’t seem right. She told me to be sure to restrain her legs with mine because she didn’t want to get kicked. But as the needle caps flew, and the sticking started and the tears began to flow, I was instinctively inclined to give my girl some wiggle room; just enough for a swift kick. But inclined as I was, for my daughters sake, I restrained her as I was told.
You know, sometimes even though we know what's good for us, or those we love, it'd be nice to get some wiggle room... at least for the sake of our dignity and the "damn it all" mood that mulls around within us as the shots start their sting.
Aug 15, 2009
Caspian and the Bridge to Enchantment
I watched Disney’s Prince Caspian this morning with my daughter. I’ve also read the book, or rather listened to an audio version of it, performed by a talented British actress. The tale, as do all in the Narnia collection, ushers me into quite a mysterious mood of ambivalence. On the one hand, I’m elevated into a consciousness of wonder and expectation, an epic ideal inspired by the grandeur of the story, by the surreal setting, by the plight of the protagonist….the awesomeness of Aslan. On the other hand, the splendor of it all reminds me by contrast that my world consists mainly of the mundane. The day to day administrations of living in lackluster land lower my hope that life can be more than it has been, more than it is. Don’t get me wrong, there are joys and genuine moments of mystery and risk in my life, but they are ephemeral foot steps in the grand scope of the race, and they often (as do Lewis’s books) only leave me pining for a purpose that pulls me out of the ordinary and into the enchanted. I’d venture a guess that many people feel the same, especially in the West. Our craving for convenience, security, and leisure has brought on a boredom so profound that, like Dante’s purgatory, you can almost hear the collective sigh of millions searching in vain for something else – anything else.So, what’s the answer? Do we thrill seek, get a hobby, go into online gaming, do drugs, travel, etc? While some of these may be viable vehicles for some level of vivacity, they’re only temporary solutions to a perennial problem. Prince Caspian itself may be an instructive guide for us as we consider the conquest of casual living. After a number of avenues had been either rejected or exhausted, and the advancing armies of the Telumarines were in sight, King Peter finally concedes to send Lucy into the forest to find Aslan. Of course Aslan was the answer all along, but they had to learn that lesson, unfortunately, after all else failed. Finding Aslan in the woods, Lucy snuggles up in his mane and takes comfort in his presence. He leads her back to the battle and, of course, all turns out well when he defeats the Telumarines by reanimating and enlisting the help the trees and water.
Finding Aslan in the woods… perhaps it’s the starting point for the reanimation of our seemingly torpid and tired world. After all, enchantment can only emerge with the presence of the Enchanter.
Aug 11, 2009
Inauguration elation and an August admonition
I realize this is a couple days late, but I thought I’d post it anyway in remembrance of a significant event in our history.
I was born on Jan 20, the day Nixon was sworn into office for his second term. History tells us that this was a momentous event because, on that day, we swore in a President who would be caught in a scandal that would lead to his impeachment and eventual resignation on August 9, 1974. Of course no one could know that when the man lifted his hand and swore on a Bible to uphold the duties of his office that he was in the midst of a scandal that had already compromised his previous oath four years prior.
Perhaps Nixon’s resignation is instructive for those who live in the light of Obamania. The media, movie makers, Hollywood stars, and a hell of a lot of other folks adore the man as if he were the embodiment of all that is excellent – a virtual avatar of Krishna. But I would recommend reticence when it comes to constructing political pedestals. As August 9th, 1974 demonstrated, much mendacity often mulls behind the scenes for those who rise to power.
I was born on Jan 20, the day Nixon was sworn into office for his second term. History tells us that this was a momentous event because, on that day, we swore in a President who would be caught in a scandal that would lead to his impeachment and eventual resignation on August 9, 1974. Of course no one could know that when the man lifted his hand and swore on a Bible to uphold the duties of his office that he was in the midst of a scandal that had already compromised his previous oath four years prior.
Perhaps Nixon’s resignation is instructive for those who live in the light of Obamania. The media, movie makers, Hollywood stars, and a hell of a lot of other folks adore the man as if he were the embodiment of all that is excellent – a virtual avatar of Krishna. But I would recommend reticence when it comes to constructing political pedestals. As August 9th, 1974 demonstrated, much mendacity often mulls behind the scenes for those who rise to power.
Aug 3, 2009
bug spray anyone?
I was out biking the other day at a local nature preserve. The place is like a little corner of paradise in the middle of metro mayhem. Well, maybe not metro; we’re far enough north of Orlando to be free of much of the chaotic congestion, but we’re certainly not rural by any stretch. And maybe it’s not paradise, but it is a secluded little bastion of beauty—a segue from suburbia to serenity.
The preserve is a 5 minute bike ride from our house and backs up to Lake Jessup. It consists of acres of old, undeveloped Florida. Streams and swampy marshes run along trails shaded by tall canopies of trees interspersed with ferns and Florida foliage of all kinds. A run, bike or walk through these woods can stir in anyone a primitive predilection. An older, simpler way of life, perhaps that of the Seminole Indian, endears the passing pedestrian as he makes his way deeper into the density of the forest and farther from the tumultuous times of the 21st century.
During my ride, I was inclined to stop on a number of occasions to simply take in my surroundings. But as I sat there staring at the stream, or at a beautiful bed of ferns, or up at the vaulted veil of branches above, I experienced another element of this environment which kept me from leering for any length of time. Mosquitoes. They mercilessly mounted attacks on my arms, legs, and neck every time I stopped for more than 10 seconds. I could not escape their harassment no matter where I rode. So I kept moving; yes, enjoying the ride, but wishing I could stop for a while and mingle with this largely unmolested, indigenous milieu.
Life, like the mosquitoes at the preserve, also has a way of moving us along. Set among family in a world of wonder and adventure, you’d think we could stop for a while and wander the woods. But society is constantly stinging us, and in the midst of our mingling, we’re pushed along to keep riding, keep working, keep concerning ourselves with the pace of our peddling. I don't know about you, but I'm thinking about using some bug spray?
The preserve is a 5 minute bike ride from our house and backs up to Lake Jessup. It consists of acres of old, undeveloped Florida. Streams and swampy marshes run along trails shaded by tall canopies of trees interspersed with ferns and Florida foliage of all kinds. A run, bike or walk through these woods can stir in anyone a primitive predilection. An older, simpler way of life, perhaps that of the Seminole Indian, endears the passing pedestrian as he makes his way deeper into the density of the forest and farther from the tumultuous times of the 21st century.
During my ride, I was inclined to stop on a number of occasions to simply take in my surroundings. But as I sat there staring at the stream, or at a beautiful bed of ferns, or up at the vaulted veil of branches above, I experienced another element of this environment which kept me from leering for any length of time. Mosquitoes. They mercilessly mounted attacks on my arms, legs, and neck every time I stopped for more than 10 seconds. I could not escape their harassment no matter where I rode. So I kept moving; yes, enjoying the ride, but wishing I could stop for a while and mingle with this largely unmolested, indigenous milieu.
Life, like the mosquitoes at the preserve, also has a way of moving us along. Set among family in a world of wonder and adventure, you’d think we could stop for a while and wander the woods. But society is constantly stinging us, and in the midst of our mingling, we’re pushed along to keep riding, keep working, keep concerning ourselves with the pace of our peddling. I don't know about you, but I'm thinking about using some bug spray?
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