What is it about writing?
I’m always thinking about it but never doing much of it. Honestly, I can’t figure out why it seems so hard to just sit down and talk about the things that are on my mind. Do you ever stop for a moment and consider all the thoughts that go through your head in a single day? There are just so many things that seem innocuous at first glance but really do have merit and would benefit from the light of your own insight.
Just the other day I was having lunch with a co-worker and he told me this story of how he made his first potato gun. The company that we work for had sent him to a weeklong school where he was to train on a subject that he’d already been taught. In fact, everyone in the class had already received the same training. The instructor, realizing the pointlessness of rehashing the material, suggested they make a trip to the hardware store and buy stuff to make the spud launchers. Using the liquid from glow sticks so they could see the potato fly across the interstate at night was a good scene. When I got home that night, I found hundreds of videos on the internet about folks and their experiences with the things. Apparently it’s a tired subject, but not that tired. It got me to thinking about primitive weapons and I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time reading about slings. You know the kind that David used to slay Goliath. It was really quite fascinating. The length and type of materials to projectiles and their physical makeup to the history of their use for the last several thousand years. I suppose it may have been some deep seated, primeval instinct for survival that drove me there and held my attention. I can see how something like that could lead to a whole world in one’s imagination. That “Clan of the Cave Bear” sort of thing. The woman that wrote those stories seemed to have a special interest in herbal remedies which basically gave her the heroine of the books. I read them all and enjoyed them immensely. I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that. Character and plot development seems to be something that eludes me. Just how far into the story must you imagine before you can begin? There is a line in the latest Indiana Jones movie where Marion says to their son Mutt that Indy just makes the stuff up as he goes. Writing should be like that, letting the story pour out of your mind onto the page like water from a pitcher into a glass.
Maybe my problem has always been one of expectations. I’ve worked at one job, or another, my whole life and to be honest, I’m tired of working. I am thankful for the employment that I have. It does provide for all of my needs and I feel blessed that I have it, especially in this time on earth. I just believe that I’m ready to do something else. Of course, writing seems like the best way to go. Though there is work involved, it can be done from your home. There is no daily commute. No requirement to wear the uniform of one’s employer. My mind is not fettered by the clothes I wear, the vehicle that I drive or corporate objectives. The question though still boils down to one of financial needs. I’ve read so many things that told me how difficult it is to make a living with the written word. How most writers do it their whole lives and never make any money with it. Is it possible that my typical American upbringing which encourages hard work at a job that has substance discourages, in a quiet and subliminal way, the notion that I can make a living at something cerebral? There are other objections to a life of writing. “You have no formal training”. “You don’t know anyone in the industry that can help you”. “You don’t have a clue what some publisher might be looking for”. Ask yourself the question, “Are you willing to commit the time and energy to learn a new craft”? What about all the stuff that’s in you right now that wants to be said that very well may be lost in the process of learning what some other person says is the right way? Shouldn’t it be spontaneous and free flowing? Aren’t my ideas about what is the right way just as valid?
I read somewhere that everything has been written about. There are no new subjects. Even if that is true cannot the old ones benefit from my internal light? In Chicken Soup for the Writers Soul there is a story where one person says to another, “If you wanted to be a writer, you would write”. Looking at it all from a glass half full perspective you can tell yourself “do what you love and the money will come”. I suppose one just has to believe in himself. When I was younger I thought that my special interest in woodworking, my passion for the craft, would allow me to make a living at it. After trying my own business for a while, I soon realized that I’m not cut out for all things I’m passionate about. Though I’m not an exceptional woodworker, I am adequate and have built a few really nice pieces. I realized after a while that my love of wood and creating something beautiful with it didn’t have to be defined by a price tag. The riches came from the personal knowledge that I had expressed myself in that medium and that there was some lasting thing of my own creativity. I suppose writing is like that as well. It may be possible that my children will read some of my musings one day and get a different perspective on their dad. That there was more to me than the guy that provided stuff for them. The guy that disciplined them at times. The guy that supposedly did the best he could while he was there but still failed miserably at times. I suppose that’s a reward in itself, isn’t it?
I don’t know what it takes to be a good writer. I’ve never tried really other than here at this blog and in a few other places where very few people ever read what I had to say. I will say this though, I like to write. It feels good to my soul to express what is in my heart and mind. I just need to get over the notion that it needs to provide something back to me other than the self satisfaction that someday, somewhere, somebody may take what I have written to heart and that it might give them insight into their own lives.
There’s always that one hope.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The Recital
I have children. I am a father of both sons and daughters. Though it’s easy to go through the days on earth not really thinking too much about that aspect of life, just accepting that you are a parent and trying to do what is good and right for them, it is I believe the most important thing that I’ve ever done.
Though I have quite a few children, nine actually, only one makes the effort to keep in touch with me. My youngest daughter is so faithful about calling me that I wonder what might be wrong if she misses a day. I cherish those phone calls. It is often when they come at inopportune times but I don’t want to miss one. As all of the others have been growing, my communications with them have become less and less frequent. With some, I’m reduced to writing letters that are never answered. Some I see briefly when I pick up the youngest ones for my weekend, sharing a quick hug, an I love you. I have such longing for them. I want so much for them to seek me out. To talk to me of what is in their hearts and minds.
I suppose my life isn’t much different than many others that have started out young, got married, had children. Work hard to provide for the family. Long hours, time apart due to work, chores and honey dos all use up the most valuable of commodities, time. There a myriad of things that can take up your time at home, leaving precious little to spend with children. In years past, I would get so focused on getting what needs to be done accomplished, that I wouldn’t even take them with me to the various stores to buy parts or even to shop for groceries. It would take a little extra time and that was something I couldn’t afford. I thought. The sad truth is that I didn’t make an investment in time for them that would have paid dividends today which are priceless. The woman I was married to, their mother, used to tell me all the time that if I didn’t change my ways I’d regret it in the end. She was wise in that assessment and often reminded me of that song by Harry Chapin, Cats in the Cradle. You know the one.
Recently, my two youngest girls have been taking piano lessons. Last weekend, they had a recital which took place in the teacher’s church. My baby girl called and asked me every day for two weeks if I was coming to the event. She had played her piece over the phone for me several times and it was just a simple little beginner’s tune. It took maybe 30 seconds to play and she did struggle with Roman Trumpets a bit in practice. My knee baby girl is a little more accomplished and had two pieces to play, Sonatina in C and Sleeping Beauty. There were other children and young adults there. Some of the students were absolutely magnificent. When the one young man played a piece by Rachmaninoff, it was as if I were listening to a professional, concert pianist. The real joy for me though was not the music. It was the light in my child’s eyes that said to me I love you dad. Thank you for being interested enough in me to come. I love you for being my dad and for being here with me on my special day. It was her happiness that gave me joy.
I have learned some hard lessons about the fruit of my relationships with my children. I would not have missed that recital for anything in the world. The music, and performing well, was important to my girls but they are young. They can’t yet look back and see the effects of time and energy misspent. What the ultimate cost is for neglecting the little things of love and for living a life that is fundamentally self centered. As I’ve grown older, I have begun to understand that even though work, money, security, personal space, etc. are all important in their own way, none of that can provide the kind of peace and comfort that comes from a warm, close, loving relationship with one’s children. I never thought much about grandchildren when I was younger. It’s on my mind often these days. Will I ever get to hold them in my arms, change their diapers or help to raise them? Or, will it just be loneliness in my old age with the obligatory yearly phone call to dad? It’s hard to think about these things when one is young. I just couldn’t see it then.
My daughters played flawlessly by the way. They had put their time and energy into something they cared about and were happy with the end result. All actions have consequences, be them good or bad. We may not want see that clearly while running down the road of life at full tilt but it would be wise to consider when children are involved. I may have shaped my kids into my own image, at least an earlier edition of me, but I want to believe there is still hope that I may become a better man for them and that I might find another chance to be the dad they deserved and do deserve today.
Though I have quite a few children, nine actually, only one makes the effort to keep in touch with me. My youngest daughter is so faithful about calling me that I wonder what might be wrong if she misses a day. I cherish those phone calls. It is often when they come at inopportune times but I don’t want to miss one. As all of the others have been growing, my communications with them have become less and less frequent. With some, I’m reduced to writing letters that are never answered. Some I see briefly when I pick up the youngest ones for my weekend, sharing a quick hug, an I love you. I have such longing for them. I want so much for them to seek me out. To talk to me of what is in their hearts and minds.
I suppose my life isn’t much different than many others that have started out young, got married, had children. Work hard to provide for the family. Long hours, time apart due to work, chores and honey dos all use up the most valuable of commodities, time. There a myriad of things that can take up your time at home, leaving precious little to spend with children. In years past, I would get so focused on getting what needs to be done accomplished, that I wouldn’t even take them with me to the various stores to buy parts or even to shop for groceries. It would take a little extra time and that was something I couldn’t afford. I thought. The sad truth is that I didn’t make an investment in time for them that would have paid dividends today which are priceless. The woman I was married to, their mother, used to tell me all the time that if I didn’t change my ways I’d regret it in the end. She was wise in that assessment and often reminded me of that song by Harry Chapin, Cats in the Cradle. You know the one.
Recently, my two youngest girls have been taking piano lessons. Last weekend, they had a recital which took place in the teacher’s church. My baby girl called and asked me every day for two weeks if I was coming to the event. She had played her piece over the phone for me several times and it was just a simple little beginner’s tune. It took maybe 30 seconds to play and she did struggle with Roman Trumpets a bit in practice. My knee baby girl is a little more accomplished and had two pieces to play, Sonatina in C and Sleeping Beauty. There were other children and young adults there. Some of the students were absolutely magnificent. When the one young man played a piece by Rachmaninoff, it was as if I were listening to a professional, concert pianist. The real joy for me though was not the music. It was the light in my child’s eyes that said to me I love you dad. Thank you for being interested enough in me to come. I love you for being my dad and for being here with me on my special day. It was her happiness that gave me joy.
I have learned some hard lessons about the fruit of my relationships with my children. I would not have missed that recital for anything in the world. The music, and performing well, was important to my girls but they are young. They can’t yet look back and see the effects of time and energy misspent. What the ultimate cost is for neglecting the little things of love and for living a life that is fundamentally self centered. As I’ve grown older, I have begun to understand that even though work, money, security, personal space, etc. are all important in their own way, none of that can provide the kind of peace and comfort that comes from a warm, close, loving relationship with one’s children. I never thought much about grandchildren when I was younger. It’s on my mind often these days. Will I ever get to hold them in my arms, change their diapers or help to raise them? Or, will it just be loneliness in my old age with the obligatory yearly phone call to dad? It’s hard to think about these things when one is young. I just couldn’t see it then.
My daughters played flawlessly by the way. They had put their time and energy into something they cared about and were happy with the end result. All actions have consequences, be them good or bad. We may not want see that clearly while running down the road of life at full tilt but it would be wise to consider when children are involved. I may have shaped my kids into my own image, at least an earlier edition of me, but I want to believe there is still hope that I may become a better man for them and that I might find another chance to be the dad they deserved and do deserve today.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Snow Day
There was a nice surprise when I woke this morning. As I made coffee, I glanced out the crack between the blinds and the window sill in my kitchen and noticed the white stuff on the ground. My initial view was through that small gap at the bottom edge of the shades but when I opened them, it was as if I had been transported to another place. I was amazed how during the night, while sleeping, my world had been transformed. The drabness of winter had taken on a new aspect. The sleeping trees with shades of gray that all seem to run together were more distinct now, the snow sharply outlining the differences between them. That monotonous color of the trunks and limbs were given depth and character that were of course there all along but hidden to my view somehow. The white carpet covering the lawns in my neighborhood seemed to reflect light upward enhancing the contrast. It all seemed so pure and clean. Like a fresh start in life after so many mistakes. As if I had been forgiven and blessed.
Snow is so rare here. It’s like finding a gem stone in a mountain of slag. I know there are many people who have it for months at a time, and have a hard time appreciating its inherent beauty. I have lived in places where it must be shoveled and driven in and dealt with. Even when I’ve had to work at negotiating snow, I have always loved it for some reason. To me, it’s like a gift from God. It causes me to stop and look and listen. It brings me peace and an awareness of its power. As I sat on my porch this morning drinking coffee and watching it fall, it struck me as manna softly descending from heaven.
When I was a child, we had snow every winter. For 12 of my 20 years in the military, I lived where snowfall was common. These days, I feel like a stranger in a strange land most of the time. I feel as if I’m living an unfinished life. There’s a troublesome notion that I need to go home. As if I belong in that Ansel Adams photograph and won’t ever be truly at peace until I go.
Today though, it feels right in a small way. The large and small flakes continue to fall. There is an incredible cleanness in the air and the sheer beauty of it all fills my senses. I have so many good memories associated with snow. Rosy faces, cold hands, warm fires all make my heart smile. It makes me happy and brings me peace.
It’s time now. Writing about it all is a good way to remember when the days become unbearably hot but no substitute for being in it. I need to go back outside for a while and take it all in.
Snow is so rare here. It’s like finding a gem stone in a mountain of slag. I know there are many people who have it for months at a time, and have a hard time appreciating its inherent beauty. I have lived in places where it must be shoveled and driven in and dealt with. Even when I’ve had to work at negotiating snow, I have always loved it for some reason. To me, it’s like a gift from God. It causes me to stop and look and listen. It brings me peace and an awareness of its power. As I sat on my porch this morning drinking coffee and watching it fall, it struck me as manna softly descending from heaven.
When I was a child, we had snow every winter. For 12 of my 20 years in the military, I lived where snowfall was common. These days, I feel like a stranger in a strange land most of the time. I feel as if I’m living an unfinished life. There’s a troublesome notion that I need to go home. As if I belong in that Ansel Adams photograph and won’t ever be truly at peace until I go.
Today though, it feels right in a small way. The large and small flakes continue to fall. There is an incredible cleanness in the air and the sheer beauty of it all fills my senses. I have so many good memories associated with snow. Rosy faces, cold hands, warm fires all make my heart smile. It makes me happy and brings me peace.
It’s time now. Writing about it all is a good way to remember when the days become unbearably hot but no substitute for being in it. I need to go back outside for a while and take it all in.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Road Rage
Like many people, I like to think of myself as a safe and efficient driver.
Lately though, in the last few months, I’ve noticed myself becoming increasingly irritated at others and the way “they” drive. Somewhere in my consciousness I have been hearing this little voice that tells me to not be so aggravated with other people in traffic. Some voice of reason that says there is most probably a reason for that stupid behavior I see in others. I have tried to listen to it and believe in it but invariably I get caught up in the same thought processes while engaged in what, on the surface, appears to be a simple task. Driving.
In my job, the company I work for provides a vehicle for me to drive. They are very serious about safety and for the slightest safety infraction they will not hesitate to let you have the day off without pay. Anyone that saw my work vehicle would know immediately what I’m all about. Is that why the person ahead of me is driving so slowly? Are they intentionally driving slower than the posted speed limit just to irritate me? Surely they realize that I have appointments to keep, places to go and an important function to perform for the populace at large. I see them looking at me in the rear view, hoping for a reaction. The voice in my head tells me to calm down. Even when it appears that some folks accelerate at intersections just to keep me from making a turn across their paths. Hey man, my making the turn doesn’t hurt your drive at all! It’s easy for me to reject the voice of reason and become mildly enraged. As I make the turns, pass the slow ones, clear the congestion, I feel more free, less confined. I feel more righteous.
The bad thing about turning off the voice of reason is that it gets easier and easier to let the siren song of road rage have sway. Lately I have found that it’s not just in the city where I work, while in my company provided ride. The Interstate, oh man, I just can’t believe these people out here! How can so many drivers get caught up in the brain dead mentality of putzing along in the fast lane? Again, I’m feeling righteous. Indignant. Offended. I know in my mind that there are speed limits and these laws are there for good reason but the siren song is very seductive and speaks to me of my rightness in attitude. What? The state police won’t stop me if I’m doing 75 in a 70. Just gotta keep below 80 so if I do get stopped, the ticket fine won’t jump another hundred bucks.
Up until about a week ago, the voice of reason seemed to have all but given up. I remember clearly when it spoke again. A driver in a minivan attempted to cut me off at an intersection. Of course I accelerated and made the turn first, which was definitely my due. Though the traffic was fairly heavy in this urban area, I felt that I just had to look at the driver of the offensive minivan. I wanted that person to see me looking at them. I wanted them to know that I was offended and that I felt they should be shameful of such rude and inconsiderate behavior. While involved in my self-righteous thought process, the car in front of me made a sudden stop. Providence, I suppose, got my attention. I saw the stopped vehicle just seconds before I would have plowed into the rear of it at about 40. There was no time to look into the lane beside me. I just snatched the wheel over and was fortunate that there wasn’t another car in it. No accident. Praise God. I drove safer the rest of the day, believe you me. Of course, it didn’t last. A couple of days later on the Interstate, I just couldn’t understand why all of those people were driving so slow. I know it was a construction work zone but hey, I had to get to work. I was running ahead of schedule for a change and was going to actually be at work 5 minutes early. Didn’t want to screw that up. That’s when I saw the State Trooper. Just as I passed him, he started rolling. I knew that I was busted with a probable fine in the range of 500 dollars. I pulled over. The Trooper fussed at me for driving 71 in a 50 and asked for my license. The whole time he was back there in his patrol car, I’m thinking about how I can’t afford a fine like that. When he came back to the passenger’s side window, he starts asking me all these questions about which agent I use for insurance, where he’s located, what I do for a living and I answered them all, politely, humbly. It was odd that he seemed to be suppressing a smile. That’s when he handed me the warning ticket and told me to be more aware of the construction zones. Bless that man’s heart. I cannot tell you how thankful I was. Providence.
When I got to work, I noticed on the ticket that there was some information for all drivers on it. I want to share that with you.
“Somewhere in America tonight a little child will be killed. With him will die the happiness of a Mother…the pride of a father. He will be killed by the carelessness of a thoughtless driver. That driver may be someone who is reading this right now. For in this country a human being is killed in an automobile accident every 10 minutes. Most of these tragedies don’t need to happen. They are caused by human acts. They can be prevented by human caution.”
My personal vehicle weighs about 6000 pounds. I can imagine what it might do to a compact car. More so, what it might do to a 150 pound human.
In light of that, it helps me to see what a deceiver the siren song of road rage really is. Most of the time when I get past “those driver” that are irritating me with their intentional delay tactics, I can see that it’s an elderly person or a mom having to deal with rambunctious children or I see a look on the person’s face that is one of deep thought or sadness or worry. Sometimes that person is happily singing along to some song on the radio. Blissfully unaware of my existence. I hear the voice of reason say, “See, I told you”.
I believe that many of the situations I’ve been annoyed by are mostly my own doing. Most of it stems from an unwillingness leave early enough to be where I need to go on time. Rushing with minutes to spare. I realize that it’s just a bad habit.
I’m thankful for the voice of reason. It is my intention and promise to listen to it and to remember that we are all just human. Taking the time to think rationally about driving, I can see that the person, who seems so stupid, is really me.
Lately though, in the last few months, I’ve noticed myself becoming increasingly irritated at others and the way “they” drive. Somewhere in my consciousness I have been hearing this little voice that tells me to not be so aggravated with other people in traffic. Some voice of reason that says there is most probably a reason for that stupid behavior I see in others. I have tried to listen to it and believe in it but invariably I get caught up in the same thought processes while engaged in what, on the surface, appears to be a simple task. Driving.
In my job, the company I work for provides a vehicle for me to drive. They are very serious about safety and for the slightest safety infraction they will not hesitate to let you have the day off without pay. Anyone that saw my work vehicle would know immediately what I’m all about. Is that why the person ahead of me is driving so slowly? Are they intentionally driving slower than the posted speed limit just to irritate me? Surely they realize that I have appointments to keep, places to go and an important function to perform for the populace at large. I see them looking at me in the rear view, hoping for a reaction. The voice in my head tells me to calm down. Even when it appears that some folks accelerate at intersections just to keep me from making a turn across their paths. Hey man, my making the turn doesn’t hurt your drive at all! It’s easy for me to reject the voice of reason and become mildly enraged. As I make the turns, pass the slow ones, clear the congestion, I feel more free, less confined. I feel more righteous.
The bad thing about turning off the voice of reason is that it gets easier and easier to let the siren song of road rage have sway. Lately I have found that it’s not just in the city where I work, while in my company provided ride. The Interstate, oh man, I just can’t believe these people out here! How can so many drivers get caught up in the brain dead mentality of putzing along in the fast lane? Again, I’m feeling righteous. Indignant. Offended. I know in my mind that there are speed limits and these laws are there for good reason but the siren song is very seductive and speaks to me of my rightness in attitude. What? The state police won’t stop me if I’m doing 75 in a 70. Just gotta keep below 80 so if I do get stopped, the ticket fine won’t jump another hundred bucks.
Up until about a week ago, the voice of reason seemed to have all but given up. I remember clearly when it spoke again. A driver in a minivan attempted to cut me off at an intersection. Of course I accelerated and made the turn first, which was definitely my due. Though the traffic was fairly heavy in this urban area, I felt that I just had to look at the driver of the offensive minivan. I wanted that person to see me looking at them. I wanted them to know that I was offended and that I felt they should be shameful of such rude and inconsiderate behavior. While involved in my self-righteous thought process, the car in front of me made a sudden stop. Providence, I suppose, got my attention. I saw the stopped vehicle just seconds before I would have plowed into the rear of it at about 40. There was no time to look into the lane beside me. I just snatched the wheel over and was fortunate that there wasn’t another car in it. No accident. Praise God. I drove safer the rest of the day, believe you me. Of course, it didn’t last. A couple of days later on the Interstate, I just couldn’t understand why all of those people were driving so slow. I know it was a construction work zone but hey, I had to get to work. I was running ahead of schedule for a change and was going to actually be at work 5 minutes early. Didn’t want to screw that up. That’s when I saw the State Trooper. Just as I passed him, he started rolling. I knew that I was busted with a probable fine in the range of 500 dollars. I pulled over. The Trooper fussed at me for driving 71 in a 50 and asked for my license. The whole time he was back there in his patrol car, I’m thinking about how I can’t afford a fine like that. When he came back to the passenger’s side window, he starts asking me all these questions about which agent I use for insurance, where he’s located, what I do for a living and I answered them all, politely, humbly. It was odd that he seemed to be suppressing a smile. That’s when he handed me the warning ticket and told me to be more aware of the construction zones. Bless that man’s heart. I cannot tell you how thankful I was. Providence.
When I got to work, I noticed on the ticket that there was some information for all drivers on it. I want to share that with you.
“Somewhere in America tonight a little child will be killed. With him will die the happiness of a Mother…the pride of a father. He will be killed by the carelessness of a thoughtless driver. That driver may be someone who is reading this right now. For in this country a human being is killed in an automobile accident every 10 minutes. Most of these tragedies don’t need to happen. They are caused by human acts. They can be prevented by human caution.”
My personal vehicle weighs about 6000 pounds. I can imagine what it might do to a compact car. More so, what it might do to a 150 pound human.
In light of that, it helps me to see what a deceiver the siren song of road rage really is. Most of the time when I get past “those driver” that are irritating me with their intentional delay tactics, I can see that it’s an elderly person or a mom having to deal with rambunctious children or I see a look on the person’s face that is one of deep thought or sadness or worry. Sometimes that person is happily singing along to some song on the radio. Blissfully unaware of my existence. I hear the voice of reason say, “See, I told you”.
I believe that many of the situations I’ve been annoyed by are mostly my own doing. Most of it stems from an unwillingness leave early enough to be where I need to go on time. Rushing with minutes to spare. I realize that it’s just a bad habit.
I’m thankful for the voice of reason. It is my intention and promise to listen to it and to remember that we are all just human. Taking the time to think rationally about driving, I can see that the person, who seems so stupid, is really me.
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