That’s something I haven’t done in a very long time. I do believe that I introduced my kids to it many years ago, maybe just once or twice. Looking back at it, I feel a sort of loss at not making it a more regular thing in our lives. When I was a child, all of us kids flew kites. Some made their own and were always looking for ways to improve their handiwork. For the most part, mine were usually bought at the dime store. They were diamond shaped flat kites made of paper with wooden supports. I used cheap cotton string for a flying line and made my own tails with whatever scrap cloth my mom would give me. Back then, it was just something we did that was fun. As an adult, I can appreciate the freedom it brought to be out in that field doing something that had no purpose other than my own personal enjoyment. To be on the ground and watch it undulating with the breeze was a peaceful sort of thing. With its tail wavering to and fro, billowing white clouds and the warmth of the sun on my face, it was like stepping out of time to a place of comfort and wonderment. Where has that pleasure gone to?
Things were less complicated back in those days. Televisions were black and white with only a few channels to choose from. There were no cell phones, personal computers or Internet. No Xbox, PS1s, 2s or 3s, no iPods or music downloads. By today’s standard, a kid had to be pretty creative to have any fun at all. Of course, we didn’t know that. Most of us lived to be outside and chaffed at the prospect of having to stay in for most any reason. We rode bikes, fished, swam, played Army, Cowboys and Indians, built forts in the woods and hung out at the community store and drank Cokes with peanuts in them. You don’t see much of that sort of thing anymore. These days, it never ceases to amaze me at how long kids can sit in front of a monitor or TV and play video games. I understand how the mind can get so absorbed while playing on the game machine, much like when reading a good book, but to what end? I honestly don’t see how the video games have any redeeming value. At least with a book you have the memories of the characters and how they interacted with their situation. One’s own visualization of the scene and circumstance must be more meaningful than the repetitive visual imagery offered by some of the stuff we’ve seen our own children play. Right?
I wonder sometimes how technology has shaped our existence today. Not so much the adults in our lives, more the kids that are coming up now. When I was in school, especially first through sixth grade, our teachers focused on reading, writing, arithmetic, history, earth science and geography. Every morning we stood with hands over hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. When it was appropriate, there was prayer in the classroom. When we were naughty there was a trip to the principal’s office which, more often than not, resulted in a stern talking to and a paddling. Yes, my parents approved. I guess they don’t do “show and tell” these days. We all did it. If for no other purpose to give us the experience of standing up in front of a room full of other people and speaking intelligibly about something.
I worry for children these days. Most young people I know have read very little in their lives and could tell you very little about the world they live in. How many continents are there? How many oceans? How many presidents has the United States had? When was the Civil War fought? How many planets are there in our solar system and in what position is the earth from the sun? I am amazed at how little my own kids know. I have some children that are adults now and I knew more by the time I was twelve than they know now in their twenties. One thing is for sure though, they can tell you how to level up in most popular games available today. They know the cheats to get around sticky problems in the games. Sometimes, it seems that’s all they live for. What does that stuff teach them? If you can’t accomplish the goal honestly…..cheat. If you don’t like the way things are running, reset. What kind of brain drain is all of this technology? Do you know of any young people today that can or will hand write letters? I don’t know about lots of others but most of the people I interact these days that are twenty five or younger, my own kids included, have appallingly bad handwriting. The bad thing is they know it and aren’t willing to do anything to improve it. E-mail and spell check is so much easier.
Flying a kite just may have more value than the obvious pleasure it offers. Perhaps it could teach that we need to slow down. To keep it in the air we need to be patient with the winds of change. We can’t always force our own will and sometimes it just may be better to bend with the winds of life, than to be broken by them. A kite requires diligence to keep it airborne. A slack line, like a slack hand often ends up in disaster. Most of the responsibilities in our lives need continual attention. Imagine investing in the stock of a certain company. Would you really just check on it occasionally? Probably not, that’s your money. What about the day in day out come home, don’t see the kids cause in their rooms playing games? Don’t really talk to the spouse because he or she is in their own world and you’re too tired. A slack line on one’s life, like that of the kite, is sure to facilitate a crash.
Do we really see what’s going on around us these days? Are we so enamored by the fast move, the fast buck, the instant gratification of this world that we’ve given up our powers of observation in things that really matter? Time is passing in my life. Some days I can hardly believe that I’m as old as I’ve become. They say that hindsight is perfect vision and I believe that’s true. If I had it to do over again there are definitely things that I’d do differently. Though I didn’t really see it in years gone by, I’ve come to understand just how significant my actions and attitudes affected other people in my life. How I should have walked softer, spoke less and listened more, loved more openly and deeper, smelled more roses, flew more kites. The Bible says that a good man leaves an inheritance for his children’s children. I don’t think that necessarily means money. What seems more important to me is the tools we give to those that follow us and how they will pass those on to those that follow them. Character, honesty, dedication, honor, a good work ethic, a good name, compassion, wisdom, understanding, a tender heart, freedom, an appreciation for simple pleasures. These things are an inheritance to be proud of. One that when your last day comes you can go in peace, knowing that you really did do the best you could with what you had.
It’s been a long time since I flew a kite but it may be time to try my hand at it once more. I miss that simple pleasure. Maybe this spring.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Written Word
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Chistmas Conflict
Christmas seems to be one of those holidays that moves most people to a place of joy. That in itself is really quite commendable as personal joy is something that is often projected outward and in it’s own way reminds others that they have reason to feel joy also. A casual observer would be moved by the inherent happiness and well being exuded by a joyous person without really understanding why. In the United States, a predominately Christian nation, we associate Christmas with the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus. Someone that knew nothing of Jesus the Christ but witnessed the behavior of someone that did, in this season, would certainly feel and share in that person’s joyfulness just because it is there. Being human, we relate to the feelings of those around us.
I’ve always liked the Christmas holiday. When I was a child, it was such a wonderful thing that I looked forward to all year. My parents always had a traditional sort of celebration with Christmas dinner, a decorated tree and the exchanging of gifts. We always did this on Christmas Eve and in the innocence of my youth, I had the gifts of Santa Claus coming the next day. What great stuff for a child. So much candy, homemade sweet treats, Christmas music and often enough, snow.
When I grew up, the holiday still had most of the charm I’d experienced as a child but I did become more aware of the supposed real reason for the season. The birth of our Savior, right? In that light, the commercialism of Christmas seemed kind of wrong somehow. I still celebrated all of it in the same ways but it did seem to have less luster for me. I didn’t look forward to it throughout the year like I used to.
I got married along the way to where I’m at now. My wife and I had the sort of holiday that most people have. For a few years anyway. At some point I felt like I needed to live my life as a Christian and that’s when I met her grandfather. He was a devout Christian man and during a long visit with us we talked about Christmas, among other things. His take on it was that Christmas had nothing to do with Christianity. Though I respected and admired him, I still wanted to celebrate Christmas in the way that I always had. My wife didn’t and insisted that we should no longer recognize Christmas as a holiday that stood as a reminder of the birth of our Savior. Her take on it was that Christmas had pagan roots and to be involved in it was an affront to God himself. I really did need to research the history behind Christmas. It didn’t take much digging to see that the holiday does indeed have pagan roots. Traditions we follow today were instituted by the Christian church to take the place of pagan rituals. This all in an effort to convert the pagans to Christianity. The decorated tree, holly, mistletoe, caroling, gift giving, Santa Claus. All originate in paganism. Many historical scholars, and quite probably many theologians, affirm that the birth of Jesus was most likely in the month of September, not in December. The date 25 December comes from pagan celebrations that apparently start with some god named Mithras and that was eventually converted to celebrations of the Roman god Saturn. Saturnalia supposes that the sun dies on the 22 of December and is resurrected on the 25th. Three days. Note the difference between sun and Son. Saturnalia was an exceedingly wicked celebration by the way. Oddly, the woman that was my wife put me on this path of understanding but is today an avowed pagan herself and denounces Jesus as the Son of God and as any type of Lord and Savior.
I lived my life for approximately 25 years in rejection of Christmas celebrations. Today in my intelligent mind, I understand that Christmas isn’t really about the birth of Christ. The bible does not tell us to celebrate His birth. If anything, it tells us to celebrate his death. That’s where the real hope is.
All that being said, I can tell you that today I’m okay with Christmas. It may have pagan roots but how many other things in our lives do we go with the flow on and have no idea about their origins? Tooth fairies. Easter bunnies. New Years Eve celebrations. Halloween. Step on a crack……
I talked to my mom once about the whole pagan/Christmas thing. She told me that Christmas is for children. How true that short answer is. Life is hard on planet earth for the most part. How can it be so wrong to allow a child (or the child in our adult hearts) to have a few days of joy in the celebration of a good meal, a decorated tree, the giving and receiving of gifts, songs of praise for our Savior, peace and goodwill toward our fellow man? I love my Lord and am here to serve Him in whatever small way that I can. I just don’t believe that he is so harsh as to condemn us for celebrating this holiday.
I say to you Merry Christmas. May the knowledge that a King was born and ultimately died for you, that there is hope for us all, bring joy to your heart. Peace on earth and goodwill toward men.
I’ve always liked the Christmas holiday. When I was a child, it was such a wonderful thing that I looked forward to all year. My parents always had a traditional sort of celebration with Christmas dinner, a decorated tree and the exchanging of gifts. We always did this on Christmas Eve and in the innocence of my youth, I had the gifts of Santa Claus coming the next day. What great stuff for a child. So much candy, homemade sweet treats, Christmas music and often enough, snow.
When I grew up, the holiday still had most of the charm I’d experienced as a child but I did become more aware of the supposed real reason for the season. The birth of our Savior, right? In that light, the commercialism of Christmas seemed kind of wrong somehow. I still celebrated all of it in the same ways but it did seem to have less luster for me. I didn’t look forward to it throughout the year like I used to.
I got married along the way to where I’m at now. My wife and I had the sort of holiday that most people have. For a few years anyway. At some point I felt like I needed to live my life as a Christian and that’s when I met her grandfather. He was a devout Christian man and during a long visit with us we talked about Christmas, among other things. His take on it was that Christmas had nothing to do with Christianity. Though I respected and admired him, I still wanted to celebrate Christmas in the way that I always had. My wife didn’t and insisted that we should no longer recognize Christmas as a holiday that stood as a reminder of the birth of our Savior. Her take on it was that Christmas had pagan roots and to be involved in it was an affront to God himself. I really did need to research the history behind Christmas. It didn’t take much digging to see that the holiday does indeed have pagan roots. Traditions we follow today were instituted by the Christian church to take the place of pagan rituals. This all in an effort to convert the pagans to Christianity. The decorated tree, holly, mistletoe, caroling, gift giving, Santa Claus. All originate in paganism. Many historical scholars, and quite probably many theologians, affirm that the birth of Jesus was most likely in the month of September, not in December. The date 25 December comes from pagan celebrations that apparently start with some god named Mithras and that was eventually converted to celebrations of the Roman god Saturn. Saturnalia supposes that the sun dies on the 22 of December and is resurrected on the 25th. Three days. Note the difference between sun and Son. Saturnalia was an exceedingly wicked celebration by the way. Oddly, the woman that was my wife put me on this path of understanding but is today an avowed pagan herself and denounces Jesus as the Son of God and as any type of Lord and Savior.
I lived my life for approximately 25 years in rejection of Christmas celebrations. Today in my intelligent mind, I understand that Christmas isn’t really about the birth of Christ. The bible does not tell us to celebrate His birth. If anything, it tells us to celebrate his death. That’s where the real hope is.
All that being said, I can tell you that today I’m okay with Christmas. It may have pagan roots but how many other things in our lives do we go with the flow on and have no idea about their origins? Tooth fairies. Easter bunnies. New Years Eve celebrations. Halloween. Step on a crack……
I talked to my mom once about the whole pagan/Christmas thing. She told me that Christmas is for children. How true that short answer is. Life is hard on planet earth for the most part. How can it be so wrong to allow a child (or the child in our adult hearts) to have a few days of joy in the celebration of a good meal, a decorated tree, the giving and receiving of gifts, songs of praise for our Savior, peace and goodwill toward our fellow man? I love my Lord and am here to serve Him in whatever small way that I can. I just don’t believe that he is so harsh as to condemn us for celebrating this holiday.
I say to you Merry Christmas. May the knowledge that a King was born and ultimately died for you, that there is hope for us all, bring joy to your heart. Peace on earth and goodwill toward men.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Birthdays
Today is the birthday of my dearest friend. Though I suspect she isn’t all that excited about it, I’m glad that she is here in this life for me to be close to. I believe that we basically feel the same about birthdays but I’m not so sure how deeply she thinks about such things. It seems odd sometimes when you’re with someone that thinks so much like you do. Has the same sort of perspective about life. Has the same sort of likes and dislikes. Is moved emotionally and spiritually by the same kind of things and places that bring that special inner peace and comfort. I’m pretty thankful that we can be together and it makes me happy to know that she is who she is. I’ve got some of my own thoughts about getting older that I’d like to talk about here but in the end, I want her to know that she is first in my thoughts on this day.
I wish that I could say lots of great stuff about birthdays, as an adult. I’m not so sure they mean that much to me anymore though. As I’ve gotten older, they seem to be just another day. Not some occasion to celebrate. I think some people look at them with optimism and see it all as another year of growth, wisdom and even survival. On the other end of the spectrum there is fatalism. One year closer to the ultimate dirt nap that everyone takes eventually. Body is breaking down with weaker eyes, stiffer joints and the realization that youthful vigor is a thing of the past. I suppose that much of how we see life, birthdays or any other day for that matter, depends on how well we have made decisions about our lives in the past. People are so diverse and individualistic that there is no accounting for why someone chooses their steps in the way they do. Most of us really don’t think about the consequences of our actions in day-to-day living. We just do what we feel because it’s seems right at the time. Looking back on my life there were decisions that I made which seemed innocuous at the time but had long-term effects, some good and some not so good. I suppose that’s part of what shapes us into our own unique, individual selves.
One way to see it is that birthdays are like mile markers on the highway. Traveling on life’s journey, those markers reflect the passing years. We become smarter about the trip but understand that the farther we go, the less chance we have to go back and take a different course. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. The open road is before us with all of its potential adventure, anticipation and hope. You never know what’s around the next bend and it could lead to more fulfillment and happiness than you have ever known.
The last few years, on my own birthday, I’ve had the distinct sensation that I’m still here. It’s as if I wake up on that day and realize that I’m still alive and for whatever reason, I still have some earthly purpose. Time is calling me into a continuation of life. The problem I have though, most of the time, is that I don’t know what that purpose is. Once upon a time, I thought I knew but things changed in my life and I had to come to grips with the realization that I was on a different path. Of course, the decisions I’ve made put me on this road but often it feels as if the turn was sudden and abrupt. Like an instantaneous left that changed everything that I thought I knew about life. Dreams that seemed so real and so attainable at one time are like misty memories that are so far in the distance. As time goes by, I’m realizing that there aren’t enough years left to travel that far. Sitting here, writing this, I long for answers about destination and purpose. Honestly, I’m not even sure what the questions are that would frame the answers I seek. I guess I’ve gotten to the point where my understanding about my existence has narrowed a good bit. All I know now is to do the best I can with what’s left. Love one another. Be kind to one another. Be a good steward of the earth and the things you are given. Understand that life isn’t random. There is a time to give and take. A time to stay put and a time to move. Just do the best you can with what you’ve got and hope for the best.
All that being poured forth out of my heart and mind, I’d like to visit my friend’s day again. This is her day and as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing too good for her. She raised a fine young man that is both fair and bright, on her own. If you knew this young man, you would be proud to claim him as yours. Though she possesses a college degree, she never made a lot of money. Somehow, she managed to provide everything they needed and gave that child a safe, secure and comfortable upbringing. There are lots of personal things that make her a truly remarkable woman but you wouldn’t need to hear them if you knew her. I think her daily existence speaks for itself. In the end, I’d just like to say to you dear heart:
Thank you for being there all of the time.
Thank you for listening to me.
Thank you for understanding my, sometimes woeful, existence.
Thank you for the wonderful back rubs.
Thank you for the great lunches that you insist on making for me.
Thank you for the morning coffee.
Thank you for just being who you are and for being my friend.
Love.
I wish that I could say lots of great stuff about birthdays, as an adult. I’m not so sure they mean that much to me anymore though. As I’ve gotten older, they seem to be just another day. Not some occasion to celebrate. I think some people look at them with optimism and see it all as another year of growth, wisdom and even survival. On the other end of the spectrum there is fatalism. One year closer to the ultimate dirt nap that everyone takes eventually. Body is breaking down with weaker eyes, stiffer joints and the realization that youthful vigor is a thing of the past. I suppose that much of how we see life, birthdays or any other day for that matter, depends on how well we have made decisions about our lives in the past. People are so diverse and individualistic that there is no accounting for why someone chooses their steps in the way they do. Most of us really don’t think about the consequences of our actions in day-to-day living. We just do what we feel because it’s seems right at the time. Looking back on my life there were decisions that I made which seemed innocuous at the time but had long-term effects, some good and some not so good. I suppose that’s part of what shapes us into our own unique, individual selves.
One way to see it is that birthdays are like mile markers on the highway. Traveling on life’s journey, those markers reflect the passing years. We become smarter about the trip but understand that the farther we go, the less chance we have to go back and take a different course. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. The open road is before us with all of its potential adventure, anticipation and hope. You never know what’s around the next bend and it could lead to more fulfillment and happiness than you have ever known.
The last few years, on my own birthday, I’ve had the distinct sensation that I’m still here. It’s as if I wake up on that day and realize that I’m still alive and for whatever reason, I still have some earthly purpose. Time is calling me into a continuation of life. The problem I have though, most of the time, is that I don’t know what that purpose is. Once upon a time, I thought I knew but things changed in my life and I had to come to grips with the realization that I was on a different path. Of course, the decisions I’ve made put me on this road but often it feels as if the turn was sudden and abrupt. Like an instantaneous left that changed everything that I thought I knew about life. Dreams that seemed so real and so attainable at one time are like misty memories that are so far in the distance. As time goes by, I’m realizing that there aren’t enough years left to travel that far. Sitting here, writing this, I long for answers about destination and purpose. Honestly, I’m not even sure what the questions are that would frame the answers I seek. I guess I’ve gotten to the point where my understanding about my existence has narrowed a good bit. All I know now is to do the best I can with what’s left. Love one another. Be kind to one another. Be a good steward of the earth and the things you are given. Understand that life isn’t random. There is a time to give and take. A time to stay put and a time to move. Just do the best you can with what you’ve got and hope for the best.
All that being poured forth out of my heart and mind, I’d like to visit my friend’s day again. This is her day and as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing too good for her. She raised a fine young man that is both fair and bright, on her own. If you knew this young man, you would be proud to claim him as yours. Though she possesses a college degree, she never made a lot of money. Somehow, she managed to provide everything they needed and gave that child a safe, secure and comfortable upbringing. There are lots of personal things that make her a truly remarkable woman but you wouldn’t need to hear them if you knew her. I think her daily existence speaks for itself. In the end, I’d just like to say to you dear heart:
Thank you for being there all of the time.
Thank you for listening to me.
Thank you for understanding my, sometimes woeful, existence.
Thank you for the wonderful back rubs.
Thank you for the great lunches that you insist on making for me.
Thank you for the morning coffee.
Thank you for just being who you are and for being my friend.
Love.
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