The last couple of months have seen big changes for me personally. I've been struck by a new idea that could lead to the formation of a new endeavor that would capitalize on my love of writing while ensuring that I am home more. While I can't reveal all of the details, the last couple of months have found me diving into research and development of the concept.
One of the major shifts that will result from this new endeavor is a much greater online presence and a new "re-branding" of my online identity. It is an exciting new world full of new risks, challenges, and rewards, and one that I look forward to with the type of excitement that gets my heart beating, races my thoughts in a million different directions, and provides a concrete path to using my talents with words in new and exciting ways.
As a result, I am going to recommit myself to this online endeavor. The blog will move beyond a repository for personal thoughts and transform into a den of ideas, concepts, and, yes, the occasional post about my family and the roles that sustain me in life. For those of you who got in on the ground floor and encouraged this early version of the blog, I thank you. Your support and encouragement has been the ground in which this new seed has been planted. You'll hear from me soon. And often. I hope you find this idea as thrilling as I do.
Until next time.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
A Dancer
One of my family's most common evening activities is to stream videos of music and dancing on the television. This often results in dance performances by my daughter. Sometimes I join in, sometimes Tracy does, but Shea is always on the floor, watching the dancers and moving to the music.
We've had her in a couple of dance classes, intro level stuff, but tonight I saw something in the way she moved that seemed different from her normal routines, her normal ways of being in her body. Many of you parents might recognize this moment.
She danced in the living room and I suddenly had a vision of Shea as an older child of thirteen or fourteen. It was like looking through a window in time to some as of yet delineated moment and I was startled by how beautiful she will become as an older woman. I saw a lithe young woman who felt the music moving through her body and finding the natural expression of it in the lilt of her hips, the movement of a hand, and the lift and glide of her feet. She was tall, taller than I have pictured her in past visions of my grown girl, and there was none of the awkardness of her current struggles with her walk. She was flexible, graceful, and I was touched.
I'm going to post a video of her dancing. While most of you may only see a little girl dancing in the living room, the moment was transcendent for me. I've seen her potential in a new way tonight and it threatened to overtake me with joy.
We've had her in a couple of dance classes, intro level stuff, but tonight I saw something in the way she moved that seemed different from her normal routines, her normal ways of being in her body. Many of you parents might recognize this moment.
She danced in the living room and I suddenly had a vision of Shea as an older child of thirteen or fourteen. It was like looking through a window in time to some as of yet delineated moment and I was startled by how beautiful she will become as an older woman. I saw a lithe young woman who felt the music moving through her body and finding the natural expression of it in the lilt of her hips, the movement of a hand, and the lift and glide of her feet. She was tall, taller than I have pictured her in past visions of my grown girl, and there was none of the awkardness of her current struggles with her walk. She was flexible, graceful, and I was touched.
I'm going to post a video of her dancing. While most of you may only see a little girl dancing in the living room, the moment was transcendent for me. I've seen her potential in a new way tonight and it threatened to overtake me with joy.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Glue Stick as Spiritual Skeleton Key
Whenever I find myself rummaging through Shea's art supply drawers and the kitchen's junk drawers for a glue stick, I know I'm in for a spiritually taxing couple of days. It means that I have my "book of ceremonies" open on my desk and I have just printed a new set of pages that contains the words I will speak in the coming days. I draw my paper cutter out of the bottom desk drawer, trim the pages to fit the size of my black, leather bound book, and proceed to methodically glue the trimmed, printed pages of the ceremony into the book.
I don't know when this process became more than the sum actions themselves, but they have. I find myself in a subdued, trance-like state now as I slide the razor cutter over the pages to trim them down. I outline the blank back page with long, careful strokes with the glue stick, and then I place the ceremony, page by page into my "ledger."
Today's entry is unusual for me in a way. Normally if I am asked to perform a ceremony, it is a wedding. Tomorrow is not. It is a funeral. The funeral for my wife's uncle Bill, a good man who was taken from us too soon. Beyond all the obvious differences between weddings and funerals, there are a few subtleties for the officiant that others may not realize. In many ways, the writing moves are the same. You want to properly express the gravitas of the event, you need to make sure to lighten the mood at the appropriate moments via storytelling, and, above all, you need to feel what you say, even if you have written the words in advance and have rehearsed them many times. This spontaneity is critical. The officiant, or speaker, must allow themselves to live in the moment in a way that makes them vulnerable.
I often find myself sneaking away after performing a wedding in order to protect myself from the comments, both positive and negative, expressed by those in attendance. It is in moments like this that I wished I still smoked and could retreat to a smoky, antisocial corner with legitimate excuse. Instead, I find that I am often drawn back into the festivities before I am fully prepared as I have no legitimate excuse to be prowling the edges of the property on my own.
I am always so honored to be asked to participate in these types of events, to be asked to speak, to find the appropriate words to dignify the occasion, but they come at a cost, and the key that unlocks this whole process is that glue stick. That simple office supply now operates as metaphor for my spiritual anxiety.
I've written the words, rehearsed them, read them to my wife, but now that they are glued in my "book of ceremonies" they are real beyond their earlier manifestations. They seem small now, insignificant, and not up to the task of capturing the life of a man like Bill. I hope others disagree, but odds are I'll never know.
I'm trying to lift your spirit to the light, Bill. I hope I've lived up to the task. I'm putting the glue stick down, and trusting myself to what I've written. Until tomorrow...
I don't know when this process became more than the sum actions themselves, but they have. I find myself in a subdued, trance-like state now as I slide the razor cutter over the pages to trim them down. I outline the blank back page with long, careful strokes with the glue stick, and then I place the ceremony, page by page into my "ledger."
Today's entry is unusual for me in a way. Normally if I am asked to perform a ceremony, it is a wedding. Tomorrow is not. It is a funeral. The funeral for my wife's uncle Bill, a good man who was taken from us too soon. Beyond all the obvious differences between weddings and funerals, there are a few subtleties for the officiant that others may not realize. In many ways, the writing moves are the same. You want to properly express the gravitas of the event, you need to make sure to lighten the mood at the appropriate moments via storytelling, and, above all, you need to feel what you say, even if you have written the words in advance and have rehearsed them many times. This spontaneity is critical. The officiant, or speaker, must allow themselves to live in the moment in a way that makes them vulnerable.
I often find myself sneaking away after performing a wedding in order to protect myself from the comments, both positive and negative, expressed by those in attendance. It is in moments like this that I wished I still smoked and could retreat to a smoky, antisocial corner with legitimate excuse. Instead, I find that I am often drawn back into the festivities before I am fully prepared as I have no legitimate excuse to be prowling the edges of the property on my own.
I am always so honored to be asked to participate in these types of events, to be asked to speak, to find the appropriate words to dignify the occasion, but they come at a cost, and the key that unlocks this whole process is that glue stick. That simple office supply now operates as metaphor for my spiritual anxiety.
I've written the words, rehearsed them, read them to my wife, but now that they are glued in my "book of ceremonies" they are real beyond their earlier manifestations. They seem small now, insignificant, and not up to the task of capturing the life of a man like Bill. I hope others disagree, but odds are I'll never know.
I'm trying to lift your spirit to the light, Bill. I hope I've lived up to the task. I'm putting the glue stick down, and trusting myself to what I've written. Until tomorrow...
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
The Good Ones
We lost one of the good ones this week. Bill Usher, my wife's uncle, passed away in the early morning hours Monday, and my family is reeling from the effects. Bill Usher was a good man. One of the best. He was an amazing mix of characteristics that drew people to him like moths to a flame. His passion for life expressed itself in so many aspects of his life. Here are just a few moments that epitomize that.
One of the first times I met Bill was on a ski vacation to Sunriver, Oregon. I was with a large group of my wife's friends and Bill came over with his wife Mary to have dinner with us. The night was a festive one. Bill drank and ate with gusto and his laugh was infectious, filling the room with his presence. Towards the end of the night, when we'd all had a "little" bit to drink, the party evolved into a dance party. Bill laughed and danced with the best of us. The boys started getting rowdy and all of a sudden I saw this sixty year old man pick up our friend Shad and "body slam" him into the couch. It wasn't hurtful, merely playful, but I remember being impressed by how strong and powerful he was. I'd learn more about his strength and fitness on the ski slopes.
We met Bill at Mt. Bachelor one sunny weekend morning. He was strapped in and ready to go. Being that I was on my high school ski team and have skied for years, I didn't worry too much about keeping up with him. I couldn't have been more wrong. The man was like a dart down the mountain. I don't know if he took a single turn down the entire run. He simply pointed his skis down the hill and flew. I found myself having to push it to keep up. He almost always beat me down the mountain. He was in his sixties at this time and I was in my mid-twenties. I marveled at him and remember deciding in that moment that I wanted to be him when I was older. I wanted to have that same gusto about life that he did. I wanted to have passion and joy about the things I did. I wanted to take risks, to feel the wind in my hair, my laugh trailing me down the mountain as his did.
I got to know Bill better over the coming years. His passion for life continued to marvel me, and when I took a job as a teacher, I found a new reason to enjoy our conversations together. Bill was a fantastic teacher, as is evident by his many former students who stopped him in restaurants and on the street in Bend. When Tracy and I visited Bill and Mary, he was full of curiosity and questions about my students, about how I was trying to reach them, about how I maintained the standards in my classroom. He cared, not only about me, but about the profession as well. He found it a noble calling, a worthy occupation, and he understood the pitfalls and the drawbacks of it as well. I could talk to him about things that were happening in my classroom that some folks either wouldn't understand or didn't care about.
He was a good one.
That's the closest I can get to summing it up. A good one. We know those good people when they come into our lives and we feel it when they leave us. Bill Usher came into my life in a flurry of laughter and joy. He always made me feel welcome in his home and in his life. I've been lucky to share these last 14 or so years with him. He taught me a lot of things about how to be in the world. His presence will be missed. So, I raise my glass to him (as he would want all of us to do) and drink to the good one himself. We'll miss you, Bill.
One of the first times I met Bill was on a ski vacation to Sunriver, Oregon. I was with a large group of my wife's friends and Bill came over with his wife Mary to have dinner with us. The night was a festive one. Bill drank and ate with gusto and his laugh was infectious, filling the room with his presence. Towards the end of the night, when we'd all had a "little" bit to drink, the party evolved into a dance party. Bill laughed and danced with the best of us. The boys started getting rowdy and all of a sudden I saw this sixty year old man pick up our friend Shad and "body slam" him into the couch. It wasn't hurtful, merely playful, but I remember being impressed by how strong and powerful he was. I'd learn more about his strength and fitness on the ski slopes.
We met Bill at Mt. Bachelor one sunny weekend morning. He was strapped in and ready to go. Being that I was on my high school ski team and have skied for years, I didn't worry too much about keeping up with him. I couldn't have been more wrong. The man was like a dart down the mountain. I don't know if he took a single turn down the entire run. He simply pointed his skis down the hill and flew. I found myself having to push it to keep up. He almost always beat me down the mountain. He was in his sixties at this time and I was in my mid-twenties. I marveled at him and remember deciding in that moment that I wanted to be him when I was older. I wanted to have that same gusto about life that he did. I wanted to have passion and joy about the things I did. I wanted to take risks, to feel the wind in my hair, my laugh trailing me down the mountain as his did.
I got to know Bill better over the coming years. His passion for life continued to marvel me, and when I took a job as a teacher, I found a new reason to enjoy our conversations together. Bill was a fantastic teacher, as is evident by his many former students who stopped him in restaurants and on the street in Bend. When Tracy and I visited Bill and Mary, he was full of curiosity and questions about my students, about how I was trying to reach them, about how I maintained the standards in my classroom. He cared, not only about me, but about the profession as well. He found it a noble calling, a worthy occupation, and he understood the pitfalls and the drawbacks of it as well. I could talk to him about things that were happening in my classroom that some folks either wouldn't understand or didn't care about.
He was a good one.
That's the closest I can get to summing it up. A good one. We know those good people when they come into our lives and we feel it when they leave us. Bill Usher came into my life in a flurry of laughter and joy. He always made me feel welcome in his home and in his life. I've been lucky to share these last 14 or so years with him. He taught me a lot of things about how to be in the world. His presence will be missed. So, I raise my glass to him (as he would want all of us to do) and drink to the good one himself. We'll miss you, Bill.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Finishing
I stand in the early morning hours around Wikiup Reservoir dressed in my workout gear and bike helmet waiting for the duathalon to start. I've never done anything even remotely close to this, so I'm nervous, as is my brother who stands next to me. We've even lapsed into our adolescent bickering when I won't follow his advice about how to handle my bike tire's need for more air. Waves of bikers, four abreast, line up and wait for their turn to begin the race. My heart beats wildly in my chest as we approach the starting line. We aren't allowed to mount our bikes until we cross a line on the other side of the official start, so my bike cleats clack along on the asphalt as I near the start. My brother wishes me good luck with good humor and we are told to begin. I jog my bike across the start line and into the free zone, where I throw my leg over and begin what will be a three hour lesson in finishing.
From the first moments we begin, I can tell I am not in my brother's class athletically. He's already pulling ahead of me by lengths and we haven't event crossed the first mile of the 28 mile bike ride. I try to keep up for a while, but my nerves and the elevation have me panting. My chest tightens with anxiety as I have the first thought of many, Can I do this? I tell myself it is too early for this kind of thinking and push the thought out of my mind. I peddle on.
The next time I have the thought is during the one significant incline of the bike course, which happens around mile 12. I was told the incline lasted about three quarters of a mile, but I swear that thing stretched on for two. As I pedal my way up the hill, passing a few folks, but mostly being passed by others, I tell myself I can stop and take a rest once I reach the top. Once this thought is in my head, it begins to infiltrate my mindset. Why not just stop here and have a "Goo" and then finish the hill? Just take a momentary rest. It's amazing how that one thought propagates and tries to push out all the other competing thoughts. I strengthen my resolve and tell myself no. I crest the top of the hill without stopping and keep pushing on. Cresting that hill did wonders for my motivation and stamina. The rest of the bike course seemed to simply slip by with a feeling that almost resembles pleasure.
At the transition point, when I switch out of my biking gear and get on with the running, I feel good. I'm tired, sure, but these are the first moments when I really begin to feel that I can accomplish this feat. Keep in mind, I haven't jogged a single step yet.
I leave the transition post feeling pretty good. The day is getting hot in Sunriver, with temperatures expected to crest in the 90s, and although I've been good about water and hydrating all day, I'm starting to feel the wear of the heat. Once I jog out of the transition and get about a mile into the run, I can feel myself getting a bit wobbly. I slow to a fast walk in order to make sure I can keep going, but I'm suddenly struck with anxiety about my ability to finish. The idea of getting this far (I trained the least for the biking portion) and failing causes me to pick up my pace again and to push forward with a new, if not a bit addled, resolve to cross the line.
It takes me multiple sessions of walking to get to the end of the 10k course, but as I draw near, there are spectators who encourage me on. "One more mile," they shout. "Just 500 more yards. You can do it." And I find myself believing them. Knowing it is true. I pick up the pace from a walk to a jog and resolve to not slow down until I cross the finish line. In the last corner, I feel myself flagging something serious. I'm getting a little sick to my stomach and I hope to not make a fool out of myself by getting sick at the finish line.
When I turn the last corner, I'm overjoyed that I've made it, but I scan the crowd for my family. I don't see them. Much of my motivation has been for my daughter to see me finish and I'm disappointed that she is going to miss it. She missed my finish at a 5k race I ran earlier in the season. I'm within feet of the finish line when I see a movement through the race course dividers. My daughter steps through the bars and runs to hold my hand. She wants to finish the race with me. She takes my hand and I could swear that she pulls me across that finish line.
I've never done anything like that duathalon before. Never pushed my body to the limit like that. But, it wasn't the physical challenge that was the hardest for me. It was the mental one. It's given me a new clarity about things in my life, about the things that I want, and what it takes to get them. I'm still in a state of recovery and rejuvenation from my years of grinding too hard after things that weren't necessarily in line with what I want, but I'm springing back. More soon...
From the first moments we begin, I can tell I am not in my brother's class athletically. He's already pulling ahead of me by lengths and we haven't event crossed the first mile of the 28 mile bike ride. I try to keep up for a while, but my nerves and the elevation have me panting. My chest tightens with anxiety as I have the first thought of many, Can I do this? I tell myself it is too early for this kind of thinking and push the thought out of my mind. I peddle on.
The next time I have the thought is during the one significant incline of the bike course, which happens around mile 12. I was told the incline lasted about three quarters of a mile, but I swear that thing stretched on for two. As I pedal my way up the hill, passing a few folks, but mostly being passed by others, I tell myself I can stop and take a rest once I reach the top. Once this thought is in my head, it begins to infiltrate my mindset. Why not just stop here and have a "Goo" and then finish the hill? Just take a momentary rest. It's amazing how that one thought propagates and tries to push out all the other competing thoughts. I strengthen my resolve and tell myself no. I crest the top of the hill without stopping and keep pushing on. Cresting that hill did wonders for my motivation and stamina. The rest of the bike course seemed to simply slip by with a feeling that almost resembles pleasure.
At the transition point, when I switch out of my biking gear and get on with the running, I feel good. I'm tired, sure, but these are the first moments when I really begin to feel that I can accomplish this feat. Keep in mind, I haven't jogged a single step yet.
I leave the transition post feeling pretty good. The day is getting hot in Sunriver, with temperatures expected to crest in the 90s, and although I've been good about water and hydrating all day, I'm starting to feel the wear of the heat. Once I jog out of the transition and get about a mile into the run, I can feel myself getting a bit wobbly. I slow to a fast walk in order to make sure I can keep going, but I'm suddenly struck with anxiety about my ability to finish. The idea of getting this far (I trained the least for the biking portion) and failing causes me to pick up my pace again and to push forward with a new, if not a bit addled, resolve to cross the line.
It takes me multiple sessions of walking to get to the end of the 10k course, but as I draw near, there are spectators who encourage me on. "One more mile," they shout. "Just 500 more yards. You can do it." And I find myself believing them. Knowing it is true. I pick up the pace from a walk to a jog and resolve to not slow down until I cross the finish line. In the last corner, I feel myself flagging something serious. I'm getting a little sick to my stomach and I hope to not make a fool out of myself by getting sick at the finish line.
When I turn the last corner, I'm overjoyed that I've made it, but I scan the crowd for my family. I don't see them. Much of my motivation has been for my daughter to see me finish and I'm disappointed that she is going to miss it. She missed my finish at a 5k race I ran earlier in the season. I'm within feet of the finish line when I see a movement through the race course dividers. My daughter steps through the bars and runs to hold my hand. She wants to finish the race with me. She takes my hand and I could swear that she pulls me across that finish line.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Going Back to Basics
I've been away from my computer, more or less, for two weeks. I haven't really been responding to emails unless they've been urgent. I haven't been trolling Facebook much, and I've been ignoring my phone as much as possible. This is all an effort to get back to basics. I've been monitoring three email accounts for four years now, one from each of the schools I worked at and one personal address. This makes for a lot of time spent in front of the computer and NOT writing. It's been great to get out of that mode.
The thing I did notice about it though was that I was still having trouble coming back to the page. Each time I sat down to write, I was overwhelmed with the personal relationships in my life. There's been family illness on both sides of the family, some friends from work have been dealing with heavy life-altering issues, and I've just been unplugged from a lot of my other friends, which causes me to think after them.
In short, the personal was getting in the way of the creative. I couldn't move into the creative space because the issues of the day were standing between me and the kind of unfettered, meditative thinking I need to create whole cloth fiction. So, I needed to do something about this. It's been going on for days, and I had to take action. What did I do? I got back to basics.
My writing practice originated when I was young and I often wrote letters to the people in my life in order to tame the feelings of childhood and adolescence. I decided to take on this task today. I wrote five letters today in greeting cards. I hand wrote each of them as I sat in my living room and I will deliver them in the coming days. I already delivered one to my father for a belated Father's Day celebration. In the morning, my wife will find a pastel purple envelope peeking out at her from the corner of her purse. Two coworkers will find letters tacked to the board at work, and my wife's Uncle Bill will receive one when we arrive in Bend.
It is cathartic to tell friends and family how you feel. It takes a certain emotional burden off the writer's shoulders to know that you've taken care of your affairs. The poet Madeline DeFrees once talked about having to "clear the decks" before she could write. She would tidy up her home and have to get everything put away. She began to recognize this as a part of her process and she knew a poem was coming. I feel similarly in that I've "cleared the decks" of my mental real estate. I've made room for something new and exciting to enter. I have a blank greeting card next to me, so don't be surprised if the next greeting card lands on your doorstep. I'm looking to make room because I know there's a story waiting to be born.
The thing I did notice about it though was that I was still having trouble coming back to the page. Each time I sat down to write, I was overwhelmed with the personal relationships in my life. There's been family illness on both sides of the family, some friends from work have been dealing with heavy life-altering issues, and I've just been unplugged from a lot of my other friends, which causes me to think after them.
In short, the personal was getting in the way of the creative. I couldn't move into the creative space because the issues of the day were standing between me and the kind of unfettered, meditative thinking I need to create whole cloth fiction. So, I needed to do something about this. It's been going on for days, and I had to take action. What did I do? I got back to basics.
My writing practice originated when I was young and I often wrote letters to the people in my life in order to tame the feelings of childhood and adolescence. I decided to take on this task today. I wrote five letters today in greeting cards. I hand wrote each of them as I sat in my living room and I will deliver them in the coming days. I already delivered one to my father for a belated Father's Day celebration. In the morning, my wife will find a pastel purple envelope peeking out at her from the corner of her purse. Two coworkers will find letters tacked to the board at work, and my wife's Uncle Bill will receive one when we arrive in Bend.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Limitless Desire
The gaping maw of free time is quickly approaching as spring term comes to a close, and it has gotten me thinking about what I want from this newfound freedom. The answer is everything. My downfall has never been my lack of interest in the world, but an overabundance of it. I want to know everything. I want to experience everything I can in this life because I know it is so short. The result is an overabundance of desire.
I desire a consistent writing practice. I want to read voraciously. I want to train for a duathalon. I want to spend time with my family. I want to run through the sprinklers with my daughter. I want to take Spanish classes, voice lessons, guitar lessons, and dance classes with my wife. I want to go fishing and camping. I want to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. I want to travel to British Columbia, New Zealand, Vietnam, and Africa. I want more time for intimacy with my wife. I want to write letters to friends and to have long phone conversations with them. I want to catch up on my Netflix queue. I want to go to live theater. I want to perform live theater. I want all of these things and more. I yearn for all of these things, and it sometimes paralyzes me.
The thing I understand about myself is that all of these things come from the same place, a place of love. I love the world too much and, like a lover, I want to know every inch of the world and this lovely life we are given. I want to explore it, to revel in all the pleasures and pains a close intimacy brings. In the meantime, I have to pick.
I've never been good at picking.
But I know I must, so I choose writing/reading, family, and travel for now. These are the things I will actively pursue through the summer months. I will work to deepen my connections to these people and practices and leave the others to the future. I'm not giving up on any of my dreams. That's not something I'm comfortable with. I will be a dreamer and a student my whole life. I will strive and push to have all the things I want while simultaneously providing for the wants, needs, and desires of my wife and child. They deserve all the wonderful things the world has to provide as well, and I hope their lives are as abundantly blessed with desire.
So, cheers to today and tomorrow. Each day is full of our own potential, but potential begins with the dream, the desire to strive past our current self.
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