"You can't stop me," I screamed, fighting back tears, as my legs buckled underneath me on my running trail. I don't think anyone was around to hear, but I was blind in one eye, so I can't say for sure.
Not long ago, the picture of being half blind while my legs struggled to support me would have only been a nightmare, but today it's my reality. I'm in a lifelong cage match with multiple sclerosis.
I don't know if MS heard me yelling at it that day, but I won round one of my fight against it regardless. I finished a couple miles at a decent pace despite my newfound limitations, and wondered how many more rounds there would be before the odds turned against me.
The thing with MS is that you can win rounds against it, but it refuses to stay knocked down. As an MS patient, all you can do is pledge the same. There is no cure for MS, so you can never fully put it behind you. You might feel good one day, like you've defeated the obstacles in front of you, but MS is lurking behind the corner waiting for a chance at a rematch.
It might be impossible to ever fully knockout MS, so I'm just hoping to go the distance and win the fight on the judge's scorecard.
I've been touched by the number of people who have reached out to me with encouragement, telling me that I'm strong enough to handle this. I really do appreciate the support, but I'm frankly not so sure.
I go from moments of thankfulness and peace, to moments of fear and panic. The scariest part is the unknown. For many people, MS is merely a lifelong annoyance, a sentence to random sore muscles or a bad week here and there. For others, it becomes the debilitating disease I pictured in my mind when I first heard my diagnosis. I don't know which path will be mine.
A few days after my diagnosis, my legs started wobbling, my hip started hurting, and I couldn't stay warm. I started drenching my sheets every night in sweat. Most of those things have stopped for now, and the vision in my left eye is coming back but it is all too easy to think of myself going downhill further.
I try to stay in the moment, and not to think about a future that may never come. It's no different, and no more productive, than imagining yourself in a car wreck tomorrow. But then I go pout because the doctor's appointments ate up my vacation time, my hip hurts, and I can no longer have ice cream.
My first attack has mostly passed now, but here's something I learned in its worst days. As the life you knew starts to slip away, there comes a point in every disability where you stop defining it by what you can't do, and start focusing on what you still can. There is still joy in life if you can read a good book, watch your favorite tv show, or chat with a close friend.
Amidst the constant struggle to make things perfect, I don't think we often enough stop to appreciate the good.
I used to take pretty days for granted. I hardly ever thought to be thankful just for the fact that I felt physically well, or that I could still walk myself to the bathroom. I used to be thankful only when something really new and exciting happened. I didn't stop to taste my breakfast.
I try to do better about not taking things for granted now. On my last run over the hilltop trails through the Livermore vineyards, I almost cried at how much beauty that surrounded me. I'm often in too much of a hurry to notice.
I can't always stay focused in the moment, but life feels better when I do. Even if my disease stays in remission, I hope I never forget this lesson. And I hope you learn it too.
It's been a few days now, and I'm feeling a little better. My vision is getting better. I get really tired at times, but my biggest other remaining reminders of my disease are a sore left hip and unpredictable nerve pain, which most people tell me will likely get better, at least until the next attack. There's even a good chance I can still run the half marathon I signed up for next March.
I long for a day when my vision is fully back, I have a normal energy level, and my legs feel good. If it ever gets here, I know I'll appreciate it in a way that I never would have before.
And if that day doesn't come, I'll still be ok. MS can take certain things from me, but there are others that it can't have unless I let it.
And when the day comes and I go running and feel like myself again, I hope that I'll remind MS that it couldn't stop me. It could only make me take a detour.
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Running Diary: I Paid Good Money to Hurt this Badly
It's 45 minutes until I run the San Jose Rock and Roll Half Marathon. I'm excited. Parking was easy and I'm stretched and ready to go. I decide to jog a bit to loosen up, a decision I soon regret. After a few steps my left hip suddenly feels like it's going to explode. "This is not a good omen," I think. I have to run 13.1 miles in a few minutes.
It went something like this:
7:30: Thirty minutes to race time. I'm not going to risk another warm up run. I'm just going to hope I can push through once I get started. You see, I trained for four months, and near the end I did too many hard runs without enough rest in between. I got progressively slower, but I didn't figure out the problem until too late, after I ended up with bursitis in my hips. I also reaggravted the pinched nerve in my back, which doesn't slow me down but results in occasional shooting pain down to my left foot. I'm hoping the two conditions will just cancel themselves out, at least for the next 13.1 miles.
7:45: One of my favorite things about race day is that everyone is in a good mood both before and after the race. Groups of people are taking pictures, some of them in matching outfits. I find my corral, thankful that I got assigned to number 3 out of about 25. They release a corral every minute or so once the race starts, so being third means that I won't have to stand around too long watching other people get started while it gets progressively hotter outside.
7:48: There's a group of six young women in hoop skirts next to me; there's a married couple in their 50's on the other side. They assign the early corrals based on expected finish times, so these people must be faster than they look. One of the cool things about running is you can't tell how fast someone is by looking at them. I say a prayer that my body holds up to the mileage today. I ran 13 miles 10 days ago, so I'm not worried about my fitness, just whether or not my body can hold up in one piece. I probably should sit this race out and heal, but when you get hurt 99 percent of the way into a four-month race training, you don't want to see all that time go to waste. Besides, there's plenty of time to rest on the other side.
7:50: Someone is singing the national anthem. I don't see anyone protesting, but the festive pre-race mood definitively turns somber. I begin to wonder: why do we play the national anthem before sporting events? It's a public gathering, but so are movies and plays, and we don't play the anthem then. What's the difference? I vow to play the national anthem before I host my next game of Parcheesi, just to mess with people.
7:57: I turn on my GPS watch and ask it to track my time and distance. This is my sixth race, and ever since I finished my first one I've wanted to run a race in an hour and 45 minutes, an eight minute pace. It's an informal dividing line between serious runner and weekend warrior. 1:47:31, an 8:13 pace, is the closest I've ever come, but this is an easier course. I was progressing favorably toward this goal until a few weeks ago when my body starting failing me. I know that 8 minutes is a pipe dream at this point, but I'm hoping for an 8:12, which would be progress toward my ultimate goal. Sometimes that's all we can hope for in life.
8:00: The first corral of runners is released. I begin to panic because the GPS on my running watch still hasn't figured out where I am. I picture myself standing alone directly in front of the start line, with all the other runners having left, waiting to step across until my watch cooperates. Thousands of spectators would look at me and wonder what I'm doing, holding up the next corral, standing there like an idiot. I wonder how long I can wait on my watch if it comes down to that, but I can't pace myself without it.
8:02: Finally, my watch finds its signal, just in time. I breathe a sigh of relief, and remember that the bigger challenge remains. I can fight off the tingling numbness of my pinched nerve, but I'm entirely at the mercy of my bursitis. I haven't tired to run since I had to abort my last training run five days ago and hobble home. I don't know if I can do this, but I tell my hips that they can't stop me no matter how hard they try. I smile widely, ready for the challenge.
8:03: I'm off.
8:04: Mile One is underway. Somehow, the pain I felt 30 minutes ago when jogging while warming up has vanished. I feel good, the weather is nice, and my fellow runners and I have taken over downtown San Jose. We run by the first of multiple bands along the course (playing Cajun music, oddly enough), and life feels good.
8:11: Mile One took me 8:28. Slower than my race goal but exactly what I was hoping for my first mile. It takes a little while to get warmed up.
8:19: Mile Two complete. An 8:07 brings me only 11 seconds behind my target. I want to run faster, but telling myself to hold back. It's not a sprint, it's half a marathon.
8:21: One of the best things about a race are the signs that spectators hold. Every race, including this one, has one reading, "Worst Parade Ever." Beside the guy holding that one, another guy has a sign reading "Smile, you paid good money to hurt this badly."
8:24: One of the worst thing about a rock and roll series race is that your ears are at the mercy of the performers. The second stage we run by hosts a singer screeching so badly that I speed up just to make it stop.
8:27: Mile Three, 8:09 (8 seconds behind target pace). I run by the arena where the San Jose Sharks play. The street was line with cheerleaders, and one table is handing out orange beverages. As I go to carb load on some orange juice, I see a champagne bottle on a table nearby. A mimosa after the race would be fantastic, but at mile 3 it's a recipe for disaster, so I keep going. I hear the runner behind call out a question, and a volunteer assures that while she is drinking the hard stuff, the runners only get juice. I mentally kick myself for not asking myself, but it never occurred to me. I'm prone to getting runner's brain during races.
8:36: Mile 4 was an 8:25, to my shock and horror. It didn't feel any slower than my last two. Am I giving out already, I wonder? This isn't good.
8:43: I'm running up a hill and my shoe is untied. I should pull over and tie it, but I'd like to get to the next mile marker first so I get an accurate reading of how my time is trending. As I run up the hill, I'm kicking my shoelaces with every step and it's driving me crazy.
8:44: Mile 5, 8:09. I'm back in business! I'm so excited by the return of my race pace, that I forget to tie my shoe.
8:52: Mile 6, 8:17. There are a pair of giant inflatable legs straddling the race course. It's an ad for a clothing company. Also, Toyota has a demo car for sale and a group of designated supporters are enthusiastically cheering the runners on. "This is a cheap and transparent marketing ploy," I think. "Also, my next car will be a Toyota."
9:01: Mile 7, 8:10 (21 seconds behind pace). I'm over half way done, and not a moment too soon. This is starting to stop being fun and just being painful. My shoe is still untied, but I might as well try to hold out at this point. Also, the next 6.1 miles seem entirely unnecessary.
9:09: Mile 8, 8:06. (+15) I hurt and I'm running out of gas. I'm shocked this mile was so fast. I see a sign that's kind of amusing, but ten seconds later it's out of my brain. The group of women in pink hoop skirts are running directly in front of me. I'm not one of those guys who gets upset at the idea of losing to women in races, but I absolutely hate the thought of losing to anyone running in a costume. At a July 4th race a few years ago, I nearly came to blows with Uncle Sam when passing him on the home stretch. I vow to keep going, to overcome the oppressive pace of the hoop skirts before me.
9:17: Mile 9, 8:10.(+13) I run a few steps behind another guy running about my speed, hoping to save some effort by drafting in his wind tunnel. I try to give him a little space, but soon he seems annoyed by this. I give it up after a short distance, but this guy and the hoops skirt people in front of him temporarily allowed me to forget how tired I am. On a small hill, I pass both parties, almost stumble on a pothole, but keep moving. My shoe is still untied, but I've ceased to notice by this point.
9:25: Mile 10, 8:08. (+9) Only 3.1 miles left, the equivalent of a 5k. I can do this. Maybe. If I can just keep my pace steady, I can make up the last few seconds to my goal pace on the final stretch. According to the race map we ran by the Municipal Rose Garden at some point in the last mile, but I never noticed. My heart is sad that I wasn't able to stop to smell the roses, but my legs regret it even more.
9:33: Mile 11, 8:05 (+2) A photographer is on the course taking pictures of runners as they pass. A woman in front of me poses for the camera, makes a funny face and some wild arm motions. "If she has this much energy," I wonder, "why is she running alongside of me." I want to die.
9:37: To the extent I still have brain function, it strikes me again that one of the cool things about running is that you can't predict people's performance by their appearance. I will ultimately finish among the top 10 percent of all runners, but in front of me I see kids who look 12-years-old, those runners who look to be in their 50s, guys who look fat, and women who look dangerously thin. And now, once again, one group of women in pink hoop skirts.
9:41: Mile 12, 8:09 (-1). Somehow, I'm ahead of my race goal pace, having run the elusive negative split (a faster second half than first) for the first time in years. Also I'm delirious. Scattered fans cheer, as I begin to count down every tenth, sometimes hundredth, of a mile. I'm going to make it, I think, but it's going to be miserable for the next 10 minutes.
9:42: Mile 12.1. My watch says 1:39:06. I won't hit my 1:45 goal today, but I'm ahead of pace to beat my personal record of 1:47:31. I just need an 8:24 time on my last mile. We turn a corner and suddenly there are fans everywhere, cheering us along. The first one I see has a Donald Trump sign. "What an appropriate metaphor," I think. "The pain of the last mile of a marathon is exactly what a Trump presidency would feel like."
9:49: Ahhh! Mile 13, by my watch, was an 8:00 pace, which should leave me 13 seconds ahead of my goal. But my watch GPS and the course are having a disagreement. According to the course, I don't hit the 13-mile marker until my watch says I've already run 13.1 which was as far as I had planned to go. My watch reads 1:47:00, but I'm still not at the finish line and only have 30 seconds to get there. I begin to panic. As much as I hurt, I could have run this mile a little faster, but I thought I was ahead of pace.
9:50: I sprint with disgust that I've been running for this long and the record I worked so hard for might get stolen from me. I run with such anger that I worry that it looks like I'm desperately just trying to chase down the woman in front of me out of misogyny. But I can worry about appearances later. At the moment, I just trying to beat my racing record. I don't even notice whether I beat the pink skirt posse.
9:51: I'm not going to make it. The course was 13.2 miles, instead of 13.1, with almost of all of the excess tacked on to the end. My watch reads 1:47:41 when I cross.
Ten seconds. I've just killed myself for 13.2 miles, or 4 months, really, and I have nothing to show for it thanks to a course measuring error, and only I (and now you, if you believe me) will ever know the truth.
I fought through a bad back, an injured hip, and running on 97 degree summer days only to fail by 10 seconds, due to someone else's measuring mistake.
I'm crushed.
9:57: I lower my head to take my finisher's medal. It might be all I get from this experience. The moment I stop running, my hips lock and every step hurts worse while walking than when I had been running. I devour every post race snack I see.
10:00. I look through my watch to try to process my failure. It says I ran 13.2 miles at an 8:10 pace. I was soooooo close. So painfully close.
10:05: I sit by a tree and have a drink, processing my apparent failure. As a musician plays in the background, and my brain comes back to reality, I repeat the numbers over in my head. It hits me: my prior personal record was running 13.1 miles at an 8:13 pace. I just ran 13.2 at 8:10. That's better than what I had ever done before, no matter what this poorly measure racecourse says. I just ran longer than I ever had, at a faster pace than I'd ever finished a half marathon. This wasn't a failure after all.
10:07: This is kind of a metaphor for life, I think. You do the best you can, and work with what you have given your circumstances. Along the way you make progress that you can see, but that you can't always prove and that those watching you may not seem to acknowledge. Sometimes only we know the reality of a situation, but have no means of correcting the record to the world.
I can't prove that I just ran the distance of a half marathon in a fraction of a second under 1:47.
But I don't really have to.
I wasn't running to prove anything to anyone else. I ran to prove that I could achieve something hard if I worked at it long enough. I didn't finish the job today, to be sure, but I got a little bit closer to what I'm working toward.
And that's all that really matters.
That, and that I paid good money to hurt so badly while doing it.
On to the next race.
It went something like this:
7:30: Thirty minutes to race time. I'm not going to risk another warm up run. I'm just going to hope I can push through once I get started. You see, I trained for four months, and near the end I did too many hard runs without enough rest in between. I got progressively slower, but I didn't figure out the problem until too late, after I ended up with bursitis in my hips. I also reaggravted the pinched nerve in my back, which doesn't slow me down but results in occasional shooting pain down to my left foot. I'm hoping the two conditions will just cancel themselves out, at least for the next 13.1 miles.
7:45: One of my favorite things about race day is that everyone is in a good mood both before and after the race. Groups of people are taking pictures, some of them in matching outfits. I find my corral, thankful that I got assigned to number 3 out of about 25. They release a corral every minute or so once the race starts, so being third means that I won't have to stand around too long watching other people get started while it gets progressively hotter outside.
7:48: There's a group of six young women in hoop skirts next to me; there's a married couple in their 50's on the other side. They assign the early corrals based on expected finish times, so these people must be faster than they look. One of the cool things about running is you can't tell how fast someone is by looking at them. I say a prayer that my body holds up to the mileage today. I ran 13 miles 10 days ago, so I'm not worried about my fitness, just whether or not my body can hold up in one piece. I probably should sit this race out and heal, but when you get hurt 99 percent of the way into a four-month race training, you don't want to see all that time go to waste. Besides, there's plenty of time to rest on the other side.
7:50: Someone is singing the national anthem. I don't see anyone protesting, but the festive pre-race mood definitively turns somber. I begin to wonder: why do we play the national anthem before sporting events? It's a public gathering, but so are movies and plays, and we don't play the anthem then. What's the difference? I vow to play the national anthem before I host my next game of Parcheesi, just to mess with people.
7:57: I turn on my GPS watch and ask it to track my time and distance. This is my sixth race, and ever since I finished my first one I've wanted to run a race in an hour and 45 minutes, an eight minute pace. It's an informal dividing line between serious runner and weekend warrior. 1:47:31, an 8:13 pace, is the closest I've ever come, but this is an easier course. I was progressing favorably toward this goal until a few weeks ago when my body starting failing me. I know that 8 minutes is a pipe dream at this point, but I'm hoping for an 8:12, which would be progress toward my ultimate goal. Sometimes that's all we can hope for in life.
8:00: The first corral of runners is released. I begin to panic because the GPS on my running watch still hasn't figured out where I am. I picture myself standing alone directly in front of the start line, with all the other runners having left, waiting to step across until my watch cooperates. Thousands of spectators would look at me and wonder what I'm doing, holding up the next corral, standing there like an idiot. I wonder how long I can wait on my watch if it comes down to that, but I can't pace myself without it.
8:02: Finally, my watch finds its signal, just in time. I breathe a sigh of relief, and remember that the bigger challenge remains. I can fight off the tingling numbness of my pinched nerve, but I'm entirely at the mercy of my bursitis. I haven't tired to run since I had to abort my last training run five days ago and hobble home. I don't know if I can do this, but I tell my hips that they can't stop me no matter how hard they try. I smile widely, ready for the challenge.
8:03: I'm off.
8:04: Mile One is underway. Somehow, the pain I felt 30 minutes ago when jogging while warming up has vanished. I feel good, the weather is nice, and my fellow runners and I have taken over downtown San Jose. We run by the first of multiple bands along the course (playing Cajun music, oddly enough), and life feels good.
8:11: Mile One took me 8:28. Slower than my race goal but exactly what I was hoping for my first mile. It takes a little while to get warmed up.
8:19: Mile Two complete. An 8:07 brings me only 11 seconds behind my target. I want to run faster, but telling myself to hold back. It's not a sprint, it's half a marathon.
8:21: One of the best things about a race are the signs that spectators hold. Every race, including this one, has one reading, "Worst Parade Ever." Beside the guy holding that one, another guy has a sign reading "Smile, you paid good money to hurt this badly."
8:24: One of the worst thing about a rock and roll series race is that your ears are at the mercy of the performers. The second stage we run by hosts a singer screeching so badly that I speed up just to make it stop.
8:27: Mile Three, 8:09 (8 seconds behind target pace). I run by the arena where the San Jose Sharks play. The street was line with cheerleaders, and one table is handing out orange beverages. As I go to carb load on some orange juice, I see a champagne bottle on a table nearby. A mimosa after the race would be fantastic, but at mile 3 it's a recipe for disaster, so I keep going. I hear the runner behind call out a question, and a volunteer assures that while she is drinking the hard stuff, the runners only get juice. I mentally kick myself for not asking myself, but it never occurred to me. I'm prone to getting runner's brain during races.
8:36: Mile 4 was an 8:25, to my shock and horror. It didn't feel any slower than my last two. Am I giving out already, I wonder? This isn't good.
8:43: I'm running up a hill and my shoe is untied. I should pull over and tie it, but I'd like to get to the next mile marker first so I get an accurate reading of how my time is trending. As I run up the hill, I'm kicking my shoelaces with every step and it's driving me crazy.
8:44: Mile 5, 8:09. I'm back in business! I'm so excited by the return of my race pace, that I forget to tie my shoe.
8:52: Mile 6, 8:17. There are a pair of giant inflatable legs straddling the race course. It's an ad for a clothing company. Also, Toyota has a demo car for sale and a group of designated supporters are enthusiastically cheering the runners on. "This is a cheap and transparent marketing ploy," I think. "Also, my next car will be a Toyota."
9:01: Mile 7, 8:10 (21 seconds behind pace). I'm over half way done, and not a moment too soon. This is starting to stop being fun and just being painful. My shoe is still untied, but I might as well try to hold out at this point. Also, the next 6.1 miles seem entirely unnecessary.
9:09: Mile 8, 8:06. (+15) I hurt and I'm running out of gas. I'm shocked this mile was so fast. I see a sign that's kind of amusing, but ten seconds later it's out of my brain. The group of women in pink hoop skirts are running directly in front of me. I'm not one of those guys who gets upset at the idea of losing to women in races, but I absolutely hate the thought of losing to anyone running in a costume. At a July 4th race a few years ago, I nearly came to blows with Uncle Sam when passing him on the home stretch. I vow to keep going, to overcome the oppressive pace of the hoop skirts before me.
9:17: Mile 9, 8:10.(+13) I run a few steps behind another guy running about my speed, hoping to save some effort by drafting in his wind tunnel. I try to give him a little space, but soon he seems annoyed by this. I give it up after a short distance, but this guy and the hoops skirt people in front of him temporarily allowed me to forget how tired I am. On a small hill, I pass both parties, almost stumble on a pothole, but keep moving. My shoe is still untied, but I've ceased to notice by this point.
9:25: Mile 10, 8:08. (+9) Only 3.1 miles left, the equivalent of a 5k. I can do this. Maybe. If I can just keep my pace steady, I can make up the last few seconds to my goal pace on the final stretch. According to the race map we ran by the Municipal Rose Garden at some point in the last mile, but I never noticed. My heart is sad that I wasn't able to stop to smell the roses, but my legs regret it even more.
9:33: Mile 11, 8:05 (+2) A photographer is on the course taking pictures of runners as they pass. A woman in front of me poses for the camera, makes a funny face and some wild arm motions. "If she has this much energy," I wonder, "why is she running alongside of me." I want to die.
9:37: To the extent I still have brain function, it strikes me again that one of the cool things about running is that you can't predict people's performance by their appearance. I will ultimately finish among the top 10 percent of all runners, but in front of me I see kids who look 12-years-old, those runners who look to be in their 50s, guys who look fat, and women who look dangerously thin. And now, once again, one group of women in pink hoop skirts.
9:41: Mile 12, 8:09 (-1). Somehow, I'm ahead of my race goal pace, having run the elusive negative split (a faster second half than first) for the first time in years. Also I'm delirious. Scattered fans cheer, as I begin to count down every tenth, sometimes hundredth, of a mile. I'm going to make it, I think, but it's going to be miserable for the next 10 minutes.
9:42: Mile 12.1. My watch says 1:39:06. I won't hit my 1:45 goal today, but I'm ahead of pace to beat my personal record of 1:47:31. I just need an 8:24 time on my last mile. We turn a corner and suddenly there are fans everywhere, cheering us along. The first one I see has a Donald Trump sign. "What an appropriate metaphor," I think. "The pain of the last mile of a marathon is exactly what a Trump presidency would feel like."
9:49: Ahhh! Mile 13, by my watch, was an 8:00 pace, which should leave me 13 seconds ahead of my goal. But my watch GPS and the course are having a disagreement. According to the course, I don't hit the 13-mile marker until my watch says I've already run 13.1 which was as far as I had planned to go. My watch reads 1:47:00, but I'm still not at the finish line and only have 30 seconds to get there. I begin to panic. As much as I hurt, I could have run this mile a little faster, but I thought I was ahead of pace.
9:50: I sprint with disgust that I've been running for this long and the record I worked so hard for might get stolen from me. I run with such anger that I worry that it looks like I'm desperately just trying to chase down the woman in front of me out of misogyny. But I can worry about appearances later. At the moment, I just trying to beat my racing record. I don't even notice whether I beat the pink skirt posse.
9:51: I'm not going to make it. The course was 13.2 miles, instead of 13.1, with almost of all of the excess tacked on to the end. My watch reads 1:47:41 when I cross.
Ten seconds. I've just killed myself for 13.2 miles, or 4 months, really, and I have nothing to show for it thanks to a course measuring error, and only I (and now you, if you believe me) will ever know the truth.
I fought through a bad back, an injured hip, and running on 97 degree summer days only to fail by 10 seconds, due to someone else's measuring mistake.
I'm crushed.
9:57: I lower my head to take my finisher's medal. It might be all I get from this experience. The moment I stop running, my hips lock and every step hurts worse while walking than when I had been running. I devour every post race snack I see.
10:00. I look through my watch to try to process my failure. It says I ran 13.2 miles at an 8:10 pace. I was soooooo close. So painfully close.
10:05: I sit by a tree and have a drink, processing my apparent failure. As a musician plays in the background, and my brain comes back to reality, I repeat the numbers over in my head. It hits me: my prior personal record was running 13.1 miles at an 8:13 pace. I just ran 13.2 at 8:10. That's better than what I had ever done before, no matter what this poorly measure racecourse says. I just ran longer than I ever had, at a faster pace than I'd ever finished a half marathon. This wasn't a failure after all.
10:07: This is kind of a metaphor for life, I think. You do the best you can, and work with what you have given your circumstances. Along the way you make progress that you can see, but that you can't always prove and that those watching you may not seem to acknowledge. Sometimes only we know the reality of a situation, but have no means of correcting the record to the world.
I can't prove that I just ran the distance of a half marathon in a fraction of a second under 1:47.
But I don't really have to.
I wasn't running to prove anything to anyone else. I ran to prove that I could achieve something hard if I worked at it long enough. I didn't finish the job today, to be sure, but I got a little bit closer to what I'm working toward.
And that's all that really matters.
That, and that I paid good money to hurt so badly while doing it.
On to the next race.
Sunday, September 25, 2016
This Is My Fight Song
It's been exactly two years since I moved to California. Yes, I miss my home, I've lost some friends and I'm definitely chasing sleep. And yes, some have worried about me, wondering if I was in too deep, in too deep.
No, this is not a Rachel Platten song. This is my life.
In the video of the song sharing a title with this post, the artist spends the opening moments sitting in the dark by herself. A frustrated writer, she wads up her half-written manuscripts, sings to empty concert halls, and some days, can't even manage to get out of bed. She finally gets frustrated and leaves her dreary and isolated life to move to California, where she finds joy dancing in the redwoods, meeting new friends, and driving down the oceanside cliffs of the Pacific Coast Highway in the bright sun.
It's enough to make you want to move to California, if you hadn't already.
It's beautiful here.
But real joy--the kind that goes deeper than Hollywood happy endings--takes more than just a change of scenery.
I stopped blogging back in January in an attempt to find it.
There was that fire burning in my soul that was book idea that I'm still working towards. Or at least that I intend to get back to working towards eventually. You see, I wrote all that was in my head and it wasn't enough for a book. So I need to burrow a little deeper into my head when I can find the free time and energy. Or possibly just get a new head that has better ideas. I'll let you know when I decide.
I had other life goals when I stopped blogging too. For years I've wanted to finish a half marathon in under an hour and forty-five minutes, so I could consider myself a serious athlete. I've kept trying and falling short, but I'm taking another shot next week. I've trained harder for this one than any race ever, but my times keep going up instead of down, so I'm not entirely optimistic. But however the race ends up, it should make for a great blog come race day. And maybe that's what really matters.
I also wanted to explore my new world out West. Since I live in wine country, I wanted to see how the wine industry worked up close, how it went from grapes to bottles, and why one year's vintage can taste nothing like grapes from the same vines the next. I've gotten to do that here, and to meet some really amazing people involved in the process. It's been wonderful, and I highly recommend having a glass if you don't find this blog very entertaining. Like the cheapest bottle at Walmart, it might not be very good at first, but it gets better the more you drink.
Taking a break from the blog also meant that I had more time to revive my church acting career in skits meant to introduce the conflict at issue in that day's message. I'm telling you, if there were an Oscar award for Supporting Actor in a 5-Minute Drama, I would come nowhere close to being nominated for any of my work. But it's fun, and I even get to write them sometimes. But these opportunities don't come up every week, so they're not a good reason to keep the blog on hold.
More than anything, my break from blogging was meant to give me some time to clear my head. When I wrote for my paper back school, I was the guy known for making enemies by writing controversial satires challenging people in power. I used to get dirty looks from my school administration and threats of personal injury from the student special interests I targeted. My law school dean called me into his office once to have a meeting. I loved it because it meant that people saw I had a point.
Now, I mostly go for non-offensive mindless laughs and uplifting spiritual messages here--the writing equivalent of posting pictures of cats on Facebook.
Where did I go soft? Was it when I got a cat?
Anyway, since I've accomplished almost none of the personal goals for which I stopped blogging, I figure I might as well start Just Thinking again. Clearly, it wasn't the blog that was holding me back from my life's ambitions, so it's time to pick a new inaccurate scapegoat. I suppose I'll pick Donald Trump for that job, since he's already picked everyone else. Or if he's not available, I'll settle for the mom who brought six screaming kids into the library coffee shop where I'm sitting, who have declared an unholy war on my chance of having a quiet working atmosphere.
But the point is that blog is back, and no amount of screaming children (or screaming politicians, which is pretty much the same thing) can stop me. I'm not sure how often things will appear, and it probably won't look exactly the same as it used to, but hey, you probably don't look the same as you used to either.
I blogged about the process of moving out here with two cats on a cross-country flight, but I never, in this space, explained why. Those words I didn't say are still wrecking balls inside my brain, so I won't scream them out tonight.
There'll be plenty of time for that later, just as there's more time for random thoughts (Seriously, I understand why there is a New Mexico and a New England, but what about New Zealand? Is there an Old Zealand?), time for more Bad Ideas Presented As Really Serious Propositions, and silly pictures of me with inanimate objects. I even get six weeks to complain about the election, where most everyone hates the top two candidates, but not enough to actually vote for someone else.
So why is the blog back?
My life's biggest fear has long been that my life wouldn't matter, that I wouldn't spend it accomplishing its purpose or create any lasting benefit for my having been here. And if I don't ever get around to writing a best-selling book, or any book at all, I want to at least do something. That's sometimes all we can do.
Rachel Platten's song never reveals whether or not the main character's career does any better in California that it did before she moved, it just shows her having more fun and feeling more alive as she tries.
Maybe you can relate. I don't know if your story, or mine, will have a Hollywood ending. I just know we'll never find out sitting on the sidelines with the book closed.
So the blog is back, with the new stories to tell, new mindless conversations to recount, new memes to run into the ground, and new battles to fight.
Because this my fight song.
And I've still got a lot of fight left in me.
No, this is not a Rachel Platten song. This is my life.
In the video of the song sharing a title with this post, the artist spends the opening moments sitting in the dark by herself. A frustrated writer, she wads up her half-written manuscripts, sings to empty concert halls, and some days, can't even manage to get out of bed. She finally gets frustrated and leaves her dreary and isolated life to move to California, where she finds joy dancing in the redwoods, meeting new friends, and driving down the oceanside cliffs of the Pacific Coast Highway in the bright sun.
It's enough to make you want to move to California, if you hadn't already.
It's beautiful here.
But real joy--the kind that goes deeper than Hollywood happy endings--takes more than just a change of scenery.
I stopped blogging back in January in an attempt to find it.
There was that fire burning in my soul that was book idea that I'm still working towards. Or at least that I intend to get back to working towards eventually. You see, I wrote all that was in my head and it wasn't enough for a book. So I need to burrow a little deeper into my head when I can find the free time and energy. Or possibly just get a new head that has better ideas. I'll let you know when I decide.
I had other life goals when I stopped blogging too. For years I've wanted to finish a half marathon in under an hour and forty-five minutes, so I could consider myself a serious athlete. I've kept trying and falling short, but I'm taking another shot next week. I've trained harder for this one than any race ever, but my times keep going up instead of down, so I'm not entirely optimistic. But however the race ends up, it should make for a great blog come race day. And maybe that's what really matters.
I also wanted to explore my new world out West. Since I live in wine country, I wanted to see how the wine industry worked up close, how it went from grapes to bottles, and why one year's vintage can taste nothing like grapes from the same vines the next. I've gotten to do that here, and to meet some really amazing people involved in the process. It's been wonderful, and I highly recommend having a glass if you don't find this blog very entertaining. Like the cheapest bottle at Walmart, it might not be very good at first, but it gets better the more you drink.
Taking a break from the blog also meant that I had more time to revive my church acting career in skits meant to introduce the conflict at issue in that day's message. I'm telling you, if there were an Oscar award for Supporting Actor in a 5-Minute Drama, I would come nowhere close to being nominated for any of my work. But it's fun, and I even get to write them sometimes. But these opportunities don't come up every week, so they're not a good reason to keep the blog on hold.
More than anything, my break from blogging was meant to give me some time to clear my head. When I wrote for my paper back school, I was the guy known for making enemies by writing controversial satires challenging people in power. I used to get dirty looks from my school administration and threats of personal injury from the student special interests I targeted. My law school dean called me into his office once to have a meeting. I loved it because it meant that people saw I had a point.
Now, I mostly go for non-offensive mindless laughs and uplifting spiritual messages here--the writing equivalent of posting pictures of cats on Facebook.
Where did I go soft? Was it when I got a cat?
Anyway, since I've accomplished almost none of the personal goals for which I stopped blogging, I figure I might as well start Just Thinking again. Clearly, it wasn't the blog that was holding me back from my life's ambitions, so it's time to pick a new inaccurate scapegoat. I suppose I'll pick Donald Trump for that job, since he's already picked everyone else. Or if he's not available, I'll settle for the mom who brought six screaming kids into the library coffee shop where I'm sitting, who have declared an unholy war on my chance of having a quiet working atmosphere.
But the point is that blog is back, and no amount of screaming children (or screaming politicians, which is pretty much the same thing) can stop me. I'm not sure how often things will appear, and it probably won't look exactly the same as it used to, but hey, you probably don't look the same as you used to either.
I blogged about the process of moving out here with two cats on a cross-country flight, but I never, in this space, explained why. Those words I didn't say are still wrecking balls inside my brain, so I won't scream them out tonight.
There'll be plenty of time for that later, just as there's more time for random thoughts (Seriously, I understand why there is a New Mexico and a New England, but what about New Zealand? Is there an Old Zealand?), time for more Bad Ideas Presented As Really Serious Propositions, and silly pictures of me with inanimate objects. I even get six weeks to complain about the election, where most everyone hates the top two candidates, but not enough to actually vote for someone else.
So why is the blog back?
My life's biggest fear has long been that my life wouldn't matter, that I wouldn't spend it accomplishing its purpose or create any lasting benefit for my having been here. And if I don't ever get around to writing a best-selling book, or any book at all, I want to at least do something. That's sometimes all we can do.
Rachel Platten's song never reveals whether or not the main character's career does any better in California that it did before she moved, it just shows her having more fun and feeling more alive as she tries.
Maybe you can relate. I don't know if your story, or mine, will have a Hollywood ending. I just know we'll never find out sitting on the sidelines with the book closed.
So the blog is back, with the new stories to tell, new mindless conversations to recount, new memes to run into the ground, and new battles to fight.
Because this my fight song.
And I've still got a lot of fight left in me.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
My Conversation with an Idiot
Hesitantly, I called to schedule a blood donation. The last two times I donated I got sick immediately afterward, but I figured my getting sick beats someone else dying. But I might have given my own life to avoid the conversation that followed.
The phone begins to ring...
Customer Service Rep: Blood Bank, may I help you?
Me: Yes, I'm calling to schedule a blood donation as part of my company's blood drive on Tuesday, August 16th next week.
CSR: Ok, where is the blood drive?
Me: At your office.
CSR: Where?
Me: At your main office, on Thomas Lane.
CSR: What's your last name?
Me: Smith
CSR: What is it again?
Me: Smith
CSR: Oh, Smith. Ok, and you are trying to find out how to give blood? Our office is located at [333] Thomas Lane, and open on Mondays from...
Me: No, I'm trying to schedule an appointment to take part in my agency's pre-existing blood drive.
CSR: Have you given blood before?
Me: Yes.
CSR: What's your first name?
Me: "Andrew"
CSR: Ok, .... are you calling about the blood donation set for March 9th?
Me: Ummm, no that isn't me. I'm calling to schedule a blood donation on August 16th as part of blood drive for (my agency).
CSR: (skeptically) And your name is "Andrew Smith?"
Me: Yes, that's my name.
CSR: Sir, if that's your name, you haven't given blood before.
Me: I haven't given blood at your location, but I've given blood a dozen times.
CSR: Where?
Me: The last several times, in Nashville.
CSR: Where did you given blood there?
Me: It was at the Red Cross, but why does that matter? I'm calling today to schedule a blood donation as part of (my agency's) blood drive next week.
CSR: What was the date?
Me: For the third time, August 16th!
CSR: Ok, who was the person here you were working with to schedule that?
Me: I have no idea. I would have called that person directly if I did. There have been flyers around my office for two weeks advertising a blood drive next Tuesday. It said to call this number to schedule my appointment. This is your office's main phone number, right?
CSR: Well, if the blood drive is at your office you don't need to sign up here.
Me: No, it is at your office. We are supposed to drive in at our scheduled appointment times. I just need an appointment.
Pause...
CSR: (flustered) What was the address in Nashville where you gave blood?
Me: I don't know that off the top of my head. It was Red Cross headquarters. But why does that matter?
CSR: It sounds like you are not in our system. You just need to come into our main office next week. We are at 333 Thomas Lane.
Me: I know. It says that on the flyer. I'm just trying to schedule an appointment.
CSR: We are open from 10:30-5:00 on Tuesdays. Let me give you directions...
Me: Your hours are on the flyer, and I know how to get there. I just need an appointment.
CSR: You can just come in. And if Tuesday doesn't work for you we are also on open on Wednesdays from 10:30-5:00 and Thursdays from...
Me: My office blood drive is Tuesday. I just need an appointment time!
CSR: Just come in whenever.
Me: If 100 people from my office come in at the same time, that isn't going to be a good situation for anyone. We need appointments.
CSR: Oh, what was the name of your agency?
Me: (Name of my government agency)
CSR: I don't have any record of that company having a blood drive. But it must be at our headquarters. We are at 333 Thomas Lane. We are located off the freeway next to In-and-Out Burger.
Me: It sounds like you are not going to be able to help me.
CSR: Honey, I'm afraid not.
Me: I'm just going to talk to the person at my agency who organized this and ask her who she talked to.
CSR: That sounds like a good idea. I'm sorry I couldn't help you, honey.
Me: Don't worry, I'll get to the bottom of this mystery somehow.
----
I told my agency contact about the call and got the name of someone else to talk to at the blood bank. I might call back tomorrow, but I'm not sure if she'll be able to give me directions how to get there.
The phone begins to ring...
Customer Service Rep: Blood Bank, may I help you?
Me: Yes, I'm calling to schedule a blood donation as part of my company's blood drive on Tuesday, August 16th next week.
CSR: Ok, where is the blood drive?
Me: At your office.
CSR: Where?
Me: At your main office, on Thomas Lane.
CSR: What's your last name?
Me: Smith
CSR: What is it again?
Me: Smith
CSR: Oh, Smith. Ok, and you are trying to find out how to give blood? Our office is located at [333] Thomas Lane, and open on Mondays from...
Me: No, I'm trying to schedule an appointment to take part in my agency's pre-existing blood drive.
CSR: Have you given blood before?
Me: Yes.
CSR: What's your first name?
Me: "Andrew"
CSR: Ok, .... are you calling about the blood donation set for March 9th?
Me: Ummm, no that isn't me. I'm calling to schedule a blood donation on August 16th as part of blood drive for (my agency).
CSR: (skeptically) And your name is "Andrew Smith?"
Me: Yes, that's my name.
CSR: Sir, if that's your name, you haven't given blood before.
Me: I haven't given blood at your location, but I've given blood a dozen times.
CSR: Where?
Me: The last several times, in Nashville.
CSR: Where did you given blood there?
Me: It was at the Red Cross, but why does that matter? I'm calling today to schedule a blood donation as part of (my agency's) blood drive next week.
CSR: What was the date?
Me: For the third time, August 16th!
CSR: Ok, who was the person here you were working with to schedule that?
Me: I have no idea. I would have called that person directly if I did. There have been flyers around my office for two weeks advertising a blood drive next Tuesday. It said to call this number to schedule my appointment. This is your office's main phone number, right?
CSR: Well, if the blood drive is at your office you don't need to sign up here.
Me: No, it is at your office. We are supposed to drive in at our scheduled appointment times. I just need an appointment.
Pause...
CSR: (flustered) What was the address in Nashville where you gave blood?
Me: I don't know that off the top of my head. It was Red Cross headquarters. But why does that matter?
CSR: It sounds like you are not in our system. You just need to come into our main office next week. We are at 333 Thomas Lane.
Me: I know. It says that on the flyer. I'm just trying to schedule an appointment.
CSR: We are open from 10:30-5:00 on Tuesdays. Let me give you directions...
Me: Your hours are on the flyer, and I know how to get there. I just need an appointment.
CSR: You can just come in. And if Tuesday doesn't work for you we are also on open on Wednesdays from 10:30-5:00 and Thursdays from...
Me: My office blood drive is Tuesday. I just need an appointment time!
CSR: Just come in whenever.
Me: If 100 people from my office come in at the same time, that isn't going to be a good situation for anyone. We need appointments.
CSR: Oh, what was the name of your agency?
Me: (Name of my government agency)
CSR: I don't have any record of that company having a blood drive. But it must be at our headquarters. We are at 333 Thomas Lane. We are located off the freeway next to In-and-Out Burger.
Me: It sounds like you are not going to be able to help me.
CSR: Honey, I'm afraid not.
Me: I'm just going to talk to the person at my agency who organized this and ask her who she talked to.
CSR: That sounds like a good idea. I'm sorry I couldn't help you, honey.
Me: Don't worry, I'll get to the bottom of this mystery somehow.
----
I told my agency contact about the call and got the name of someone else to talk to at the blood bank. I might call back tomorrow, but I'm not sure if she'll be able to give me directions how to get there.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
What Happened to Your Blog?
If you watched a movie about a guy who wanted a Volvo and worked for years to get it, you wouldn't cry at the end when he drove off the lot, testing the windshield wipers. .... The ambitions we have will become the stories we live. If you want to know what a person's story is about, just ask them what they want. If we don't want anything, we are living boring stories, and if we want a Roomba vacuum cleaner, we are living stupid stories. ... If what we choose to do with our lives won't make a story meaningful, it won't make a life meaningful either.
-Donald Miller (from A Million Miles in a Thousand Years) as partially transcribed in my first blog, April 2010.
Thanks for following along with this chapter of my story.
For the past six years, you've kept me sane, or at least something resembling it. You've given me a forum to air whatever silliness has crept into my head and wouldn't leave. You've been a sounding board to pass along whatever it was I thought I had learned along life's journey. You've indulged my creative misfires, my obsessive need to explore the meaning of song lyrics and sitcoms, and even my random thoughts.
Speaking of which, why is it that things are "revitalized," but nothing is ever "vitalized"?
Along the way, you've given me enough encouragement to believe I was making a difference for some of you, adding beauty to your life or at least easing some of its sorrow. There's no greater feeling I've known than to create something that somehow connected with someone else--it's a momentary affirmance that we are all connected in some way and my life isn't in vain.
That kind of feeling was exactly what I was searching for when I started this six years ago.
When I started this adventure I wasn't sure what it was going to look like--I was just a guy tired of working the 9-5, going to the gym and the occasional cookout and not doing anything uniquely meaningful with his life. I wanted my life to tell a better story than that of an Assistant Attorney General who might some day get promoted to a Senior Assistant Attorney General and buy a better sedan and an automatic vacuum. That's when I started sharing life with you.
There's a bigger story I need to tell, though, and I've been working on putting it into book form for the last year. I'm stalled 21,000 words into it, with both the book and the blog taking up just enough mental space that neither can quite get out of my head and onto the page.
I was hoping to keep up at least a minimal blogging presence to keep you engaged until I had something bigger to offer, but trying to do two things at once has meant doing neither very well.
---------
Kermit the Frog introduced himself to the audience in the "Muppet Movie" in a song.
In the movie's opening moments, he tells the audience that although it wasn't very logical, he believed he had heard a call toward something more than singing alone in a pond. He was meant to sing, alright, but someone else was supposed to hear it; someone who could somehow relate to the lonely yearning in his soul.
Following his inner calling would involve Kermit leaving his comfort zone and taking some crazy chances to have his own voice heard, but he knew he'd never be quite satisfied if he didn't give it a chance. He wasn't exactly where his journey would take him, but he left his pond in search of his dream, believing there was a rainbow somewhere on the other side. Even if he was wrong, he had to give it a try. As he concluded:
I've heard it too many times to ignore it;
It's something that I'm supposed to be.
Someday we'll find it--the rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.
I'm no singing frog, but I have a story too. It's a story that will make some people laugh as they nod along in agreement, make some rigid people angry as they read in disgust, but hopefully it will provide peace for others.
It's an idea that I wish would have been published somewhere 20 years ago when I needed to hear it, so I'm guessing there's someone else who needs to hear it now.
--------
When I was growing up as an unpopular but deeply religious kid, my church taught me that God would eventually make my dreams come true according to a strict formula if I just obeyed all the rules they gave me. When that didn't happen, when the proverbial bumps in the road indisputably became dead ends, I was left to believe that God had uniquely withheld those promises from me, because I somehow wasn't worthy of God's love.
It sounds tragic, and in some ways, I guess it was, but some of the hoops I was forced to jump through as a kid are entertainingly ridiculous (I still have the ribbon I won at 6-years-old for being one of the first five kids in my first-grade Sunday School class to recite the 66 books of the Bible in order. Although I cried each time I lost out to the prior four) as are some of the ways I treated God like a Cosmic Vending Machine.
But I eventually found peace with a God who doesn't follow the formulas humans created, and who, I think, both laughs and cries with me looking back at points of my journey. I also learned some pretty cool things along the way.
I can't wait to tell you the story.
It's a story that I think I'm supposed to tell, and I've heard the call too many times to ignore it.
Six years of blogging have led me to this point, and it's something that I'm supposed to be.
So I'm off to find my rainbow, which needs another 39,000 words to completion.
Until then, you won't see me around this space. I'll be back, in some form or another, when I reach the other side.
And I'll have a better story for my trouble.
-Donald Miller (from A Million Miles in a Thousand Years) as partially transcribed in my first blog, April 2010.
Thanks for following along with this chapter of my story.
For the past six years, you've kept me sane, or at least something resembling it. You've given me a forum to air whatever silliness has crept into my head and wouldn't leave. You've been a sounding board to pass along whatever it was I thought I had learned along life's journey. You've indulged my creative misfires, my obsessive need to explore the meaning of song lyrics and sitcoms, and even my random thoughts.
Speaking of which, why is it that things are "revitalized," but nothing is ever "vitalized"?
Along the way, you've given me enough encouragement to believe I was making a difference for some of you, adding beauty to your life or at least easing some of its sorrow. There's no greater feeling I've known than to create something that somehow connected with someone else--it's a momentary affirmance that we are all connected in some way and my life isn't in vain.
That kind of feeling was exactly what I was searching for when I started this six years ago.
When I started this adventure I wasn't sure what it was going to look like--I was just a guy tired of working the 9-5, going to the gym and the occasional cookout and not doing anything uniquely meaningful with his life. I wanted my life to tell a better story than that of an Assistant Attorney General who might some day get promoted to a Senior Assistant Attorney General and buy a better sedan and an automatic vacuum. That's when I started sharing life with you.
There's a bigger story I need to tell, though, and I've been working on putting it into book form for the last year. I'm stalled 21,000 words into it, with both the book and the blog taking up just enough mental space that neither can quite get out of my head and onto the page.
I was hoping to keep up at least a minimal blogging presence to keep you engaged until I had something bigger to offer, but trying to do two things at once has meant doing neither very well.
---------
Kermit the Frog introduced himself to the audience in the "Muppet Movie" in a song.
In the movie's opening moments, he tells the audience that although it wasn't very logical, he believed he had heard a call toward something more than singing alone in a pond. He was meant to sing, alright, but someone else was supposed to hear it; someone who could somehow relate to the lonely yearning in his soul.
Following his inner calling would involve Kermit leaving his comfort zone and taking some crazy chances to have his own voice heard, but he knew he'd never be quite satisfied if he didn't give it a chance. He wasn't exactly where his journey would take him, but he left his pond in search of his dream, believing there was a rainbow somewhere on the other side. Even if he was wrong, he had to give it a try. As he concluded:
I've heard it too many times to ignore it;
It's something that I'm supposed to be.
Someday we'll find it--the rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.
I'm no singing frog, but I have a story too. It's a story that will make some people laugh as they nod along in agreement, make some rigid people angry as they read in disgust, but hopefully it will provide peace for others.
It's an idea that I wish would have been published somewhere 20 years ago when I needed to hear it, so I'm guessing there's someone else who needs to hear it now.
--------
When I was growing up as an unpopular but deeply religious kid, my church taught me that God would eventually make my dreams come true according to a strict formula if I just obeyed all the rules they gave me. When that didn't happen, when the proverbial bumps in the road indisputably became dead ends, I was left to believe that God had uniquely withheld those promises from me, because I somehow wasn't worthy of God's love.
It sounds tragic, and in some ways, I guess it was, but some of the hoops I was forced to jump through as a kid are entertainingly ridiculous (I still have the ribbon I won at 6-years-old for being one of the first five kids in my first-grade Sunday School class to recite the 66 books of the Bible in order. Although I cried each time I lost out to the prior four) as are some of the ways I treated God like a Cosmic Vending Machine.
But I eventually found peace with a God who doesn't follow the formulas humans created, and who, I think, both laughs and cries with me looking back at points of my journey. I also learned some pretty cool things along the way.
I can't wait to tell you the story.
It's a story that I think I'm supposed to tell, and I've heard the call too many times to ignore it.
Six years of blogging have led me to this point, and it's something that I'm supposed to be.
So I'm off to find my rainbow, which needs another 39,000 words to completion.
Until then, you won't see me around this space. I'll be back, in some form or another, when I reach the other side.
And I'll have a better story for my trouble.
Monday, November 16, 2015
It's Too Early For Christmas Decorations
"The holidays always seem long" the cashier said, "because we put out our holiday decorations so early."
"Was this the store where I saw Christmas decorations before Halloween?", I asked.
"Yep, that was us."
It all made sense, considering I had seen New Year's Eve decorations at that same drugstore earlier today.
The cashier was perfectly nice, but her store's policy is ridiculous. No store needs to have Christmas decorations up before Thanksgiving, let alone Halloween.
Here's what I mean:
I love Christmas. I love cheesy Christmas merchandise and decorations. During mid December, I'll walk into Walgreen's if I have a spare moment just for the sake of looking at the Charlie Brown trees in a box or reindeer lawn decorations and absorbing the holiday glow.
I just don't need to do it on November 3rd.
That's too early. Thanksgiving and Halloween deserve seasons of their own. Celebrating Christmas in early November makes it stale by mid-December. Getting overly excited about anything too far advance takes away the enjoyment of now.
It seems like that's what we're always doing. "Thanksgiving might be around the corner," the commercials say, "but just wait until Christmas! That's when things will get really fun!"
The message will change come later in December, when the new year is when all our dreams will come true.
But come about December 28th, store aisles will stop looking a lot like Christmas and start looking a lot like Valentine's Day, because every kiss begins with Kay. Besides, isn't that what you really want?
It isn't just holidays, either. How long until your next vacation?
Everybody's working for the weekend.
Or, perhaps, the most wonderful time of the year.
I understand the counterpoint. Just because I don't want Christmas season to start in early November, doesn't mean somebody else wouldn't like to see Christmas stockings and holiday colored M&M's when it's still warm outside. So, really, who's the victim?
Who?
Me. And those of you who want to enjoy the holiday season we're actually in.
I love Christmas, but I love Thanksgiving too. And Halloween. The seasons and calendar set up nicely so that they all get about a month. Starting Christmas too soon takes away from the celebration of the others. You can't be fully into the moment of the holiday at hand when the store is already trying to point you towards something else any more than you fully listen to someone talking to you while sending a text.
It's information overload.
It's symptomatic of bigger problems in our society. A day after we pause to give thanks for what we have, we flock in droves to buy more on Black Friday. It's as though someone has convinced us that if we just buy onnnnneeee more thing, we'll finally be satisfied, and we just can't wait to get started buying that elusive happiness.
We shouldn't fall into that trap and overlook Thanksgiving. It's a day where we can eat fantastic food with people we like and remember that for most of us, things could have turned out a lot worse. It doesn't require a lot of fuss or hassle trying to throw the best party or money and stress over finding that perfect gift.
For most people, it's the only four-day weekend on the calendar. It's a time to relax and recover from whatever the year has brought, to celebrate making it through its worst and to give thanks for its enjoying its best. It's just enough time to remember who we are outside of work and what we have that brings us joy.
And it's not just a meal, but a long weekend of doing as much or as little as we want, with no trappings or commercialization.
Maybe that's why stores are so anxious to rush through it.
But it's exactly why we shouldn't let them.
"Was this the store where I saw Christmas decorations before Halloween?", I asked.
"Yep, that was us."
It all made sense, considering I had seen New Year's Eve decorations at that same drugstore earlier today.
The cashier was perfectly nice, but her store's policy is ridiculous. No store needs to have Christmas decorations up before Thanksgiving, let alone Halloween.
Here's what I mean:
I love Christmas. I love cheesy Christmas merchandise and decorations. During mid December, I'll walk into Walgreen's if I have a spare moment just for the sake of looking at the Charlie Brown trees in a box or reindeer lawn decorations and absorbing the holiday glow.
I just don't need to do it on November 3rd.
That's too early. Thanksgiving and Halloween deserve seasons of their own. Celebrating Christmas in early November makes it stale by mid-December. Getting overly excited about anything too far advance takes away the enjoyment of now.
It seems like that's what we're always doing. "Thanksgiving might be around the corner," the commercials say, "but just wait until Christmas! That's when things will get really fun!"
The message will change come later in December, when the new year is when all our dreams will come true.
But come about December 28th, store aisles will stop looking a lot like Christmas and start looking a lot like Valentine's Day, because every kiss begins with Kay. Besides, isn't that what you really want?
It isn't just holidays, either. How long until your next vacation?
Everybody's working for the weekend.
Or, perhaps, the most wonderful time of the year.
I understand the counterpoint. Just because I don't want Christmas season to start in early November, doesn't mean somebody else wouldn't like to see Christmas stockings and holiday colored M&M's when it's still warm outside. So, really, who's the victim?
Who?
Me. And those of you who want to enjoy the holiday season we're actually in.
I love Christmas, but I love Thanksgiving too. And Halloween. The seasons and calendar set up nicely so that they all get about a month. Starting Christmas too soon takes away from the celebration of the others. You can't be fully into the moment of the holiday at hand when the store is already trying to point you towards something else any more than you fully listen to someone talking to you while sending a text.
It's information overload.
It's symptomatic of bigger problems in our society. A day after we pause to give thanks for what we have, we flock in droves to buy more on Black Friday. It's as though someone has convinced us that if we just buy onnnnneeee more thing, we'll finally be satisfied, and we just can't wait to get started buying that elusive happiness.
We shouldn't fall into that trap and overlook Thanksgiving. It's a day where we can eat fantastic food with people we like and remember that for most of us, things could have turned out a lot worse. It doesn't require a lot of fuss or hassle trying to throw the best party or money and stress over finding that perfect gift.
For most people, it's the only four-day weekend on the calendar. It's a time to relax and recover from whatever the year has brought, to celebrate making it through its worst and to give thanks for its enjoying its best. It's just enough time to remember who we are outside of work and what we have that brings us joy.
And it's not just a meal, but a long weekend of doing as much or as little as we want, with no trappings or commercialization.
Maybe that's why stores are so anxious to rush through it.
But it's exactly why we shouldn't let them.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Blogging the Republican Debate
Moderators: Ok, welcome audience and tv-land.
Please welcome the candidates. Let's get started.
Should we raise the minimum wage?
Trump: No, because we're not winning. We don't win. Our taxes are too high and we're getting beat by the Chinese and by other militaries. We need to start winning.
Rubio: No. By the way, my dad was a bartender. And now I'm running for President! Also we need more welders.
Carson: Thank you for not asking me about those stories I made up to sell my book. It doesn't really matter what I say regardless because I look so professorial up here. I could read the phone book and sound brilliant. Admit it, you love hearing my voice.
Moderators: Why should you be elected?
Trump: We're not winning. We need to start winning. If you elect me, we'll start winning. Because winning.
Bush: We need economic growth. "The growth that we don't have makes the deficit grow." "We need to repeal every rule that Barack Obama has in terms of work in progress." We need to be serious about being serious about being serious.
Trump: We need to get serious about building a wall and deporting illegal immigrants.
Kasich: We can't do that. Think of the children! I have two 16-year old children!
Trump: You're a loser.
Kasich: (stands in a corner)
Moderators: What do you think, Ms. Fiorina?
Fiorina: Crony capitalism. Regulatory thicket. Three-page tax code. We need to take our government back!
Carson: Doesn't my voice sound like Morgan Freeman?
Moderators: Senator Cruz, how would you pay for your massive tax cut?
Senator Cruz: I would cut five departments. The IRS, the Department of Commerce, the Department of Energy...um..., the Department of Commerce and the Department of Energy.
Rubio: The most important job any person in this room will ever have is the job of being a parent. More important than being president. So if you don't have kids you aren't important. So, we need to be pro families. Because the most important job you can is to be the President. Oh wait, I think I got my lines confused, so I'll just keep saying the word "family."
Moderators: What about the Pacific Trade deal? (inspirational music begins playing for no apparent reason)
Trump: It's a bad deal. We're losing to China, and we'll keeping losing even more to China if we pass this deal. We need to stop being losers!
Paul: Shouldn't we point out that China isn't actually part of this deal?
Moderators: Let's just move on. Mr. Carson, should we have troops in the Middle East?
Carson: Well, the Chinese and the Russians are there now. And jihadists. We need to make them look like losers!
Moderators: Was that your Donald Trump impression? Oh well. What about you Ms. Fiorina?
Fiorina: Three-page tax code. Take our government back!
Trump: We need to stop losing.
Moderators: What do you think Governor Bush?
Bush: I think Obama hates America.
Moderators: How would you deal with Putin?
Trump: Well, China is a big problem. And so is Iran. And Iraq. And Putin and I are friends. So someone else should deal with him. Because we're too busy losing.
Fiorina: Wait, I've met Putin too! But I wouldn't talk to him if I were President, because that would hurt his feelings and then he'd do what we want. Also, three-page tax code.
Rubio: I haven't met Putin, but it's kind of weird that you people are name-dropping like this. Do you think Putin is bragging to the Russians that he's met you?
Kasich: Wait, I'm still here? Why? Ok, I'll now make up for the last hour by giving a hurried, rambling speech covering my entire platform in 90 seconds.
Moderators: Ok, Governor Bush: would you bail the banks out again?
Bush: No. Hillary wants them to be too big to fail. We should raise their capital requirements so they aren't too big to fail. "I was just in Washington, Iowa talking about how bad Washington, DC is. It was kind of a, you get the, um (awkward hand motions), well kinda--anyway..." (awkward shrug). The financial crisis was bad and now banks are overregulated.
Carson: The banks need to be regulated so that they don't have so much power. ... What we need is to stop having so much government regulation because it hurts the poor.
All candidates: We're going to talk about how horrible something or someone called Dodd Frank is, but none of us are going to remotely explain what he or it is. But he's probably a loser.
Moderators: Ok, candidates: why are you a better candidate than Hillary Clinton, because she is a really good candidate. I mean, really good. She was First Lady, Senator, Secretary of State, and pretty much better than all of you. So why shouldn't I just drop you all in the Secret Pit of Doom hidden underneath this stage so she can have her coronation?
Fiorina: That sounds like crony capitalism.
Rubio: She's old.
Moderators: Anyone else have any final words?
Kasich: I have two 16-year old children.
Fiorina: We need to get rid of crony capitalism with my three-page tax plan. We need to take our government back.
Bush: I'm a uniter not a divider. Oh wait, has someone else said that before?
Cruz: We will win! Go to my website!
Rubio: My dad was a bartender! Here's my website!
Carson: While we've been debating, the world around us is crumbling. Because of political correctness. Also, wouldn't you like to hear my voice for the next 4 years?
Trump: I'm really rich. And I'm winning.
Please welcome the candidates. Let's get started.
Should we raise the minimum wage?
Trump: No, because we're not winning. We don't win. Our taxes are too high and we're getting beat by the Chinese and by other militaries. We need to start winning.
Rubio: No. By the way, my dad was a bartender. And now I'm running for President! Also we need more welders.
Carson: Thank you for not asking me about those stories I made up to sell my book. It doesn't really matter what I say regardless because I look so professorial up here. I could read the phone book and sound brilliant. Admit it, you love hearing my voice.
Moderators: Why should you be elected?
Trump: We're not winning. We need to start winning. If you elect me, we'll start winning. Because winning.
Bush: We need economic growth. "The growth that we don't have makes the deficit grow." "We need to repeal every rule that Barack Obama has in terms of work in progress." We need to be serious about being serious about being serious.
Trump: We need to get serious about building a wall and deporting illegal immigrants.
Kasich: We can't do that. Think of the children! I have two 16-year old children!
Trump: You're a loser.
Kasich: (stands in a corner)
Moderators: What do you think, Ms. Fiorina?
Fiorina: Crony capitalism. Regulatory thicket. Three-page tax code. We need to take our government back!
Carson: Doesn't my voice sound like Morgan Freeman?
Moderators: Senator Cruz, how would you pay for your massive tax cut?
Senator Cruz: I would cut five departments. The IRS, the Department of Commerce, the Department of Energy...um..., the Department of Commerce and the Department of Energy.
Rubio: The most important job any person in this room will ever have is the job of being a parent. More important than being president. So if you don't have kids you aren't important. So, we need to be pro families. Because the most important job you can is to be the President. Oh wait, I think I got my lines confused, so I'll just keep saying the word "family."
Moderators: What about the Pacific Trade deal? (inspirational music begins playing for no apparent reason)
Trump: It's a bad deal. We're losing to China, and we'll keeping losing even more to China if we pass this deal. We need to stop being losers!
Paul: Shouldn't we point out that China isn't actually part of this deal?
Moderators: Let's just move on. Mr. Carson, should we have troops in the Middle East?
Carson: Well, the Chinese and the Russians are there now. And jihadists. We need to make them look like losers!
Moderators: Was that your Donald Trump impression? Oh well. What about you Ms. Fiorina?
Fiorina: Three-page tax code. Take our government back!
Trump: We need to stop losing.
Moderators: What do you think Governor Bush?
Bush: I think Obama hates America.
Moderators: How would you deal with Putin?
Trump: Well, China is a big problem. And so is Iran. And Iraq. And Putin and I are friends. So someone else should deal with him. Because we're too busy losing.
Fiorina: Wait, I've met Putin too! But I wouldn't talk to him if I were President, because that would hurt his feelings and then he'd do what we want. Also, three-page tax code.
Rubio: I haven't met Putin, but it's kind of weird that you people are name-dropping like this. Do you think Putin is bragging to the Russians that he's met you?
Kasich: Wait, I'm still here? Why? Ok, I'll now make up for the last hour by giving a hurried, rambling speech covering my entire platform in 90 seconds.
Moderators: Ok, Governor Bush: would you bail the banks out again?
Bush: No. Hillary wants them to be too big to fail. We should raise their capital requirements so they aren't too big to fail. "I was just in Washington, Iowa talking about how bad Washington, DC is. It was kind of a, you get the, um (awkward hand motions), well kinda--anyway..." (awkward shrug). The financial crisis was bad and now banks are overregulated.
Carson: The banks need to be regulated so that they don't have so much power. ... What we need is to stop having so much government regulation because it hurts the poor.
All candidates: We're going to talk about how horrible something or someone called Dodd Frank is, but none of us are going to remotely explain what he or it is. But he's probably a loser.
Moderators: Ok, candidates: why are you a better candidate than Hillary Clinton, because she is a really good candidate. I mean, really good. She was First Lady, Senator, Secretary of State, and pretty much better than all of you. So why shouldn't I just drop you all in the Secret Pit of Doom hidden underneath this stage so she can have her coronation?
Fiorina: That sounds like crony capitalism.
Rubio: She's old.
Moderators: Anyone else have any final words?
Kasich: I have two 16-year old children.
Fiorina: We need to get rid of crony capitalism with my three-page tax plan. We need to take our government back.
Bush: I'm a uniter not a divider. Oh wait, has someone else said that before?
Cruz: We will win! Go to my website!
Rubio: My dad was a bartender! Here's my website!
Carson: While we've been debating, the world around us is crumbling. Because of political correctness. Also, wouldn't you like to hear my voice for the next 4 years?
Trump: I'm really rich. And I'm winning.
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