There are certain things in life that go together. Chocolate and peanut butter, Reese's has built a brand on this combination. Sunscreen and beaches, steak and potatoes, Eagles and road trips, wine and anything, these are combos so entrenched they are almost cliches.
But there are some things that do not go together. Does anyone out there like the weird, pucker-up-your-face combo of donuts and orange juice? They just don't mix. Until I worked in a machine shop in college I would have said oil and water, but they have figured out a way to blend them to produce a cooling and lubrication solution. There is now another entry into my list of things that do not mix.
Kidney's are a wonderful little organ that filters all the minerals and salts out of your system then stages these impurities for transport out of the body. It is pretty cool process and very necessary for us homo sapiens.
Stones are equally cool. They were the first tools for humanoids. When refined they can grind grain into flour, crush grapes, mill all sorts of things. They can even be smoothed and rounded and can be very durable wheels .
However, I discovered that kidneys and stones are not good companions. Easter Sunday I woke up at 4:30AM with a brutal back ache. Generally I do not have back aches. My bride convinced me a couple of years ago to spend a bit of time in yoga. The stretching really helped keep my back pain-free, the calming sessions at the end garnered me some really good naps. So it was with a bit of surprise that I woke up to this gripping back ache. The back ache quickly escalated (and I am talking mere minutes) to a full-fledged, pouring sweat, nauseated self diagnosis of "kidney stone"!!!!When my bride asked me what she needed to do I told her (man, I hope I didn't yell at her) to get dressed. I needed a ride to the ER.
As I have pointed out on this blog, when you go to the ER and have a distinguished head of grey hair, they rush you right in. The only catch is that it has to be "chest pains". Apparently, if it is not chest pains they dawdle and fill out paperwork, ask all sorts of inane questions, and generally drag their feet.
"Is there any place I can lie down?"
"No, there will be a nurse here in a minute."
I'm looking at the floor and wondered what sort of settlement my bride would get if I just collapsed on the floor and died of some sort of staff infection.
20 minutes later I'm ushered into a small cubicle so a disinterested male nurse could take my vitals. Couldn't get a temp, tried three times, changed thermometer twice. "STOP WITH THE STUPID TEMP! I DO NOT HAVE A FEVER!" I may have over-reacted.
Finally they showed me to my room. By the way, all the this moving around was under my own power, hunched over, trying not to gag when the pain cycled upwards. I crawled onto the bed, drew my knees up and prepared to meet my Maker. I was done, this was the end. Then they introduced my savior, the name is morphine, it is my friend. Oh, and warm blankets. We have GOT to get us the machine that keeps the blankets warm.
Gradually I began to feel well enough to ask the pretty, young nurse about the scrubs she wears, Koi with a Peaches warm-up. She was bright and efficient and probably smart. My comment to my bride was that I found it sad that the bright nurse was wearing a competitor's brand while "numbnuts" the disinterested male nurse was wearing the brand I sell. Irony is not your friend at 5:30AM in the ER.
The on-call Doc came in and said I had a kidney stone...no kidding, Sherlock. They were going to do a CT scan. Which revealed the stone still in the kidney and too large to pass. So another procedure and another trip to the hospital is in store. I'm sure that story will come out in another blog. But I am here to tell you that after my visit with the urologist there is no one I want handling my junk like that anymore. They handed me a printout of what will happen while I am asleep.. I haven't read it. But we are going to separate the stone and kidney, the stone is being forceably removed, evicted, kicked out. It annoys my kidney and I love my kidney more than the stone.
Godspeed on this journey. Some days are diamonds, some are stones. I'm getting rid of the stone days.
Don
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
A Love Story
The following is a story of love and sacrifice, dealing with a new normal, grace in the face of adversity, and unrelenting change.
There was a couple that loved each other a great deal. They had common interests and wanted more than anything to simply live out their lives, working their jobs, and enjoying life. These are not uncommon desires. They are what we all share. It is the commonality that gives us the empathy to deal with whatever life can throw at us. Some of us, however, get hard balls thrown at the head which are impossible to duck. This was true of this couple.
He was driving home from work one day and suffered a massive stroke. Years of smoking, diet not best suited to low cholesterol and genetics caught up with him in one moment of calamity. The stroke was unexpected, no warning signs, no anticipation. It was a life-altering and life-threatening event. It changed forever the scope and hope of his life.
It also changed forever the life and dreams of his wife. She would now be called upon to bath, dress, and feed her husband. The responsibility of earning enough for them to live on would fall on her shoulders. Would she have enough strength? Would she have enough determination? Would her love be strong enough to endure the indignities that she would be called on by this new "normal"?
A lot of couples would have fallen apart. She could have said, "I didn't sign up for this. I'm out." But she didn't. In the following years she would graciously endure the criticism of her husband's family about his care and therapy. Through the years she made sure her husband could attend the holidays and family reunions, even though travel was extraordinarily difficult. Air travel in particular created almost insurmountable obstacles. But she quietly and diligently made sure that her husband would have full benefit of his extended family.
Life at home was a new challenge. Conversation had to be adapted to questions that could be answered with a simple "yes" or "no". Long talks, and banter, and even arguments were now only memories from another life and another time. Care and feeding of an infant is difficult at best, but the care and feeding of a 50-yr-old is mind-numbing and constant and hard. Doubts and fears and self-pity are constant companions. Life threw a Nolan Ryan hardball and derailed the life that they never would have imagined. It has been years since the fateful ride home from work.
This is a real couple. I know them well. They are a part of my bride's family. And they are gay. They are not "married" but committed "life partners". All the references above to the husband is my bride's sister. The "wife" is her partner. I look at them and I wonder how I can criticize their life's choices. Would I be able to handle the struggles with the same grace and quietness that they have? Would I instead rage at the world and the creator who would allow this tragedy? Would I be able to handle the partner's family with the same patience and grace and maturity that the family failed to exhibit? I would like to answer yes, but I know my heart well enough to know that I would not be as calm and gracious and compassionate were I wearing their shoes.
A few years ago through spiritual disciplines and a lot of self incriminating examination I changed my view of God. I was raised in religious tribe that had little patience with differing views, even amongst themselves. We took what we thought was God's Word and hammered whoever disagreed with us. As a fellow told me one time while reflecting on what he had heard while listening to sermons as a child, "Jesus loves you, you are going to Hell". We assumed we were mirroring the nature of God.This shaped our doctrinal approaches to virtually every cultural event.But when I changed my view of God, I changed my view of others.
Now, I lean against the mindset. The best analogy I can come up with is a judge sitting on the bench and the next case is called and he looks down and realizes that the defendant is his own son. And he is guilty. I think the judge would start looking for ways to waive the guilty sentence. I think he would look for any nuance in the judgement, he would scour the law books looking for any slim loophole that would set his son free. He would ignore the massive momentum of evidence and look for one small spark of remorse, one little glance of appeal. And he would find a way to commute the sentence, to step down from the bench, fling his judge robe aside and embrace his son, taking him home, free and forgiven.
I hope this is the scene when I stand before the Creator because I suspect I have far more to answer for than those I wrote about above. If they are judged on the pureness of their hearts as evidenced by their lives described above, then they have far less to worry about with their sexual orientation than I do with my judgemental attitude. I believe that God will look into their hearts and see sacrifice and dedication and grace. It is my sincere hope that he sees a little of that in mine.
Godspeed to Nancy and Glen. This journey has been steep for you. My prayer is that your reward will be great for making the journey with all the grace and humility you exhibit every time I see you. We love you.
Don
There was a couple that loved each other a great deal. They had common interests and wanted more than anything to simply live out their lives, working their jobs, and enjoying life. These are not uncommon desires. They are what we all share. It is the commonality that gives us the empathy to deal with whatever life can throw at us. Some of us, however, get hard balls thrown at the head which are impossible to duck. This was true of this couple.
He was driving home from work one day and suffered a massive stroke. Years of smoking, diet not best suited to low cholesterol and genetics caught up with him in one moment of calamity. The stroke was unexpected, no warning signs, no anticipation. It was a life-altering and life-threatening event. It changed forever the scope and hope of his life.
It also changed forever the life and dreams of his wife. She would now be called upon to bath, dress, and feed her husband. The responsibility of earning enough for them to live on would fall on her shoulders. Would she have enough strength? Would she have enough determination? Would her love be strong enough to endure the indignities that she would be called on by this new "normal"?
A lot of couples would have fallen apart. She could have said, "I didn't sign up for this. I'm out." But she didn't. In the following years she would graciously endure the criticism of her husband's family about his care and therapy. Through the years she made sure her husband could attend the holidays and family reunions, even though travel was extraordinarily difficult. Air travel in particular created almost insurmountable obstacles. But she quietly and diligently made sure that her husband would have full benefit of his extended family.
Life at home was a new challenge. Conversation had to be adapted to questions that could be answered with a simple "yes" or "no". Long talks, and banter, and even arguments were now only memories from another life and another time. Care and feeding of an infant is difficult at best, but the care and feeding of a 50-yr-old is mind-numbing and constant and hard. Doubts and fears and self-pity are constant companions. Life threw a Nolan Ryan hardball and derailed the life that they never would have imagined. It has been years since the fateful ride home from work.
This is a real couple. I know them well. They are a part of my bride's family. And they are gay. They are not "married" but committed "life partners". All the references above to the husband is my bride's sister. The "wife" is her partner. I look at them and I wonder how I can criticize their life's choices. Would I be able to handle the struggles with the same grace and quietness that they have? Would I instead rage at the world and the creator who would allow this tragedy? Would I be able to handle the partner's family with the same patience and grace and maturity that the family failed to exhibit? I would like to answer yes, but I know my heart well enough to know that I would not be as calm and gracious and compassionate were I wearing their shoes.
A few years ago through spiritual disciplines and a lot of self incriminating examination I changed my view of God. I was raised in religious tribe that had little patience with differing views, even amongst themselves. We took what we thought was God's Word and hammered whoever disagreed with us. As a fellow told me one time while reflecting on what he had heard while listening to sermons as a child, "Jesus loves you, you are going to Hell". We assumed we were mirroring the nature of God.This shaped our doctrinal approaches to virtually every cultural event.But when I changed my view of God, I changed my view of others.
Now, I lean against the mindset. The best analogy I can come up with is a judge sitting on the bench and the next case is called and he looks down and realizes that the defendant is his own son. And he is guilty. I think the judge would start looking for ways to waive the guilty sentence. I think he would look for any nuance in the judgement, he would scour the law books looking for any slim loophole that would set his son free. He would ignore the massive momentum of evidence and look for one small spark of remorse, one little glance of appeal. And he would find a way to commute the sentence, to step down from the bench, fling his judge robe aside and embrace his son, taking him home, free and forgiven.
I hope this is the scene when I stand before the Creator because I suspect I have far more to answer for than those I wrote about above. If they are judged on the pureness of their hearts as evidenced by their lives described above, then they have far less to worry about with their sexual orientation than I do with my judgemental attitude. I believe that God will look into their hearts and see sacrifice and dedication and grace. It is my sincere hope that he sees a little of that in mine.
Godspeed to Nancy and Glen. This journey has been steep for you. My prayer is that your reward will be great for making the journey with all the grace and humility you exhibit every time I see you. We love you.
Don
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Prevarication
"To stray from or evade the truth; equivocate.."
I am not a good liar. There are times when that trait would be very useful..
But I simply cannot live with the consequences of prevarication. Even the word makes it sound okay. I like the word "equivocate" just as much. It sound like I would LIKE to tell the truth, but I simply can't. Sorry Truth, I was rooting for you, but it simply didn't work out this time. Maybe next time.
Yesterday I intentionally practiced prevarication with my boss. Not a huge deal. I am on a trip to meet with an underperforming rep, at the last minute the rep informed me (long after the plane tickets were bought) that he "thinks he has passover" on Monday. Really? It came to you last minute? I can tell you right now when Easter and Christmas are this year, and next, and the one after that. But the trip was planned and I didn't want the hassle of changing flight schedules, hotels, etc.
Now I had several long phone calls where I asked him to bring this and that. We discussed several aspects of his territory. These were preparatory conversations and ones that were going to take place anyway. And I found them mildly annoying because this was not the training scenario that I had developed in my head. So I was frustrated.
Then my boss called and during the conversation asked in passing how it was going with the rep, I told it was fine, we were covering the basics and would dig deeper the next day. I have worked with this guy long enough to know what he was asking, but I prevaricated. I answered the questions as if the rep and I had spoken in person, but I knew that my boss had not gotten the correct picture of what had happened. Essentailly, I had answered what he had asked, but had evaded the "truth" of his questions.
In years past this would have produced a pang of guilt, quickly over and soon forgotten. Perhaps when I was younger, it was easier. But this small omission, hinging really on one word in his question and a small word in my answer kept me up all night. Rattling around in my head was not so much the variety of ways that the real truth could come out, but the reality that I had violated some deep-seated view of myself. Several times during the night I was tempted to pick up the phone, reclarify the question and get this out of my head. By the time I decided to call it was midnight in California and it would seem even more bizarre than the original innocuous question.
Why does this matter so much to me now? Our culture does not put much of a premium on honesty or integrity or truthfulness. Our cornerstone institutions put no real emphasis on these traits either. In fact it seems that the world around us values the imagination applied to creative prevarication. How far can one stray from the truth and not be considered a liar? It is not a line in the sand, but a continuum from stark truth to any small ingredient of truth. The continuum is a mile wide and paper-thin. It bothers me now because I know better. There is no illusion that I was telling the truth, I can fool a lot of people, but my conscience calls me on it everytime. My bride can do just about as well. Words are usually my friends until they convict me inside my own brain. The older I get the less truth is subjective, it has become objective. What I say and do is either the truth or it is not. Very simple, very hard.
So I left a text for my boss very early the next morning asking him to call, not an emergency, but call as early as you can. He called, I went straight to the confession, offering no qualifiers (by the way, a true apology offers no reasons, no qualifiers, it is a simple "I'm sorry") He said he trusted me 1000%, he felt it odd that my answer was uncharacteristically short (not sure what he meant there) and to move on. The situation still bothered me during the day, but more of a dissapointment in myself, than a reliving the event. Am I the only one that is bothered by this? I suspect not, but it still pesters me that I slipped out of my own self-image so easily, and for no real reason. At this point I guess the moral victory here is that I was bothered by the entire episode. I liked last year's model of me much better. Sigh.
Godspeed out there. Self realization can be tough, but at least be truthful to yourself.
Don
I am not a good liar. There are times when that trait would be very useful..
But I simply cannot live with the consequences of prevarication. Even the word makes it sound okay. I like the word "equivocate" just as much. It sound like I would LIKE to tell the truth, but I simply can't. Sorry Truth, I was rooting for you, but it simply didn't work out this time. Maybe next time.
Yesterday I intentionally practiced prevarication with my boss. Not a huge deal. I am on a trip to meet with an underperforming rep, at the last minute the rep informed me (long after the plane tickets were bought) that he "thinks he has passover" on Monday. Really? It came to you last minute? I can tell you right now when Easter and Christmas are this year, and next, and the one after that. But the trip was planned and I didn't want the hassle of changing flight schedules, hotels, etc.
Now I had several long phone calls where I asked him to bring this and that. We discussed several aspects of his territory. These were preparatory conversations and ones that were going to take place anyway. And I found them mildly annoying because this was not the training scenario that I had developed in my head. So I was frustrated.
Then my boss called and during the conversation asked in passing how it was going with the rep, I told it was fine, we were covering the basics and would dig deeper the next day. I have worked with this guy long enough to know what he was asking, but I prevaricated. I answered the questions as if the rep and I had spoken in person, but I knew that my boss had not gotten the correct picture of what had happened. Essentailly, I had answered what he had asked, but had evaded the "truth" of his questions.
In years past this would have produced a pang of guilt, quickly over and soon forgotten. Perhaps when I was younger, it was easier. But this small omission, hinging really on one word in his question and a small word in my answer kept me up all night. Rattling around in my head was not so much the variety of ways that the real truth could come out, but the reality that I had violated some deep-seated view of myself. Several times during the night I was tempted to pick up the phone, reclarify the question and get this out of my head. By the time I decided to call it was midnight in California and it would seem even more bizarre than the original innocuous question.
Why does this matter so much to me now? Our culture does not put much of a premium on honesty or integrity or truthfulness. Our cornerstone institutions put no real emphasis on these traits either. In fact it seems that the world around us values the imagination applied to creative prevarication. How far can one stray from the truth and not be considered a liar? It is not a line in the sand, but a continuum from stark truth to any small ingredient of truth. The continuum is a mile wide and paper-thin. It bothers me now because I know better. There is no illusion that I was telling the truth, I can fool a lot of people, but my conscience calls me on it everytime. My bride can do just about as well. Words are usually my friends until they convict me inside my own brain. The older I get the less truth is subjective, it has become objective. What I say and do is either the truth or it is not. Very simple, very hard.
So I left a text for my boss very early the next morning asking him to call, not an emergency, but call as early as you can. He called, I went straight to the confession, offering no qualifiers (by the way, a true apology offers no reasons, no qualifiers, it is a simple "I'm sorry") He said he trusted me 1000%, he felt it odd that my answer was uncharacteristically short (not sure what he meant there) and to move on. The situation still bothered me during the day, but more of a dissapointment in myself, than a reliving the event. Am I the only one that is bothered by this? I suspect not, but it still pesters me that I slipped out of my own self-image so easily, and for no real reason. At this point I guess the moral victory here is that I was bothered by the entire episode. I liked last year's model of me much better. Sigh.
Godspeed out there. Self realization can be tough, but at least be truthful to yourself.
Don
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Not My Future
Greetings from rainy, humid, partly sunny Ft. Meyers, FL. I have no idea about the history or naming of this town. I can only hope that it was a military installation at one time because the only other option is that some unfortunate little kid was named "Fort". Which would be particularly cruel form of teasing by his 1st grade class mates. Down here on business and was reminded again why we are not really tempted to move back to Houston. As my late father-in-law used to say when visiting us all those years ago in Houston, "when I shower, it feels like I'm just changing sweat." One of the few things on which we agreed.
So last night I took the rep to dinner here in Ft Meyers and as he drove around looking for a place in which we both could find something, we passed up Cheddars and Longhorn, Olive Garden and PF Chang's and finally settled on Carrabbas. As we walked in I noticed that at the age of 59 (me) and early 40's (rep) we dramatically lowered the average age of the diners. This was a blue-hair convention. Now, I will admit that my hair is not exactly the same color as portrayed in my high school photos, but this was a different group. The other noticeable characteristic was the leather complected diners. This crowd could make a raiding Arab party look a little pale. Bermuda shorts and polos and sandals seemed the dress code. I felt out of place in my jeans, Danskos, and sport shirt (untucked) My rep looked like he needed a kid's menu.
As I took all this in I was reminded of a special I saw on HBO a couple of weeks ago depicting the life of Northern transplants to FL. The cast could have been dining last night in the same place. It was eerie how similar these folks looked to the folks profiled in the HBO show. The show might have been the most depressing show I have watched in a long time. It profiled about 5 or 6 "residents" at a retirement community that had all moved from the NY, New England area. They were all post-70s, they were all widowed/widowered (?) And none of them were living the life they thought they might be at this point. It was a common quote that each had a lot of acquaintances, but no friends. There seemed to be a lot of activity, but not connection. The little apartments were festooned with keepsakes from another life and another time. A constant reminder that they were not in the lives of their kids or grand kids, nor did there seem to be much motivation to change the scenario.
It occurred to me that they had moved to FL to die, out of sight of their families, out of sight of their lives from before, without the touch and warmth of their old friends, without anything but the knick knacks of their youth. What disturbed me the most was that in some ways they were already a memory. Their families would not remember them from the recent past, but from some snapshot of a happier, more fulfilling time.
Perhaps this was the point. To escape the reality of growing old, to preserve a more youthful memory. But some of these people had been there for 30 years. Would they have made the same decision, the decision to leave family and friends if they thought it was a 30 year marathon? At the age of 65, would they have said to themselves, "I would rather be warm, than to be warmed by family?"
I have no idea what the logic was behind the decisions. But my take on the growing old thing is this, I want my kids and my grand kids to see me grow old, to struggle with a faltering mind and body that is grinding down. Why? Because I hope to be able to teach in those moments. I watch my dad at 90 still enjoying life, troubled by a hip that makes it hard to walk and climb stairs, frustrated by the struggle to remember all the grand kid/great-grandkids names (frankly, I struggle with it as well) and knowing that the vast majority of the life's journey is behind rather than ahead. But he still jokes and laughs and reads, and cross-word puzzles, and limps his 16 block walk. He is, in my opinion, the epitome of courage in old age. I am logging away his wisdom to teach to my progeny.
There is an old saying, 'Live long enough to be a problem to your kids." My take on this is to live long enough to teach them ALL the lessons you have. Deal with the cold, deal with the aching body, deal with the faulty memory, but teach. I remember sitting on the edge of my mother's bed when she was in the last few days of her life, and knew she was at the end. I was 30 and she was teaching me the eternal, spiritual truths she wanted me to know. She only had 57 years to accumulate and export her special brand of wisdom. My dad has had 90+ years, but he is still teaching. I hope my last words are words of wisdom to my kids, my grandkids, and if God is willing my great-grandkids. I hope my legacy is one of teaching truths by the way I lived to the ones I love. Not in some far away, lonely place. This will not be my future.
Godspeed to all those who have some journey left. Reach behind you for the hands of those that follow and help them up the trail. And then at the right moment, push them forward with words of encouragement, words of wisdom.Then and only then will your journey be finished.
Don
So last night I took the rep to dinner here in Ft Meyers and as he drove around looking for a place in which we both could find something, we passed up Cheddars and Longhorn, Olive Garden and PF Chang's and finally settled on Carrabbas. As we walked in I noticed that at the age of 59 (me) and early 40's (rep) we dramatically lowered the average age of the diners. This was a blue-hair convention. Now, I will admit that my hair is not exactly the same color as portrayed in my high school photos, but this was a different group. The other noticeable characteristic was the leather complected diners. This crowd could make a raiding Arab party look a little pale. Bermuda shorts and polos and sandals seemed the dress code. I felt out of place in my jeans, Danskos, and sport shirt (untucked) My rep looked like he needed a kid's menu.
As I took all this in I was reminded of a special I saw on HBO a couple of weeks ago depicting the life of Northern transplants to FL. The cast could have been dining last night in the same place. It was eerie how similar these folks looked to the folks profiled in the HBO show. The show might have been the most depressing show I have watched in a long time. It profiled about 5 or 6 "residents" at a retirement community that had all moved from the NY, New England area. They were all post-70s, they were all widowed/widowered (?) And none of them were living the life they thought they might be at this point. It was a common quote that each had a lot of acquaintances, but no friends. There seemed to be a lot of activity, but not connection. The little apartments were festooned with keepsakes from another life and another time. A constant reminder that they were not in the lives of their kids or grand kids, nor did there seem to be much motivation to change the scenario.
It occurred to me that they had moved to FL to die, out of sight of their families, out of sight of their lives from before, without the touch and warmth of their old friends, without anything but the knick knacks of their youth. What disturbed me the most was that in some ways they were already a memory. Their families would not remember them from the recent past, but from some snapshot of a happier, more fulfilling time.
Perhaps this was the point. To escape the reality of growing old, to preserve a more youthful memory. But some of these people had been there for 30 years. Would they have made the same decision, the decision to leave family and friends if they thought it was a 30 year marathon? At the age of 65, would they have said to themselves, "I would rather be warm, than to be warmed by family?"
I have no idea what the logic was behind the decisions. But my take on the growing old thing is this, I want my kids and my grand kids to see me grow old, to struggle with a faltering mind and body that is grinding down. Why? Because I hope to be able to teach in those moments. I watch my dad at 90 still enjoying life, troubled by a hip that makes it hard to walk and climb stairs, frustrated by the struggle to remember all the grand kid/great-grandkids names (frankly, I struggle with it as well) and knowing that the vast majority of the life's journey is behind rather than ahead. But he still jokes and laughs and reads, and cross-word puzzles, and limps his 16 block walk. He is, in my opinion, the epitome of courage in old age. I am logging away his wisdom to teach to my progeny.
There is an old saying, 'Live long enough to be a problem to your kids." My take on this is to live long enough to teach them ALL the lessons you have. Deal with the cold, deal with the aching body, deal with the faulty memory, but teach. I remember sitting on the edge of my mother's bed when she was in the last few days of her life, and knew she was at the end. I was 30 and she was teaching me the eternal, spiritual truths she wanted me to know. She only had 57 years to accumulate and export her special brand of wisdom. My dad has had 90+ years, but he is still teaching. I hope my last words are words of wisdom to my kids, my grandkids, and if God is willing my great-grandkids. I hope my legacy is one of teaching truths by the way I lived to the ones I love. Not in some far away, lonely place. This will not be my future.
Godspeed to all those who have some journey left. Reach behind you for the hands of those that follow and help them up the trail. And then at the right moment, push them forward with words of encouragement, words of wisdom.Then and only then will your journey be finished.
Don
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Discontent
These past few months have been odd for me. It has been a season of trying and not seeing benefit. It has been a season of worry over a great many small things which leads to a life of worry in the big things. It has been a season of discontent.
I wish I could say that this is the first time in my 59 years that this has happened, but this is simply not so. There have been times when the discontent was greater, with far graver issues driving the mood. There have been times when this discontent has lasted longer, a few times it has been for years, several seasons in fact. There have been times when the discontent would seem sharper or deeper. But this is the moment I find myself in.
In the past I have wondered if this were due to some personality disorder. Being of Irish descent, I have read that Irish can be moody. My bride will attest to the fact that at times I am not good company, silent, uncommunicative, restive, remote. She does not find these moments in the least romantic. She finds them irksome, and I don't blame her. But I am far enough removed from my heritage on the emerald isle to know that my DNA is not the sole blame.
During my young adult years I wondered if it were some deep spiritual flaw. That somehow I had taken a wrong turn and wandered away from the god and church of my youth. There seemed to be a message from the church that if I were not happy, then the fault fell squarely on my shoulders and I best snap out of it. These were the times when God chose to remain silent, not helping the feeling one bit. I have not found the church as we know it today to be much help in this arena. It seems we spend a lot of time trying to convince each other that all is right, that we are right, and this self-imposed righteousness will prevail. But all this did for me was to drive the discontent underground, or under surface. Probably not the healthiest reaction.
And now I wonder how deeply this has affected my children. There are moments when I see this darkness reside in them. It makes my heart ache that this was my legacy to them. A deep and unsettling creature that resides within, waiting to surface and squash the natural joy should be the norm and not the exception. We teach with our lives, not our words. What was my lesson to them? Like a bill in the mail, I hate to even look. My only hope is that they also received the resolve and the strenght that my bride brings to the equation. It is my prayer that this will be enough to see them through.
Then about 10 years ago I began the journey of spiritual pursuit, delving into the recesses of my heart and mind and thought. Somewhere in all that it occurred to me that whatever forces drew toghether to create me, created me as I am. My nature is to question, and to question is to find answers that can be unsettling. DNA, God, parents, friends, experiences, philosophy, decisions all were mixed in the cauldron of my life and produced...me. Part of this is my bent towards discontent. But it is this discontent that will not let me rest. It is what drives me forward. It is what allows me to venture into events and circumstances where most sane people would not go. With a modest intellect and a sturdy body, and a constant quest for new ideas and thoughts and experiences, I have managed to develop a world around me that is filled with the very love that makes me worry. It occurred to me that one element of this fabric is my struggle with discontent.
I have never struggled with long bouts of depression, but I have come to realize that being a functional skeptic has its price. Discontent is the price for a searching mind and a restless soul.
Godspeed, I hope the journey is a good one. It is the discontent that drives me to pick up my pack, to turn down the trail and continue on. At times the journey is beautiful and at times it is hard, but it is the only journey I get. If you struggle with the discontent, I feel for you, we both carry the burden..and the reward of this discontent.
Don
I wish I could say that this is the first time in my 59 years that this has happened, but this is simply not so. There have been times when the discontent was greater, with far graver issues driving the mood. There have been times when this discontent has lasted longer, a few times it has been for years, several seasons in fact. There have been times when the discontent would seem sharper or deeper. But this is the moment I find myself in.
In the past I have wondered if this were due to some personality disorder. Being of Irish descent, I have read that Irish can be moody. My bride will attest to the fact that at times I am not good company, silent, uncommunicative, restive, remote. She does not find these moments in the least romantic. She finds them irksome, and I don't blame her. But I am far enough removed from my heritage on the emerald isle to know that my DNA is not the sole blame.
During my young adult years I wondered if it were some deep spiritual flaw. That somehow I had taken a wrong turn and wandered away from the god and church of my youth. There seemed to be a message from the church that if I were not happy, then the fault fell squarely on my shoulders and I best snap out of it. These were the times when God chose to remain silent, not helping the feeling one bit. I have not found the church as we know it today to be much help in this arena. It seems we spend a lot of time trying to convince each other that all is right, that we are right, and this self-imposed righteousness will prevail. But all this did for me was to drive the discontent underground, or under surface. Probably not the healthiest reaction.
And now I wonder how deeply this has affected my children. There are moments when I see this darkness reside in them. It makes my heart ache that this was my legacy to them. A deep and unsettling creature that resides within, waiting to surface and squash the natural joy should be the norm and not the exception. We teach with our lives, not our words. What was my lesson to them? Like a bill in the mail, I hate to even look. My only hope is that they also received the resolve and the strenght that my bride brings to the equation. It is my prayer that this will be enough to see them through.
Then about 10 years ago I began the journey of spiritual pursuit, delving into the recesses of my heart and mind and thought. Somewhere in all that it occurred to me that whatever forces drew toghether to create me, created me as I am. My nature is to question, and to question is to find answers that can be unsettling. DNA, God, parents, friends, experiences, philosophy, decisions all were mixed in the cauldron of my life and produced...me. Part of this is my bent towards discontent. But it is this discontent that will not let me rest. It is what drives me forward. It is what allows me to venture into events and circumstances where most sane people would not go. With a modest intellect and a sturdy body, and a constant quest for new ideas and thoughts and experiences, I have managed to develop a world around me that is filled with the very love that makes me worry. It occurred to me that one element of this fabric is my struggle with discontent.
I have never struggled with long bouts of depression, but I have come to realize that being a functional skeptic has its price. Discontent is the price for a searching mind and a restless soul.
Godspeed, I hope the journey is a good one. It is the discontent that drives me to pick up my pack, to turn down the trail and continue on. At times the journey is beautiful and at times it is hard, but it is the only journey I get. If you struggle with the discontent, I feel for you, we both carry the burden..and the reward of this discontent.
Don
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
NYC
Last week I spent one night in "The City". It has been years since I have worked there. We were meeting the folks from Burlington, and it was a single appointment with all their buyers.
So I flew in the night before to LaQuardia, took a cab to 32nd and Broadway, checked into my hotel, then decided to go exploring. My rationalization was to walk the 6 blocks to the building where the meeting was going to take place and have it timed from my hotel to the appointment.
It was a drizzly, cold night. I had changed into jeans and pullover sweater, grabbed my heavy coat and just wandered around, watching the people, and seeing the sights. As I strolled up Broadway, crossing the numbered streets in ascending order, it occurred to me that there was something quite unique about New York. The more I watched the people scurry past me, the more it became important to decide what it was that made the city different.
As it relates to foot traffic, it was a lot like Vegas. People crowded on the sidewalk is a constant reminder that both New York and Vegas thrive without the modern convenience of cars and parking and traffic. But this is where the similarity ends. There was simply something different in these two cities.
Dinner was in a restaurant adjoining my hotel. My dining spot was at the edge of the dining room and the bar. Since I was by myself they put me at the smallest table, wedged into a corner, out of the way. As I sat and watched it occurred to me that there was a rich blend of languages flowing in eddys around my spot. German from a group just barely in my sight line to the right, English (as in England) right in front of me at the bar, and something else to my left, looked like middle Eastern, who knows. I was the only Texan in the area as far as I could tell. This simply added to mind strings of the evening. Was this the reason the city seemed so unique?
The next morning I rolled out early and walked to a Starbucks I had spotted the night before. It was raining, I was anxious toget there. When I walked into that wonderful aroma of coffee and pastries I looked around and realized there were no places to sit. Not crowded, no chairs. The only option was a stand-up bar running along the window facing out to the street. So at 6:30AM, I am sipping my Veranda and munching on my pumpkin cake slice watching the bundled up folks hurry along through the rain.
Then it hit me. The difference between Vegas and NYC is the way people walk. Vegas is a meandering sort of dawdle, gazing at the huge signs and billboards advertising Vegas shows with all the glitz possible. The NYC crowd had their heads focused in front of them and had places to go, people to see. It was the difference between a stroll and mission. New Yorkers are accused of being rude. I think they are less rude and more abrupt. They don't have time for anyone who doesn't know the system. Get moving or get out of the way. They live their lives having to negotiate a place and circumstance where there are millions of people trying to get from one place to another with as little interference as possible. I kind of like the pace and point of their efforts. It was nice to finally put that nagging insight into place.
I don't care for NYC, but I get it. I hate Vegas and I don't get it. I find Vegas to be sad and depressing. NYC is simply moving forward, with or without me.
Godspeed, the journey is a good one, but the journey with purpose is the better one.
Don
So I flew in the night before to LaQuardia, took a cab to 32nd and Broadway, checked into my hotel, then decided to go exploring. My rationalization was to walk the 6 blocks to the building where the meeting was going to take place and have it timed from my hotel to the appointment.
It was a drizzly, cold night. I had changed into jeans and pullover sweater, grabbed my heavy coat and just wandered around, watching the people, and seeing the sights. As I strolled up Broadway, crossing the numbered streets in ascending order, it occurred to me that there was something quite unique about New York. The more I watched the people scurry past me, the more it became important to decide what it was that made the city different.
As it relates to foot traffic, it was a lot like Vegas. People crowded on the sidewalk is a constant reminder that both New York and Vegas thrive without the modern convenience of cars and parking and traffic. But this is where the similarity ends. There was simply something different in these two cities.
Dinner was in a restaurant adjoining my hotel. My dining spot was at the edge of the dining room and the bar. Since I was by myself they put me at the smallest table, wedged into a corner, out of the way. As I sat and watched it occurred to me that there was a rich blend of languages flowing in eddys around my spot. German from a group just barely in my sight line to the right, English (as in England) right in front of me at the bar, and something else to my left, looked like middle Eastern, who knows. I was the only Texan in the area as far as I could tell. This simply added to mind strings of the evening. Was this the reason the city seemed so unique?
The next morning I rolled out early and walked to a Starbucks I had spotted the night before. It was raining, I was anxious toget there. When I walked into that wonderful aroma of coffee and pastries I looked around and realized there were no places to sit. Not crowded, no chairs. The only option was a stand-up bar running along the window facing out to the street. So at 6:30AM, I am sipping my Veranda and munching on my pumpkin cake slice watching the bundled up folks hurry along through the rain.
Then it hit me. The difference between Vegas and NYC is the way people walk. Vegas is a meandering sort of dawdle, gazing at the huge signs and billboards advertising Vegas shows with all the glitz possible. The NYC crowd had their heads focused in front of them and had places to go, people to see. It was the difference between a stroll and mission. New Yorkers are accused of being rude. I think they are less rude and more abrupt. They don't have time for anyone who doesn't know the system. Get moving or get out of the way. They live their lives having to negotiate a place and circumstance where there are millions of people trying to get from one place to another with as little interference as possible. I kind of like the pace and point of their efforts. It was nice to finally put that nagging insight into place.
I don't care for NYC, but I get it. I hate Vegas and I don't get it. I find Vegas to be sad and depressing. NYC is simply moving forward, with or without me.
Godspeed, the journey is a good one, but the journey with purpose is the better one.
Don
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Carpe Diem
Seize the Day. This past weekend we were able to make it all the way to the prairie that my eldest daughter calls home. We will delivering a piece of furniture that had no place at our house and my son-in-law wishes had no place at theirs. We brought back a load of children's clothes to share with the other daughter and daughter-in-law. I spent the weekend trying to convince my son-in-law that it was a fair deal. He was not convinced.
Over the weekend I caught a little glimpse of times past as I watched my eldest grandson interact with his parents. This is a strong-willed child. He is sweet, contrary, focused, willful, active, competitive, smart, and he is standing on the cusp of being 10. What struck me about this weekend is that it reminded me that kids, boys in particular, go through stages where different people have different levels of influence on them.
I think that my daughter and s-i-l have structured much the same dynamics as most families. My daughter has done most of the lifting in discipline and care-giving and calling in the s-i-l when necessary. This seems to be a universal approach, at least it was when my bride and I were going through the on-the-job-training of raising kids. When all children are little, they want their mommas.
But I noticed the very beginnings of a shift. Getting the grandson to get up and get dressed is a formidable task. He wants to sleep or play or huddle by the fireplace (can't say I blame him on the last deal) and drags his feet doing what needs to be done. Breakfast was over, and his mom had gone to get dressed with the parting instructions to Eli to get up and get ready for church. He dawdled over his breakfast until his dad leaned over him and quietly said, "You've been told to get up and get dressed, get moving before you get in trouble."
And he moved. He doubled the time to get dressed, because he had to lie on the floor in front of the fireplace (have you tried to get dressed while prone? it does not look easy) But he got up and got dressed.
Here is my point (mostly to you dads out there) There is a moment from age 9 to 14 where the person with the most influence in the lives of these soon-to-be men are their daddies. We don't get a big window of opportunity. Before 9, they belong to their mothers, after 14 they listen to no one. But in that span while not little boys, and not hormonal, we as dads get to put our fingerprints on the men they will be.
This cannot be done heavy handed. It takes grace and patience, it takes living a life of example, it takes focus. I wish I could say I did all those things. My guess is that I hit a few and missed a lot. But the point is that in that all too brief period of time, it is us dads who have the influence. We need to step up and exert the discipline, the guidance, the path that these old boys or young men take. No one else can do it. They want to become Dad. They will want to do what we do, backpack, run, golf, treatment of others, pray, study. It is in this moment that they will either learn to be strong, compassionate men, or they will learn to pursue their own desires, their own way...and they learn it from us.
And they will be judged as men on the strength of our training.
So dads, take the reins, teach your children well. Moms, help this work by supporting both the dads and the sons. Grandparents, use this moment to provide perspective. They all will need it.
Godspeed to the men who are dads and the sons who they will raise. Seize the day, seize the moment.It is gone all too soon.
Don
Over the weekend I caught a little glimpse of times past as I watched my eldest grandson interact with his parents. This is a strong-willed child. He is sweet, contrary, focused, willful, active, competitive, smart, and he is standing on the cusp of being 10. What struck me about this weekend is that it reminded me that kids, boys in particular, go through stages where different people have different levels of influence on them.
I think that my daughter and s-i-l have structured much the same dynamics as most families. My daughter has done most of the lifting in discipline and care-giving and calling in the s-i-l when necessary. This seems to be a universal approach, at least it was when my bride and I were going through the on-the-job-training of raising kids. When all children are little, they want their mommas.
But I noticed the very beginnings of a shift. Getting the grandson to get up and get dressed is a formidable task. He wants to sleep or play or huddle by the fireplace (can't say I blame him on the last deal) and drags his feet doing what needs to be done. Breakfast was over, and his mom had gone to get dressed with the parting instructions to Eli to get up and get ready for church. He dawdled over his breakfast until his dad leaned over him and quietly said, "You've been told to get up and get dressed, get moving before you get in trouble."
And he moved. He doubled the time to get dressed, because he had to lie on the floor in front of the fireplace (have you tried to get dressed while prone? it does not look easy) But he got up and got dressed.
Here is my point (mostly to you dads out there) There is a moment from age 9 to 14 where the person with the most influence in the lives of these soon-to-be men are their daddies. We don't get a big window of opportunity. Before 9, they belong to their mothers, after 14 they listen to no one. But in that span while not little boys, and not hormonal, we as dads get to put our fingerprints on the men they will be.
This cannot be done heavy handed. It takes grace and patience, it takes living a life of example, it takes focus. I wish I could say I did all those things. My guess is that I hit a few and missed a lot. But the point is that in that all too brief period of time, it is us dads who have the influence. We need to step up and exert the discipline, the guidance, the path that these old boys or young men take. No one else can do it. They want to become Dad. They will want to do what we do, backpack, run, golf, treatment of others, pray, study. It is in this moment that they will either learn to be strong, compassionate men, or they will learn to pursue their own desires, their own way...and they learn it from us.
And they will be judged as men on the strength of our training.
So dads, take the reins, teach your children well. Moms, help this work by supporting both the dads and the sons. Grandparents, use this moment to provide perspective. They all will need it.
Godspeed to the men who are dads and the sons who they will raise. Seize the day, seize the moment.It is gone all too soon.
Don
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