Holding Myself Accountable

I can no longer hold myself accountable for not living up to the imagine you envisioned (for me). It took too long for me to realize who I truly was (or who I had the potential to be), and that it had less to do with me and more to do with you. Taking back my life affirms that it was always my life. I was leasing you space in my head. And to fully embrace this analogy; I will never again lease space to anyone who can’t afford to pay the full price. I took all the risk. I made all of the investment. And yet reaped none of the reward.

Oh that little peace of attention, that flavor you added to my ego? Tasteless really. Empty calories. I enjoyed the pursuit about as much as…

As much as…you enjoyed the lies you told yourself…and the embellishments you told about me. It doesn’t matter really. The distance between us allows my memory to fade. Sleepless nights are less sleepless. Any semblance of pain is dull now.

Not my pain! I have none! I’m not hurt by the circumstances. Just disappointed in how it played out. Just surprised at how long I invested trust in situations that hadn’t earned my devotion.

As important as integrity is to me, I can’t believe how easily I let you rob me of my dignity. I can’t believe how gullible I was. And from my perspective it was never about you. It was about me! I fell short of what you wanted—not what I wanted. Because I never envisioned anything greater than a few moments.

When I walk by a mirror now, I see my life without you. I see the old me. I see the new me. I see the “evolved” me.

Seven years is a long time. Eight years is even longer. Good bye hair.

Before (we met)

Our time (together)

Living to the Fullest

(Our) Time Has Come

Survival Is The Best Revenge

My son once asked me why his mom hated me so much. I told him very calmly that success is the best revenge. The word revenge triggered my son’s interest. Of course, he wanted to know precisely why anyone would need revenge against me. Instead of recounting the history of what I consider trauma, focusing on the present seemed to be more valuable.

I don’t want to blatantly project my perspective onto my children, but it’s hard to convey our family values without implying some kind of bias. Focusing on the present invites my son to decide for himself where the problem might be. It was essential to develop discernment. By asking “why” or “how,” he might develop a better understanding of his circumstances.

I asked him, “why do you think that she dislikes me?”

He said that she tells him that it’s my fault that they don’t have…

She told him that I don’t help her; that I don’t pay child support.

He needed clarification. Without being defensive, I asked him his understanding of what it means to help. What kind of help is needed? How does one seek help? What must someone do to get help? These questions caused him to pause.

I asked him to explain to me his understanding of child support. He thought that I was supposed to hand-deliver cash to his mom weekly. He’d never seen that happen and therefore believed his mother’s claim. When I explained that support comes in many forms, but my support is very specifically prescribed in the divorce decree from the judge. I explained that all of the financial support comes directly out of my paycheck; that his mother gets her money before I get mine. I shared with him that any other support is a condition that is met through email communication between his mother and myself.

There would be no change without communication. It’s essential! And even more important is direct communication–not communication through someone else; not cynicism nor passive aggression. It’s one thing to be unhappy with a circumstance. It’s quite another to complain rather than develop a plan of action. Closed mouths don’t get fed.

And I was so proud of him for communicating with me. Sadly, that change he sought was the responsibility of someone else.

The emotion that he observed was what drove him to ask. He needed his mother to be happy. And sadly, that change was (again) the responsibility of someone else.

Conversely, years later my son offered me similar wisdom. The night before my wedding, my best friend let me down. My son was my best man. That night, he saw me try to work through some disappointment. Instead of basking in the sorrow, my son saw me struggle to “fix” a problem that I had not created. He saw me need to change something that was the responsibility of someone else. He watched me offer to help someone who wasn’t ready or even capable (yet) of appreciating my effort.

He asked me, “Why are you trying to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped?”

He added, “when someone shows you who they are, believe them.”

This wasn’t a new concept, but it meant so much coming from my son.

Wisdom itself is not a destination. It is a component of experience. It lives. It grows. And its application is fluid. It can be applied liberally and with flexibility.

My son is a great guy! He’s a great listener. He’s a helper. He’s a friend. He tries to help his mom. He drives his grandmom to doctor’s visits. He listens to them and their perspective of the world.

And although he rarely questions their motives, he does recognize that their views are not the only views.

He once asked me, “Why don’t you and mom-mom not get along?” My response was, “because I survived!” On my worst day, no one will kill my spirit. No one can take from me what they haven’t given me. And in regards to my life, it was given to me, and is my responsibility to nurture it. Some of the same people who believe that I owe them unyielding loyalty hold me in the highest contempt. But what they don’t realize is that when I learned better, I did better.

We won’t get out of life alive. We can’t take it too seriously, but we must be focused enough to thrive. We must survive. And when we overcome obstacles in our lives, when we meet challenges (and don’t give up); our adversaries are disappointed. There aren’t many people in our lives actually rooting for us. So we’ve got to be our own biggest cheerleaders. We must humbly move on and away from anyone who is hoping that we will fail. In the end, our victory is a product of resilience.

Survival is the best revenge. The world would like nothing more than to see you fail. It’s the drama that we tune into. It’s the drama that steals our joy and challenges our souls. It’s the drama that the world wants to see. And most often in the fairy tales, the real fight is too often omitted.

Survive!

Fine Lines

There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance. The line is blurred between arrogance and ignorance. But the boldness of demanding what belongs to you is unquestionable. Too often we believe that we are entitled (to things that we’ve not earned nor inherited clear title too). When we believe something so much that we convince ourselves that our truth weighs more than facts, herein lies the foundations of delusion.

Here is some personal context. I didn’t know that I was born to be a leader until that seed was planted in me by my hopeful family. My identity wasn’t solid until after I began to question it. My sanity wasn’t challenged until I developed beliefs that were more aligned to my lifestyle. The psychology of nature verses nurture had more meaning once I realized that my nature was toxic. Insecurity is of the world and not of the spirit. So once my faith increased, my fears decreased. Once my confidence increased, my tolerance for negativity diminished. I had to find a warmth within my mind and a coldness in my heart to be able to say no to mistreatment and yes to self worth.

I had to feel pain in order to recognize hurtful behavior. I am disappointed that I needed to hurt to have a better understanding of empathy. I eventually accepted the responsibility of modeling love in leu of rejecting it. Sadly I caused a fair share of hurt along the way. The harm I’ve caused forces me to be more accountable. But it does not sentence me to a lifetime of regret. Because I can forgive, I allow myself to accept forgiveness. But what I will not do is beg. I will never again invite manipulation, or regret, or guilt back into my life. I can not become the prey of narcissists nor the victim of oppression. This is neither a promise nor a prediction. I simply have no time left for the power struggles that wage stress over my own happiness.

Taking our lives back requires that we first assert that our lives belong to ourSelves. To love self is not arrogance. Lest we honor moderation and feign excess. Love others too. Love them so much that their heart overflows onto another. We experience our cup running over when we’ve not been selfish. When we pour into our family, our true friends, and our community we earn the opportunity to witness that love flow a little bit farther. A few times in our life, we may even glean value from it. We could (one day) receive recognition or a warm thanks.

Some of us require reciprocity. When we love, we want it back. When we believe in someone else, we hope that they reach their goals…that they blossom. But our flowers rarely come in the living. The cycles of life relate to each of us differently. We are perennials or evergreens. We are roses or tulips, bushes or tall oaks. Defined by our core but assimilated by those planted near us.

I apologize to those I’ve hurt, but I do not apologize for falling short of someone else’s expectations. I affirm that my love for myself is as great (or greater) than the love others have for themselves. Our hearts want more than they get, and we believe that we deserve more than we’ve earned. Let’s not let our entitlement or self-righteousness get in the way.

Classy Outcomes

Impressions are made, not by simply doing something. It’s how we do it. Our world is full of someone doing something. Often the most fantastic feats are overlooked because they lack flair or don’t ignite the recognition reserved for things that exceed our expectations. Newsworthiness is the goal. Those folks who go out of their way to impress us online…what are they called? INFLUENCERS! Often overlooked and seldom appreciated are the acts of the “normal” people who do things because of their own innate drive.

Let’s scale it back a little bit. Before there was a network of wires and electrons that connected us all, we moved about with reserve. Great effort went into making even the most mundane decisions in our daily lives. We had fewer choices, but those choices were deliberate. What you consumed was less important than ensuring that your buttons were buttoned and your zippers were zipped.

For example, the kind of toothpaste you used or the type of orange juice you drank in the morning (but never one after the other) didn’t involve labels, commercialism, or peer influence. Hygiene and health were not mutually exclusive. The outcome was to get the day started right. The impressions made were residual. But now, a coupon for Aquafresh and a discount on Tropicana (no pulp please) drive our decisions to stock our cabinets with only “the best.” Wait! Do they still make Aquafresh??

Here’s a personal one. When my daughter got a tattoo for her 18th birthday, she was reluctant to show me. Her boyfriend at the time was the one who brought it to my attention in an effort to either upset me or impress me. I am still not sure. He was goofy. Either way, the simplicity of this first tattoo bothered me only because my daughter hid it from me. But it was in plain sight for the rest of the world. Now this one tattoo, which was concealed under her sleeve has now grown to include others on her arms that are more detailed, but still less vibrant. She may believe that I don’t like them, but she has no clue how intrigued I am–not because of the tattoos themselves, but for the rationale behind them. Because she doesn’t read my blogs, she may never know. The outcome is the same. It’s the presentation that makes it classy. A tattoo is an outward display. Why hide it?

We live in a world where something as simple as a tattoo can be either interpreted as skin art or an outward expression of values (or desires). But things like getting a tattoo are enhanced by presenting to the world on Facebook Live or capturing it on Youtube to increase subscriptions. We weren’t always monetizing. Click bait wasn’t a thing. “Likes” and approvals from strangers have become threads in a tapestry of capitalism.

It’s actually pretty rare for average people to earn revenue from generating content. Those who do are entrepreneurs. The rest of us are seeking approval and pretending that we are not (seeking approval). There was a time that we practiced earning approval first from our parents, then from our peers, and finally from strangers that we hoped would invite us to enjoy adult opportunities (like jobs). Now it seems to be the just the opposite. What was once classy has now become mundane. Vice verse. The mundane have become eclectic. How long before internal combustion engine automobiles become iconic and collectible? How many times will we witness the return of tie-died shirts and ripped jeans? Many of those fashions from the 80’s get recycled while the electronics from that era are mere relics. Not for all of us though. Shucks! I’m about to reinstall a carphone in my Lexus V8 Coupe right now!

As we infuse old ideas into newer designs, let us keep in mind at least some traditional values. A book without pictures inspires imagination. A picture without a narrative produces awe. Allowing our minds to work a little bit will slow the infringement of artificial intelligence. What happened to purpose? I suppose it still exists, but it isn’t as clever. Our “why” is cloaked in the need to impress. And our need to impress “others” surpasses our need for approval from those closest to us.

How would you define “classy?”

Tickets

There are so many uses for tickets. So many kinds of tickets. Tickets have become a euphemism for other things. You can get a ticket to the show; or a ticket for violating a rule; or a ticket to paradise…

Tickets can grant access or they can be warnings. To get one with anticipation suggests that the ticket holder wanted to get into a show or a game or some other type of restrictive event that the general public would not otherwise have access. But to get a ticket for illegally parking or disregarding the generally accepted rules of society, well that’s a ticket that most of us would rather go without.

A ticket as a euphemism, though? Gaining access that is invisible or intangible doesn’t seem very realistic. And yet it is the most fantastic.

Most of the tickets I’ve received in my life have been forgotten. Good, bad, or indifferent these pieces of paper line a drawer or an old shoe box that I’ve cast aside in the attic…but never discarded entirely. A bit of OCD in my DNA strongly encourages me to hold on to things that I’ll want to either remember or reconcile later. My parking tickets, in particular, may never be reconciled. I keep them as a reminder (in a box specifically labelled DMV) as an “ACTUNG BABY” in Washington DC, Boston, and now Philadelphia. For the record, I believe that urban parking is an inalienable right that should not be infringed upon. It is ironic that I owe fines in three American cities that are synonymous for freedom (and revolution).

Alas, tickets in this case, serve not as a penalty but as a reminder that modern technology will eventually result in a boot on my car or a ping on my credit report. It’s highly unlikely that these tickets will go to court. Never have parking ticket jockeys been regarded as distributing “tickets to the ball.” Therefore, I am unmoved.

Just about every movie I’ve gone to (or at least the ones that I’ve bought a ticket) has a ticket stub with it’s name on it. Until recently, these were scattered in a junk drawer. Now they are organized chronologically with either paperclips or rubber bands keeping them sorted from the other momentos that I’ve kept over the years. I am not a hoarder in the normal sense. I just recognize that the older me will appreciate the memories. Sadly, I couldn’t tell you the plot of nearly half of the movies or plays I’ve gone to. The moments were seized, and the lessons forgotten. Talk about Carpe Diem! SMH

One movie stub that I wish I had kept was from January 9, 2001. Come to think of it, I hadn’t gone out to the movies much prior to that. Probably because I couldn’t justify an $8 movie ticket when I made only $10 an hour straight pay. But this night in particular was before I began collecting memories, before I had a general disregard for public parking restrictions, and before I took my responsibilities seriously.

Mel Gibson (and I believe Helen Hunt) starred in a movie called “What Women Want.” I was on a double date with my wife and her best friend and “her new boo.” What I didn’t know at the time was that this event was orchestrated to afford this new fellow and my wife time together right under my unsuspecting eye. The best friend was no friend of mine and later confessed her role in the ordeal. I was aloof and mystified as to why were having a date night on a Tuesday. Our daughter had been picked up from one set of grand parents in the afternoon, fed and dropped off to the other set of grands in the evening. I had barely seen her all day, and that was who I really wanted to spend my evening with. So it goes without saying that I entirely missed the discrete trist playing out right before my eyes, in the dark, with my wife’s bestie sitting on the other end of the isle.

I couldn’t tell you what the movie was about. Wasted ticket, if you asked me! I just wanted to pick up my daughter from my in-laws and scoot home. When we got there to pick her up, however, my father-in-law had a grave look on his face.

“I have bad news,” he said.

“What’s up?” I replied.

“We just got a call that your dad died tonight…”

The rest was a blur. It would appear that my dad arranged a ticket to damnation that night. By his own hand, he decided that this night would be his last. Rather than awaiting paradise, he believed that his life here on earth was too grim to bare.

For years after that, I memorialized my father by going to that same movie theater on January 9. Sometimes at midday to catch a matinee. Other years, I’d go in the evening. Always alone. Always unannounced. Always with the biggest tub of popcorn and the largest refillable Coke Combo. And yet I cannot find the ticket stubs from any of these movies. I am certain that I paid. I am certain that I was there! But no evidence.

This year, I forgot. If it weren’t for Facebook reminding me of my past posts on this date, I might not have even thought about my dad. I’ve long stopped looking in the mirror when I awaken because his reflection in my mirror has long since lost it’s excitement.

On that cold January night, two types of tickets were purchased. One gained admittance to a movie and a subsequent affair. The other granted access to another world.

“Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called “life”
Electric word, life
It means forever and that’s a mighty long time
But I’m here to tell you there’s something else
The afterworld
A world of never ending happiness
You can always see the sun, day or night“*

I’d like to imagine my dad looking down on me from heaven from time to time, but my mom tarnished the idea long ago. She demanded that I remember that suicide is an unforgivable sin. I don’t talk to her any more.

I don’t have ticket stubs from the best movies. Instead, I own those movies. Purple Rain, The Color Purple, The Fast and the Furious Saga…heck, I’m a fan.

I suppose the things we think we want to remember and the things we don’t need to remember aren’t as important as the unpaid parking tickets in a box in the attic. I merely hope that my story is meaningful enough to my kin…so that they’ll know why I used to disappear for a couple of hours on January 9 every year. And as for those parking tickets, well…I am in no hurry to reconcile them.

*credit to Prince from the song “Let’s Go Crazy”

Saturday Mornings

I was a kid in the 70s. We lived on the two narrow blocks between the north beach and the inlet at Gardner’s Basin. Friday nights were bustling with the various events hosted just a few blocks away. But Saturdays? That was a whole other animal.

Our house was the tallest on the block—not for stature, but for function. The street level was our basement (because of frequent flooding) and it eluded to the majestic goings-on inside. Whatever happened outside our house was separate from our rituals. The music, the food, and the way the children were raised.

Saturday mornings began with mom playing one of her favorite albums. No radio, no auto reverse cassettes. Record player LPs—the kind she had to gently place the needle on to hear the crackle of every single song. It would play about 4 songs before she’d have to return the needle to the beginning “track”. No wonder some of those songs are ingrained in my spirit!

I don’t recall the aroma of coffee though. Probably because caffeine was banned in our house. My mom subscribed to some old “wives tale” that caffeine would stunt my growth. I dunno.

Instead, the fragrance of buttermilk pancakes and sizzling bacon filled the house. My brothers had already started their chores. As the youngest, sleeping in translated to maximizing tasks before breakfast was ready. It was a team effort. Much like when my brothers delivered the Atlantic City Press. I stayed coddled in the back seat of our Volkswagen Beetle until my brothers would summon me to maximize their tips. My brothers were the worker bees and my mom was the queen bee. I was the cute bee.

The moment my feet hit the floor, my mission was to eat, pray, and love. Not necessarily in that order, the comforts of my home came from family. Chuck Mangione merely provided the musical score. Herb Albert, often sampled by PDiddy and Bad Boy Entertainment, resounded over and over as we cleared the table and swept the floors.

While the neighborhood kids began to spill out onto the streets, Adriatic Avenue was our block. Mr Arthur next door brought his moped from the back ally. Ms. Florence across the street began hanging her linens on her back porch. But in our home we found respite. In our home, we were together. Love looks differently in every home. In our home, there was no comparison. Everything we had, everything we knew came from mom. If it was bizarre, we didn’t know.

Cows milk mixed with powdered milk. Warm Alga syrup for the pancakes and biscuits. FayGo Soda hidden away for mom’s consumption only. The slight hint of incense (or some other natural herb) and the thump of 70s R & B—all with the spiritual objective of moving us from one end of our kingdom to the other.

By noon, many of our tasks had been completed. Each of us began to focus on our own projects. My brothers meeting up with their crew of peers down the street. My dad stopping by after a week with his other family. My mom prettying herself for a weekend of reprieve. None of it made sense when I was a kid, but some of it has more meaning now.

Forty years later, my feet hit the floor differently. My toes aimed at the ceiling for hours prior to getting out of bed. My fingers scroll the multitude of apps until I arrive at my YouTube playlist. Chuck Mangione’s timeless classic Feels So Good fills my en-suite. No fragrances. No one else in my home, kids all grown, and left to my own resources for breakfast. Good morning. Happy Saturday.

Coughing Up Salt

I told Joe that the most important thing I learned at the Fire Academy was to never be too proud to call a MayDay. He looked at me and smiled. “Yeah, always accept help…”he said. Joe said he held the record as the oldest guy to join the Atlantic City Beach Patrol (at age 46) and he was eager to see if I would beat his record. He asked me if I was a confident swimmer. I replied, “Sure!”

Today I did a strange thing. I can’t call it courageous. I can’t call it reckless either. At 47.8 years old, I tried out to be a lifeguard. It was spur of the moment. But my excursion to the New Jersey shore was more of a research project. A colleague of mine posted the ad for lifeguards on her social media two days ago. I saw it and thought “hmmm?” It was time for a new adventure. When I saw the the minimum age requirement was 16, I should have used my God-given wisdom to consider nothing more.

But I’m not built like that normally. So unless there was a VERY good reason not to, I figured it was prudent to take a closer look.

The drive to Atlantic City (at 6am) was spiritual in itself. No one on the road, the sun peering through the overcast sky, and a YouTube sermon that a friend sent me a month ago were all guiding me. Not for one moment did I think that today might be my last.

But as I reflect on those moments that I have been truly at rest with my entire being, I’ve always reached out to my brother to show him that I love him and admire him. The last time something like this occurred was nearly 20 years ago when I passed out while riding my brand new motorcycle. For the record, I went into anaphylactic shock from a bee sting. Alas, that is a story for another day.

Troy and Me

I arrived in the city early. The outlets had not yet opened. The boardwalk still had morning wellness jockeys jogging and cycling. Roll call was 9am sharp! I had time. So I scooted over to my brothers condo which is a few blocks off of the beach. We rapped about current events and the daily grind. But no talk of mom. We wanted to keep the conversation light.

I told him that I was coming down to watch the candidates try out. I assured him that it was a young man’s game. I needed to hear myself say it. I learned today that even I don’t believe the words coming out of my mouth sometimes. But after a hug, I was out the door. Couldn’t be late.

I put money in the meter to allow me a good hour. That would be time enough to witness, ask a few questions, and be on my way. My tenacity changed when I reached the beach patrol headquarters.

“Is this where candidates sign up?” I asked. I was greeted cordially and offered an application which merely asked for my vital information. I noticed that there was no question about an emergency contact. That should have been my second clue not to do this.

They tattooed a 16 on my right shoulder with a red sharpie. This for sure would be how they would identify my body. I was committed now (or I should say I should have been committed)!

A bunch of teenagers, mostly boys, were chatting it up. Some were sporting ripped T-shirt’s from their high school crew team. They weren’t muscular. Mostly streamlined. I figured that my extra mass would either help me stay afloat or contribute to my self-inflicted demise.

There was only one other adult trying out. His name was Mike too and he couldn’t stop pacing. He was bald and had grey stubbles protruding from his chin.

As we walked toward the beach I trailed all of the others. I toted my duffel bag so that I could stow my phone, my keys, and my glasses. The other fellows were stretching and bouncing. A few ran out to the surf to condition their bodies for the cold water. I didn’t need to do ANY of those things. I figured that in a real emergency, there will be no time for warmups.

The lead evaluator briefly explained what will be expected for round one. Everyone will run from the starting line to the water, swim through the waves out to a red flag nearly 175 meters away. Then we would swim another 175 meters north against the current to arrive at a green flag. Crews will be in the surf to direct us and guide us back to the beach. We then needed to sprint to a finish line that was a makeshift goalpost. Candidates will be placed according to their achievement, with consideration given to efficiency and speed.

THIS is when I should have stopped. Instead I paused. I set my bag down at the starting line. I bent down to place my shirt, bandanna, and glasses in the bag. Without my glasses, I couldn’t even see the first red flag. Read that again. I ignored all of the red flags.

He blew the whistle. All of the cadets (because we were more than candidates at this point) jolted towards the surf. I would simply follow them. If I could keep up with a few of them, I wouldn’t come in last. At this point it was just about doing someTHING.

My confidence wavered as I tripped in the shallow water 30 paces in. The others were diving into the cresting waves. Some waded over the surf. The achievers were already into a full on breaststroke. And I was choking on the salt water.

As I write this, my feet are buried in the sand. I’m watching from beneath the beach patrol porch as the cadets continue their quest. Round two is rowing. I was looking forward to that part too. I’ll watch for now.

I had a chance to grab my bag and walk back to my car without being noticed. Instead I’m grinning from ear to ear. I think the veteran staff was either embarrassed for me or disgusted with me. They were certain that this old man would wash out. I didn’t disappoint.

I’m enjoying the breeze though. I’ll stop up at the surf shop in a few minutes to get myself an “official ACBP” tank top. I’ve got time. There’s still 45 minutes left on the meter.

Dad Will Fix It

When I’d have a problem that I couldn’t fix, just before giving up entirely, I’d ask my dad for guidance. When I expected that he’d encourage me to surrender (and call in a professional), he would instead listen to the entire problem and even suppose the various outcomes. And finally, when I expected that he’d offer advice, he would offer to come over and show me precisely how to tackle the problem.

Now it must be said that my dad was no superhero. He wasn’t smarter than everyone else either. In fact, he wasn’t even that dedicated to a solution. Anyone who knew him would tell you that his loyalty wavered (usually in the direction of a green-bottled brew). But what made my dad unique (to me) was his desire to serve.

He knew his own limitations, but didn’t let them prevent him from trying. The mark he left on a problem would always be evidence that an interruption certainly took place. The unresolved problem was a problem that would have been much worse had it gone unaddressed.

My dad enjoyed stillness. But he could never sit idly watching anyone struggle. He was so eager to be helpful that he would help out as a simple courtesy.

In his final months, he spent his remaining fortune at yard sales and flea markets. He would often offer more than the asking price for any trinket that caught his eyes. He defended, “that there is worth twice as much…I’d be taking advantage if I haggled the price.” He was helping without being asked for help. I suppose it was a low-cost way to claim a victory.

It’s been 21 years since my dad died. Even his last day was poetic and not without purpose. He believed that he was resolving a problem that wouldn’t fix itself. For those he left behind, we’ve varied in the ways we processed our grief. Having answers to one question rarely resolved the grief. It merely provided permission to ask other questions. And the unanswered questions become the most important.

I stopped asking questions like “How did he die?” “Why did he leave us?” and “What were the circumstances that led up to his death?” I’ve grown past these questions, mostly because the answers were too uncomfortable. And the only time I could get a little comfort is to write something in his honor on the anniversary of his death.

Over the past 21 years, I’ve encountered a number of problems and wondered how my dad would have approached each one. I’d like to think that his energy in the moments might have impacted the outcome. No doubt, his input would have changed the trajectory. But for 21 years I’d led myself to believe that the outcome would have been better with his hands-on approaches.

Perhaps I should rely on the notion that the lessons that he’d taught me would provide the wisdom needed to approach any situation. After 21 years of wishing he’d been there to consult, to intervene, or to force a solution that may not have been the best outcome, I pause. It is now that I realize that no one, including my dad, has the perfect solution to every problem. It is now that I realize the fact that we often decide for ourselves how committed we are to any given problem. Finally, I must concede that how we’ve approached our problems in the past plays a large role in determining how we will handle current and future problems.

Although I miss my dad a great deal, 21 years is more than enough time to stop asking “what would he have done in this situation?”

Twenty one years is enough time to have bore another human being, watch them grow into an adult, and model for them the tools to manage a world of problems on their own. It’s enough time to ascend and descend a dozen times. Its enough time to be loved and hated. It’s enough time to be at the top and the bottom simultaneously. What would he have done in these situations? What could he have done to assist? Would he have listened, advised, or assisted, or intervened, or ignored situations entirely? It doesn’t even matter because 21 years have passed any way. It’s ALL in the past now.

I can’t be certain of anything. I know I miss him. But I also know that he’s left enough behind for me to contend with. I know that if I handled situations the same way he did, my outcomes may have mimicked his, and that’s not ok either.

Missing someone doesn’t mean that having them beside you still would be better. It just means that you wouldn’t be alone. And I never felt alone. I just felt overwhelmed.

The Other Side of Hope

As the new year begins to reveal the playbook for the coming months, I’m pondering my lesson plans. The possibility of another stint of virtual instruction looms as the actual storm clouds cloak us with snow.

We are never more than a few hours away from tomorrow. With holidays come a time of reflection and redemption. But more importantly we develop hopes that the future will be brighter. Brighter than…what?

To anticipate something greater than something else is to have at least an experience or exposure to something less great, right?

Whether you’ve thought about it or not, hope is an acknowledgment that we’ve already come through something unpleasant. Life is the acknowledgment that death has not occurred yet. Good is the proof that evil has not prevailed.

Therefore, we can suppose that on the other side of demise, there is hope. Hope is what keeps us going. In the presence of despair, hope looms in the darkness. Hope is the cousin of faith. But with faith comes denominational choice. With faith comes organized religion or the opinion to shun spirituality. You have a choice.

These are constructs that can be debated, embraced, or debunked. So in the spirit of either, let’s consider, for a moment, that hope is a drug. In the eyes of a pessimist or someone who lives amongst habitual chaos, hope is an intangible that is just beyond their reach. Hope is both a noun and a verb, where as faith is just a noun. Hope is cheap and accessible to anyone. Faith requires effort, and it’s expensive and exclusive. Hope is pedaled by politicians and producers. It’s offered to excite and motivate, manipulate and mutilate pessimism and hopelessness.

So in the next few (days) of the new year, my resolution shall be to mix and match. For every two negative situations, I will mix in one serving of hope. It will spice it up! It will taste great. It will reduce the acidity (sort of like mixing sugar in with the spaghetti sauce). I will match the energy I’m presented with with a force equal to (or completely opposite of) whatever I am faced. I will challenge adversity with possibility. I will look evil square in the eye; and offer it a hit of hope.

Movement Heals

Just yesterday, I shared an appetizer with a colleague who is going through a personal trial. My friend doesn’t offer many details at first, but once asked, the emotions flowed. I can’t be sure how to measure the disappointment, but also can not determine the amount of trauma my friend is enduring. Either way, it’s not for me to judge. All I know is how I process what I’m told. All I can do is try to empathize (and maybe draw from my own experiences). I wasn’t asked for input, so I reserved my opinions. And when we had consumed the entire appetizer, we washed it down with a bottle of beer.

We moved on…

We listened to our other coworkers. We laughed. We drew some conclusions. We walked away.

We moved…

When we think about our interactions with one another, we can not overlook the fact that whatever we are going through right now is but a sand in an hourglass of time. It rarely feels that way in the moment, but when we look back we can be glad that we came through it.

I suggest chronicling your experience while you’re going through it. Talking through it is helpful too, but when the conversations subside, what’s most important is how we process and progress. Movement…

Yesterday, I chronicled nothing. There is no record of what happened. I barely recall how I made it to today, and yet…today came. So today, I will reflect on how I felt, my obstacles, and how I overcame them. Today, I move…

As I move, I decide to change it up a little. I left my car keys behind. I overlooked the bicycle with the flat tire, and took a stroll. With a fuzzy destination and a foggy mind, I began to walk. I walked…

I walked and walked. There was so much on my mind at first. I wanted to write it all down, but I had no pen. I wanted to talk it out, but I was all alone. And so I let it all just dissolve. Like grains of sand between my fingers, it all just faded away.

My problems are not resolved. My trauma is not gone, but my steps are counted. It was the movement that was setting me free. And suddenly I realized that even without chronically my fears and victories, nothing matters more than right now. I am here. I am moving. I moved on. I kept walking…

Keep Moving