I don't think I'll live as long as my financial planner thinks I will.
The average male in the US lives 75.6 years. The average Masterson male? Well, my Dad is the current record-holder as far back as anybody can remember. He's 67 and in good health, but so far he is defying the tally sheet.
But this is not a post about morbitity. That would be morbid. This is a post about mutual funds.
I saw a speaker today at the Willow Creek Global Leadership Summit who yelled a lot and pointed his finger a lot and smiled a lot on words that most people tend to frown around. But he said something that spoke to me:
"I don't want to fill a retirement account and buy a boat and die some day. I want to have stories to tell..."
I immediately thought of Tyler Durden, who told me not to die without scars. And I thought of my friend Andrew (see: http://t.co/4mulTNe) who encouraged me to live a life story that merits retelling. And then I thought of my financial planner, who told me that I need a safe retirement and buy so much life insurance that Bayla will never have to worry about money when I pass.
I'm saving like I'm going to live to 90. I'm putting money away. While other people starve for want of a meal or freeze for want of a roof or die of malaria for want of a mosquito net, I am squirreling money away on the long shot that, despite generations of evidence to the contrary, I might make it past 80. I'm slowly investing in something that I am reasonably certain I will never ever have the opportunity to enjoy in full, and the remainder of which will be taxed at 50% and handed to my already-grown-and-financially-stable daughter. I am trying to make the wholly imaginary octogenarian years of my life as comfortable as possible.
Let's face it, when I drop that money in the old 401(K), I am really not investing in a storehouse of old-Justin-pills . I'm making myself feel better, now. I'm convincing myself that if only I can invest enough money now, I can avoid the inevitability of my own mortality. I'm buying imaginary water from the Fountain of Youth in tiny decanters.
The problem is, there are lots of people who need that money now. There are lots of ways for that that money could be used to make my story worth telling right now. I think I will squirrel away less, and find something more real, and less imaginary, to do with some of that money now.
I'm not advocating not saving, or being financially irresponsible; just being less focused on trying to pretend to secure an imaginary future. What would happen if you planned as if you were going to die at the average age of 75.6 years (men) or 80.9 years (women), but lived in the realization that some very non-imaginary things may deserve your money now? What would you do differently today, if anything?
Cheers,
Justin
Friday, July 22, 2011
I have a confession to make: there is a dent in my couch in the shape of my ass.
It is a relatively new couch; just a couple of years old. It's a sturdy couch, a nice thick foam-covered-in-leather cushion in the seat...not the loose cotton-stuffing type that lends itself to butt dents. No sir, this is the genuine article... I think it might have been fair for the manufacturer to even tout it as butt-dent-resistant.
This is embarrassing. Do you know how many hours of laying/sitting on a nice leather couch it takes to create a butt dent? A lot. A whole lot. If it were a ten-year-old couch, or one of those well-seasoned couches that goes through the decade-long Couch Circle of Life (living room, family room, basement, college dorm, son/daughter's first apartment, curb, back to someone's living room, repeat) I could understand it. But no, I made that butt-dent through countless unfocused hours of sloggily lazing about on that couch over the last two years. And here's the thing: I didn't even enjoy that time all that much. It would have been one thing if I spent it doing exactly what I wanted to do, but I think I just default to that position; it is a weak sort of "home base" for me when I'm not sure what to do with my time and energy.
I tell you that to tell you this: I have wasted many, many hours of my life and I plan on not doing that anymore, because it's dumb.
It's not about "watching TV is bad," or "vegging out is bad" or "hooray for exercise, now blast those quads!" It's simply about being intentional with one's hours. I'm starting to think that the two greatest blasphemies are squandered time and self-pity, and I dare say that squandered time may be the worse of the two. If I want to watch TV or a movie, I will... but it should be because I want to enjoy the experience. I will dial up the program I want to see, that I chose beforehand, and I will take it in with presence and attention. And when it is over, I will turn it off. I will surf the internet with direction, and if I don't have direction, I will attend to one of the fifty other things I would like to accomplish. In short, I will choose my attention, not piddle away to a static default.
When I was single, I thought I was as busy as any human can get. "Where has all the time gone?" I thought.
When I got married, I was amazed at how much busier I got. "Remember when I was single, and I had all that free time? Where has all that time gone?" I thought.
Then I had a child. And I thought, "What did I do with all of my free time when it was just the two of us? NOW I am busy."
Then I became a half-time single parent. And I frequently think, "What did I do with all of my free time back when I had a partner in parenting and taking care of the home? Where has all that time gone?"
The couch ate it. I will feed it no more.
Cheers,
Justin
It is a relatively new couch; just a couple of years old. It's a sturdy couch, a nice thick foam-covered-in-leather cushion in the seat...not the loose cotton-stuffing type that lends itself to butt dents. No sir, this is the genuine article... I think it might have been fair for the manufacturer to even tout it as butt-dent-resistant.
This is embarrassing. Do you know how many hours of laying/sitting on a nice leather couch it takes to create a butt dent? A lot. A whole lot. If it were a ten-year-old couch, or one of those well-seasoned couches that goes through the decade-long Couch Circle of Life (living room, family room, basement, college dorm, son/daughter's first apartment, curb, back to someone's living room, repeat) I could understand it. But no, I made that butt-dent through countless unfocused hours of sloggily lazing about on that couch over the last two years. And here's the thing: I didn't even enjoy that time all that much. It would have been one thing if I spent it doing exactly what I wanted to do, but I think I just default to that position; it is a weak sort of "home base" for me when I'm not sure what to do with my time and energy.
I tell you that to tell you this: I have wasted many, many hours of my life and I plan on not doing that anymore, because it's dumb.
It's not about "watching TV is bad," or "vegging out is bad" or "hooray for exercise, now blast those quads!" It's simply about being intentional with one's hours. I'm starting to think that the two greatest blasphemies are squandered time and self-pity, and I dare say that squandered time may be the worse of the two. If I want to watch TV or a movie, I will... but it should be because I want to enjoy the experience. I will dial up the program I want to see, that I chose beforehand, and I will take it in with presence and attention. And when it is over, I will turn it off. I will surf the internet with direction, and if I don't have direction, I will attend to one of the fifty other things I would like to accomplish. In short, I will choose my attention, not piddle away to a static default.
When I was single, I thought I was as busy as any human can get. "Where has all the time gone?" I thought.
When I got married, I was amazed at how much busier I got. "Remember when I was single, and I had all that free time? Where has all that time gone?" I thought.
Then I had a child. And I thought, "What did I do with all of my free time when it was just the two of us? NOW I am busy."
Then I became a half-time single parent. And I frequently think, "What did I do with all of my free time back when I had a partner in parenting and taking care of the home? Where has all that time gone?"
The couch ate it. I will feed it no more.
Cheers,
Justin
Saturday, July 09, 2011
It's nice to see you again, blog. It has been far, far too long. May I tell you a story to catch you up a bit?
Very late last night, lit by the last orange embers of a summer campfire, someone smarter than me told me of a book that has inspired him to consider his life as a story, and himself as a character in that story. He asked me if someone were to see my life written as a story or reenacted as a movie, would it be worth reading or watching? Would it be interesting enough to stick around for the ending? Memorable enough to talk about in the break room the next day? Meaningful enough to shed a little light on the reader/viewer's own life? He identified a few elements that make a compelling story: exterior tensions and risks, overcoming adversity, ultimate victory against all odds...but the one that stood out to me most was character arc; the idea that a great story needs its central characters to change to be interesting: Darth Vader goes from well-mannered rambunctious kid to dark lord, Jason Bourne goes from confused and wandering ass-kicking-robot to hero driven by love, Jenny comes back to Forrest to start a family with the only man who ever loved her.
He told me of many intentional choices he and his wife have made and continue to make to live a story worth telling; he did so with neither bravado nor pride, he did so in kind instruction. Then he asked me about my story. I sipped a dram of bourbon from a plastic cup and glanced into the wispy burn of the fire's final moments, and I felt a strange sort of melancholy. It wasn't regret, not exactly; but rather a familiar dull weight in my chest that reminds me that my story is not yet stunning, but that my character is in the middle of a remarkable character arc.
The last year and a half has been, without exaggeration or effect, the most rapidly changing and ultimately character-defining season I have experienced yet. I changed positions in my company twice, adopted a baby, got separated (on the way to divorced) from my wife of eight years and drained the bank account in the process, and have learned to be a half-time single parent of a one-year old. My character today is starting to look pretty different than my character of two years ago.
There are stories within each of these chapters, and these are probably stories worth telling. But I'm not going to, not right now. I am instead going to tell you several things I've learned in the process, in the hopes that in doing so, I might remind myself of my own character arc to date, and even begin to imagine how the outline for the next chapters might look. Here are a few belief changes that have defined and driven my own character arc in the last eighteen months:
It's nice to see you again, blog.
Cheers,
Justin
Very late last night, lit by the last orange embers of a summer campfire, someone smarter than me told me of a book that has inspired him to consider his life as a story, and himself as a character in that story. He asked me if someone were to see my life written as a story or reenacted as a movie, would it be worth reading or watching? Would it be interesting enough to stick around for the ending? Memorable enough to talk about in the break room the next day? Meaningful enough to shed a little light on the reader/viewer's own life? He identified a few elements that make a compelling story: exterior tensions and risks, overcoming adversity, ultimate victory against all odds...but the one that stood out to me most was character arc; the idea that a great story needs its central characters to change to be interesting: Darth Vader goes from well-mannered rambunctious kid to dark lord, Jason Bourne goes from confused and wandering ass-kicking-robot to hero driven by love, Jenny comes back to Forrest to start a family with the only man who ever loved her.
He told me of many intentional choices he and his wife have made and continue to make to live a story worth telling; he did so with neither bravado nor pride, he did so in kind instruction. Then he asked me about my story. I sipped a dram of bourbon from a plastic cup and glanced into the wispy burn of the fire's final moments, and I felt a strange sort of melancholy. It wasn't regret, not exactly; but rather a familiar dull weight in my chest that reminds me that my story is not yet stunning, but that my character is in the middle of a remarkable character arc.
The last year and a half has been, without exaggeration or effect, the most rapidly changing and ultimately character-defining season I have experienced yet. I changed positions in my company twice, adopted a baby, got separated (on the way to divorced) from my wife of eight years and drained the bank account in the process, and have learned to be a half-time single parent of a one-year old. My character today is starting to look pretty different than my character of two years ago.
There are stories within each of these chapters, and these are probably stories worth telling. But I'm not going to, not right now. I am instead going to tell you several things I've learned in the process, in the hopes that in doing so, I might remind myself of my own character arc to date, and even begin to imagine how the outline for the next chapters might look. Here are a few belief changes that have defined and driven my own character arc in the last eighteen months:
- Great marriage is a partnership of self-realized individuals. A married person must love their spouse choicefully and work hard at that relationship, but must never forget that what his/her spouse truly needs is a whole person to be married to... the most important promise I can make to a future spouse, if there should ever be one, might not be "I will forever work on our relationship," but rather "I will forever work on becoming the man I was made to be."
- Boys are everywhere; men are hard to find. I could write for weeks about this, but many others have already done so, and have done well. A real man is both strong and sensitive, fully present to his life, and ceaseless in his work on himself and his world. He loves the woman and the world into beauty around him.
- Parenting Is Insanely Hard, and Impossibly Rewarding. Being a single parent with half-custody is not half as hard as being a full-time single parent. It is exactly as hard, just half of the time. I had no idea what parenting really felt like until I was the only person there to do it... and I am so grateful for that chance. I cannot ignore her, hand her off, or wait for someone else to fix her problems for me. When she is with me, I get 100% of the frustration, sadness, and exhaustion, and I get 100% of the reward, love, and sense of satisfaction of actually seeing a real human being grow and flourish in my care. I know this sounds nuts, but I feel really lucky for that.
- Humility Is the Only Sensible Reality. Humility is not a character trait or a personality bonus, it demonstrates a basic grip on reality. No one; no one who reflects in earnest on the magnificence of the world around him and the simultaneous sacred depth and chaotic absurdity of the human experience can live in arrogance or pride. Our world, our spirit, our experience is too deep and too profound and too ridiculous to merit it. As someone who frequently falls into the insecurity of arrogance, I'm praying that my character remembers this.
- Hard Work is How You Get Things. File this one under "duh," but somewhere along the line I got the impression that if I dabbled in enough interests for long enough, I would naturally pick them up and find myself a fully-realized man. It turns out I was wrong, and I was lazy. If I want to be fit, I must work hard for a long time. If I want to be informed, I must learn hard for a long time. If I want to be spiritually connected, I must work hard at connecting for a long time. If I wish to become a skilled writer, I must practice hard and for a long time.
- Self-Pity Is a Curse. I cannot choose actions for others, and I cannot choose what the world will offer me... but I have full control of my choices. Self-pity presumes otherwise on both accounts, and disallows both accountability and gratitude. I may be sad, confused, and lost at times, but I may not pity myself; it is a heresy against all I am given, and all I am able to choose.
It's nice to see you again, blog.
Cheers,
Justin
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Hello blog world.
A: I realize that not many follow the blog. To those that do follow, I'm grateful and flattered and entirely undeserving given my recent dearth of posts.
B: I'm not going to post on this blog for a while.
The reason is, Stacy and I recent underwent an adoption process which requires a great deal of confidentiality, for the safety and protection of the baby. As much as I love to write, I have been waiting to decide what I want to do... and what I'm going to do is to continue my blog privately on Facebook (as I have been doing) and discontinue it on here until the privacy concerns have been satisfied.
Thank you so much to the many, many folks who have read and posted comments on this blog... it has been an INCREDIBLE form of expression and catharsis for me, and has allowed me the impossible luxury of sharing my deepest thoughts without fear of face-to-face confrontation or rebuttal. THANK YOU. If we're friends, I'll see you on Facebook. Otherwise, I'll likely pick it up again soon; I'm just going to pause for now.
My very best,
Justin
A: I realize that not many follow the blog. To those that do follow, I'm grateful and flattered and entirely undeserving given my recent dearth of posts.
B: I'm not going to post on this blog for a while.
The reason is, Stacy and I recent underwent an adoption process which requires a great deal of confidentiality, for the safety and protection of the baby. As much as I love to write, I have been waiting to decide what I want to do... and what I'm going to do is to continue my blog privately on Facebook (as I have been doing) and discontinue it on here until the privacy concerns have been satisfied.
Thank you so much to the many, many folks who have read and posted comments on this blog... it has been an INCREDIBLE form of expression and catharsis for me, and has allowed me the impossible luxury of sharing my deepest thoughts without fear of face-to-face confrontation or rebuttal. THANK YOU. If we're friends, I'll see you on Facebook. Otherwise, I'll likely pick it up again soon; I'm just going to pause for now.
My very best,
Justin
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
It has been a long, long time since I've posted.
I'm starting to wonder if my zeal for life is somehow tied proportionately to the global economy? It seems that when we are in times of plenty, so are my hopes, my aspirations, my trips to the gym, and my blog posts. When we are in tumult, the dreaming, running and writing stop. It's a bit unnerving that AIG and Fannie Mae may have more control over my daily life-improvement choices than I do... but I digress.
So, with that all said, here is a random list of the 5 saddest non-country songs I can think of, with a few relevant lyrics (but click and listen to the whole song where you can).
#5: Alone (Blues Traveler)
In order to truly understand the sadness of this BT bar anthem of unrequited love, download a picture of John Popper circa 1995 and stare at it as you listen. Picture this overweight songster with a meeky alto voice and a homemade vest of harmonicas trying his best to keep the attention of the one woman who could make him truly happy...
#4: When I Fall (Barenaked Ladies)
I love this ode to the underappreciated and underrealized. Here's a man whose life's work, at its best, amounts to leaving nothing behind, and who knows it... all the while his every day forces him to stare in at contemporary royalty and wonder what it's like in the air-conditioned comfort of being somebody who matters.
#3: Slow Dancing in a Burning Room (John Mayer)
The only thing sadder than unrequited love (see #5) is perfect love going wrong, and being perfectly conscious as you are unable to control its gradual demise. To me, it's the romantic and spiritual equivalent of Lou Gehrig's disease. I love this song for its wrenching tension of holding and dancing with the only love you've ever had, and realizing that it will never, ever work. As you listen, let Mayer bring you into that last dance, and feel the heat from their bodies as you feel the slow burn from the support walls melting around you.
#2: Hush, Hush, Hush (Herbie Hancock feat. Annie Lennox [written by Paula Cole])
I don't know who Paula Cole was thinking of when she wrote this song, but I wish I had. With as sad as songs 3-5 were, this one rises head and shoulders above for me... the crushing story of a gay man dying of AIDS at the age of 20, and his father sitting nearby trying to comfort him. He waited his whole life to come out and find true love, and it was too late to save him from the mistakes made in the dark corners of his closeted life. If you don't cry during the bridge, you may want to check your pulse.
#1: Praying for Time (George Michael)
I once had a Christian-savvy friend of mine tell me that the saddest verse in the Bible is the verse in Job where God searches the planet for a righteous man and can only find one (Job), and that Job eventually lets him down too. "Praying for Time" seems to believe that Job has long gone, and we are left with no one. I made the mistake of listening to this song on the way to work once, and had to pull over outside of my office and cry for a good ten minutes before I could go in. I hope you listen to this (the Carrie Underwood version is surprisingly moving) and find something genuinely worthwhile to do.
I'm starting to wonder if my zeal for life is somehow tied proportionately to the global economy? It seems that when we are in times of plenty, so are my hopes, my aspirations, my trips to the gym, and my blog posts. When we are in tumult, the dreaming, running and writing stop. It's a bit unnerving that AIG and Fannie Mae may have more control over my daily life-improvement choices than I do... but I digress.
So, with that all said, here is a random list of the 5 saddest non-country songs I can think of, with a few relevant lyrics (but click and listen to the whole song where you can).
#5: Alone (Blues Traveler)
In order to truly understand the sadness of this BT bar anthem of unrequited love, download a picture of John Popper circa 1995 and stare at it as you listen. Picture this overweight songster with a meeky alto voice and a homemade vest of harmonicas trying his best to keep the attention of the one woman who could make him truly happy...
I said I love you
She began to cry
She said she needed a friend
I said I'll try
Soon we'd say nothing
Somehow I never wondered why
You see, she left me
She left me
I'm alone
Beauty and the beast
Was how it seemed to be
A love like hers
Ain't meant for guys like me
Some call me crazy
Some politely call me free
But either way you see
You see, she left me
She left me
I'm alone
I guess some day
Love will soon be here
And maybe then
I'll see things more clear
I guess I got excited
Cause it felt so near
And
You see, she left me
She left me
I'm alone
#4: When I Fall (Barenaked Ladies)
I love this ode to the underappreciated and underrealized. Here's a man whose life's work, at its best, amounts to leaving nothing behind, and who knows it... all the while his every day forces him to stare in at contemporary royalty and wonder what it's like in the air-conditioned comfort of being somebody who matters.
I look in the boardroom; a modern pharaoh's tomb
I'd gladly swap places, if they care to dive
They're lined up at the window, peer down into limbo
They're frightened of jumping, in case they survive.
Look straight in the mirror, watch it come clearer
I look like a painter, behind all the grease
But painting's creating, and I'm just erasing
A crystal-clear canvas is my masterpiece
I wish I could fly
From this building, from this wall
And if I should try,
would you catch me if I fall?
#3: Slow Dancing in a Burning Room (John Mayer)
The only thing sadder than unrequited love (see #5) is perfect love going wrong, and being perfectly conscious as you are unable to control its gradual demise. To me, it's the romantic and spiritual equivalent of Lou Gehrig's disease. I love this song for its wrenching tension of holding and dancing with the only love you've ever had, and realizing that it will never, ever work. As you listen, let Mayer bring you into that last dance, and feel the heat from their bodies as you feel the slow burn from the support walls melting around you.
It's not a silly little moment,
It's not the storm before the calm.
This is the deep and dying breath of
This love that we've been working on.
I was the one you always dreamed of,
You were the one I tried to draw.
How dare you say it's nothing to me?
Baby, you're the only light I ever saw.
We're going down,
And you can see it too.
We're going down,
And you know that we're doomed.
My dear,
We're slow dancing in a burning room.
#2: Hush, Hush, Hush (Herbie Hancock feat. Annie Lennox [written by Paula Cole])
I don't know who Paula Cole was thinking of when she wrote this song, but I wish I had. With as sad as songs 3-5 were, this one rises head and shoulders above for me... the crushing story of a gay man dying of AIDS at the age of 20, and his father sitting nearby trying to comfort him. He waited his whole life to come out and find true love, and it was too late to save him from the mistakes made in the dark corners of his closeted life. If you don't cry during the bridge, you may want to check your pulse.
Long white arms
Losing their strength and form
Sixty year man on twenty year old skin
Skeleton, your eyes have lost their warmth
Look to your father for some support
Oh maybe next time
You'll be Henry the 8th
Wake up tomorrow Alexander the Great
Open your eyes in a new life again
Oh maybe next time
You'll be given a chance
Hush, hush, hush
Says your daddy's touch
Sleep sleep sleep
Says the hundredth sheep
Peace peace peace
May you go in peace
#1: Praying for Time (George Michael)
I once had a Christian-savvy friend of mine tell me that the saddest verse in the Bible is the verse in Job where God searches the planet for a righteous man and can only find one (Job), and that Job eventually lets him down too. "Praying for Time" seems to believe that Job has long gone, and we are left with no one. I made the mistake of listening to this song on the way to work once, and had to pull over outside of my office and cry for a good ten minutes before I could go in. I hope you listen to this (the Carrie Underwood version is surprisingly moving) and find something genuinely worthwhile to do.
This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses
The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But well take our chances
Because God stopped keeping score
These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear
Twice a year
So you scream from behind your door
Say whats mine is mine and not yours
I may have too much
But Ill take my chances
Because God stopped keeping score
And you cling to the things
They sold you
Did you cover your eyes when
They told you
That he cant come back
Because he has no children
To come back for
So... it's hardly an exhaustive list, but I'd like to hear yours. What are the 5 saddest non-country songs you can think of?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
I was recently reading a book about writing, and the art of writing, when I came upon an apocryphal tale of the power of brevity. I’m not sure where and when and even if it happened, but it’s rumored to, and it doesn’t matter if it did because the story is just as powerful as a story.
The story tells us that Ernest Hemingway, an American literary deity who was maligned by Classics scholars for his undecorative, straight-to-the-point writing style, was dared by a friend and contemporary to “write a compelling short story in six words.” The only rules were that the story must have a beginning, middle, and end, and must be compelling enough to get published. Hemingway accepted, and spent an evening or two with pen to paper, scrawling out miniature narratives. He returned with a story so compelling, and with such depth, that it was published the very next week in The New Yorker. The story read:
For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.
As I read this little gem of writer’s folklore, I was struck by how powerful, rich, and deep this six-word story was. It brought so much to mind...let my imagination fill in the plot gaps and the faces and the names... but what was more remarkable was how much it explicitly told me. In six expertly selected words, I could access 29 years of human experience to instantly and powerfully fill in these gaps with more than just conjecture... I could lean on my gut to fill in the gaps...and without wild subjective conjecture or speculation. Someone had a baby on the way (pregnant, likely), and planned ahead. She anticipated that child, she looked forward to it, and even planned far enough into the child’s life to invest into shoes the baby wouldn’t need for several months into his/her life. Then, something happened. Likely something dreadful. The baby was gone, the dream with it, and the shoes rendered a purposeless reminder of what should have been. The would-be parent even went so far as to sell the shoes; to post an ad to both remunerate her now useless purchase, and to excise this tragic memento from her home.
This is a tragic story with a beginning, middle, and end, and is every bit as emotionally compelling and haunting as some of the best short fiction I’ve read. And it reminds me that, when crafted carefully and artfully, even a few words can tell a very big story. Whether in a letter to a loved one, a Carlos-Williams poem, a song lyric, a quotation scrawled on a blackboard, an epithet yelled at an enemy, a commercial concept, a political mantra, etc. etc., it only takes a few choice words to make a huge impact. And when I sit down to write long summaries of research, or tell a neverending tale to a friend, or to pen lengthy blog entries (such as this one), I do well to remember that, and to flex the power of selection a bit.
As an aside, if you haven’t explored this genre of “flash fiction” (stories written in a few words or a single sentence), I encourage you to check out onlineflashfiction.com and onesentence.org. There are some very funny, sad, and encouraging pieces on there [one read something like, “‘I’ll never do that again,’ he thought, as he slipped cautiously into the warm tub.”]. And I hope you’ll try to write your own...you can’t possibly claim you don’t have the time. Here are four one-sentence short stories I wrote on a flight back from Orlando:
“No one will hear you scream through the gauze,” he told me as the nitrous took over.
As I groped for my wallet in the dark, the morning sun made it clear she was not, in fact, a flight attendant.
The only sound left was disposable booties toeing the linoleum floor, and the long, thin electronic whine.
“’How much,’ will never matter again,” he told himself, as his last quarter scraped his final ticket.
Cheers,
Justin
The story tells us that Ernest Hemingway, an American literary deity who was maligned by Classics scholars for his undecorative, straight-to-the-point writing style, was dared by a friend and contemporary to “write a compelling short story in six words.” The only rules were that the story must have a beginning, middle, and end, and must be compelling enough to get published. Hemingway accepted, and spent an evening or two with pen to paper, scrawling out miniature narratives. He returned with a story so compelling, and with such depth, that it was published the very next week in The New Yorker. The story read:
For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.
As I read this little gem of writer’s folklore, I was struck by how powerful, rich, and deep this six-word story was. It brought so much to mind...let my imagination fill in the plot gaps and the faces and the names... but what was more remarkable was how much it explicitly told me. In six expertly selected words, I could access 29 years of human experience to instantly and powerfully fill in these gaps with more than just conjecture... I could lean on my gut to fill in the gaps...and without wild subjective conjecture or speculation. Someone had a baby on the way (pregnant, likely), and planned ahead. She anticipated that child, she looked forward to it, and even planned far enough into the child’s life to invest into shoes the baby wouldn’t need for several months into his/her life. Then, something happened. Likely something dreadful. The baby was gone, the dream with it, and the shoes rendered a purposeless reminder of what should have been. The would-be parent even went so far as to sell the shoes; to post an ad to both remunerate her now useless purchase, and to excise this tragic memento from her home.
This is a tragic story with a beginning, middle, and end, and is every bit as emotionally compelling and haunting as some of the best short fiction I’ve read. And it reminds me that, when crafted carefully and artfully, even a few words can tell a very big story. Whether in a letter to a loved one, a Carlos-Williams poem, a song lyric, a quotation scrawled on a blackboard, an epithet yelled at an enemy, a commercial concept, a political mantra, etc. etc., it only takes a few choice words to make a huge impact. And when I sit down to write long summaries of research, or tell a neverending tale to a friend, or to pen lengthy blog entries (such as this one), I do well to remember that, and to flex the power of selection a bit.
As an aside, if you haven’t explored this genre of “flash fiction” (stories written in a few words or a single sentence), I encourage you to check out onlineflashfiction.com and onesentence.org. There are some very funny, sad, and encouraging pieces on there [one read something like, “‘I’ll never do that again,’ he thought, as he slipped cautiously into the warm tub.”]. And I hope you’ll try to write your own...you can’t possibly claim you don’t have the time. Here are four one-sentence short stories I wrote on a flight back from Orlando:
“No one will hear you scream through the gauze,” he told me as the nitrous took over.
As I groped for my wallet in the dark, the morning sun made it clear she was not, in fact, a flight attendant.
The only sound left was disposable booties toeing the linoleum floor, and the long, thin electronic whine.
“’How much,’ will never matter again,” he told himself, as his last quarter scraped his final ticket.
Cheers,
Justin
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
The order in which I hunt down and eat specific ingredients in my Grilled Chicken Salad:
Other "improv" ingredients, such as broccoli, egg, and bacon bits, cannot be addressed here, as giving this apparently limitless collection of foodstuffs proper review would make the blog unweildy and even more unreadable. Please consult your local Salad provider for more information on these rogue additions.
Cheers,
Justin
- Grilled chicken
This one is a given. Always go for the meat first. It's sustaining, life giving, and tastes like meat. As the "Grilled Chicken Salad" name implies, the rest of the salad is simply a medium to hold up the meat. - Dressing-saturated croutons
Everyone knows that dressing is, right after meat, the main reason you eat a Grilled Chicken Salad. However, since "dressing" isn't an ingredient you can hunt out discreetly, you have to seek out the most efficient dressing-carriers...the porous dressing-sponge known as "crouton." I will warn you here, mixing saturated croutons and unsaturated croutons is dangerous, as you will chomp down as if expecting a marshmallowy wet crouton, and instead crack your pearlies onto a granitesque dry one. - Cheese Shreds
After picking out the meat and dressing-saturated wonderments, the next best tasty is the Cheese Shreds. Unfortunately, much like the dressing, Cheese Shreds are more a fluid than a solid, and tend to spread ubiquitously throughout, making them difficult to solo out without accidentally tining some of that yucky lettuce. Your best bet here is to use the side of your fork as a shovel, and scrape around the outside of the bowl or carryout container, as Dressing+Cheese creates a covalent bond with Container, and will result in a delightfully minimal cheese-to-lettuce ratio. - Non-Saturated Croutons
Well, it's not great, but it beats lettuce and tomatoes (see "Lettuce and Tomatoes" below for further information). - Lettuce and Tomatoes
Lettuce and tomatoes are the primordial stew from which the salad phylum evolved, and I think we owe L&T a debt of quiet gratitude for that. However, as far as vittles go, Lettuce and Tomatoes are less of an ingredient, and more of a penance for eating the other salad components.
Author's note: For those who consider Lettuce a separate ingredient from Tomatoes, and one which merits its own address... well, you're wrong. By the time they've lived in the salad for a few minutes, they taste exactly the same. And shut up.
6. Onions
The only ingredient I seek out less than Lettuce and Tomatoes is Onions, which I actively avoid scooping up with every forkload. I still have no idea why raw Onions made it into the Salad Canon, but presume it was clever lobbying by the Red Onion Association, and certainly not due to consumer demand. These sour and spicy groundlings are magnificent in other applications, and delictable when cooked... but in a Salad only serve to make everything taste like onions, and to leave your breath reeking like humid shoe closet.
Other "improv" ingredients, such as broccoli, egg, and bacon bits, cannot be addressed here, as giving this apparently limitless collection of foodstuffs proper review would make the blog unweildy and even more unreadable. Please consult your local Salad provider for more information on these rogue additions.
Cheers,
Justin
Saturday, January 31, 2009
There is a social experiment spreading rampantly on Facebook. Instead of the tired "answer these 25 mundane questions about your favorite color, book, etc. that nobody cares about," the challenge is simply to post "25 Random Things" about yourself.
It has been so intriguing to find out what people think of when they are encouraged to pick any 25 points of data about themselves. Sometimes, you get things like, "I like blue." Other times you get things like, "since my wife died, I've been more empathetic to others' suffering," and sometimes it's things like "I don't have a particular side of the bed. Every night I pick a random side, my husband sleeps on the other." I love this experiment; they could pick ANYTHING, and it says a lot what each person chooses.
So, with that, here are the 25 things I posted. I encourage you to try it... on your blog, on Facebook, on your locker, on your mirror at home...it's worth the 15 minutes to find out what comes to the top of your own mind when given free reign to pick 25 facts about yourself.
25 Random Things
1. I have no recollection of ever using Chap-Stik, or any derivations of lip balm thereof. It's gross, and you're just going to have to get over that.
2. I am not a real germaphobe. I am a selective germaphobe, choosing to focus only on bodily fluids (i.e. - no concern for dirt, outdoor germs, rotten food, etc.), and completely lose my germaphobia when in a state of total comfort. If I were a shrink, I'd bet it's a control thing.
3. I learned to play the bass at age 12 because my older brother had already become a shreddin' guitar player, and I thought playing only on 4 strings would make me better faster. I'm now playing guitar in his band. Well, the best laid plans...
4. I got an English degree largely by accident. I kept taking English courses, and my Comm advisor mentioned that if I take 1 more I'd have a degree. So, Avant Garde Lit, here I come!
5. I have an intense fear of being snuck up on. (Don't even think about it; I'll freak and punch your throat or something).
6. I'm learning to hug. (It has heretofore been more of an academic activity than an experiential one). [Thanks, Alison]
7. I'm smack dab in the middle of a major spiritual quest, and discovering I have far more questions than answers. Almost no answers, really. Lots of questions. It's both a cold and luminous place to be.
8. I cried through most of my brother's wedding. And my other brother's. And mine. Shut up.
9. I was the Prom King and Homecoming Prince my senior year, and both as a result of what I'm fairly sure was a cruel joke by the popular kids.
10. Despite years of acting lessons, dialectic practice, and an intense desire to be cool, I am entirely incapable of using slang in any kind of believable way. (I had my license to use slang revoked by a jazz drummer once... which is like having your license to drive revoked by Dale Earnhardt).
11. I read three books at a time: one fiction, one non-fiction, one philosophical/spiritual. And all of them very slowly.
12. I love mushy, lumpy food. Mashed potatoes, chicken pot pie, shepherd's pie, biscuits and gravy, chicken w dumplings... if my meal can be mushed into a big steaming amalgam of goo, it's right for me.
13. My worst job was as an overnight radio announcer and board operator on a traditional jazz station. I worked midnight - 8:00, two days a week, and was on the air for ONE MINUTE every hour doing traffic and weather...and there was a CCTV camera to make sure you didn't sleep inbetween. (But I did learn to love jazz, and to love the station).
14. My best job ever is the one I have now, and I feel tremendously lucky about that.
15. To borrow a line from Ben Doepke, music trumps almost anything. It is the truest language of the holy.
16. I have a deep and abiding love for Eminem's music. (Which is only enhanced when it's flanked by Edgar Meyer and Parliament on my iPod's shuffle).
17. I'm insecure about most things. If I'm coming off arrogant or condescending, it's because I probably worry you're better than I am.
18. I collect 2-5 new cigars a week, and smoke one or less a week. So... the collection keeps growing... and I'm running out space.
19. Despite being around it in the music scene for the last 15 years, I've never smoked pot. I really want to give it a shot, but I want to do it up right... save the experience for a really decent atmosphere and moment in time. Anybody got any suggestions?
20. Self-disclosure gives me the willies. This gives me the willies. I have the willies. I'm wondering if I'll ever publish it.
21. I once got to meet my musical hero, Bela Fleck, and the only thing I could think of to say to him was, "do you like pie?" Then I got embarrassed and walked away. We haven't spoken since.
22. My favorite drink is a Knob Creek, on the rocks, with a splash to open it up. My favorite beer is Guinness, in a glass, followed by another.
23. I come from 5 generations of Irish firefighters. My brothers and I blew it for everybody by becoming a doctor, a lawyer, and whatever the hell it is I do. (Fortunately, my cousin is keeping the tradition alive in NYC).
24. I dream of publishing a book some day. The problem is, I'm not sure about what, or written to whom. Again... anybody got any suggestions?
25. Growing up, my nickname was "fussy." I've never had a nickname since.
Peace to you,
Justin
It has been so intriguing to find out what people think of when they are encouraged to pick any 25 points of data about themselves. Sometimes, you get things like, "I like blue." Other times you get things like, "since my wife died, I've been more empathetic to others' suffering," and sometimes it's things like "I don't have a particular side of the bed. Every night I pick a random side, my husband sleeps on the other." I love this experiment; they could pick ANYTHING, and it says a lot what each person chooses.
So, with that, here are the 25 things I posted. I encourage you to try it... on your blog, on Facebook, on your locker, on your mirror at home...it's worth the 15 minutes to find out what comes to the top of your own mind when given free reign to pick 25 facts about yourself.
25 Random Things
1. I have no recollection of ever using Chap-Stik, or any derivations of lip balm thereof. It's gross, and you're just going to have to get over that.
2. I am not a real germaphobe. I am a selective germaphobe, choosing to focus only on bodily fluids (i.e. - no concern for dirt, outdoor germs, rotten food, etc.), and completely lose my germaphobia when in a state of total comfort. If I were a shrink, I'd bet it's a control thing.
3. I learned to play the bass at age 12 because my older brother had already become a shreddin' guitar player, and I thought playing only on 4 strings would make me better faster. I'm now playing guitar in his band. Well, the best laid plans...
4. I got an English degree largely by accident. I kept taking English courses, and my Comm advisor mentioned that if I take 1 more I'd have a degree. So, Avant Garde Lit, here I come!
5. I have an intense fear of being snuck up on. (Don't even think about it; I'll freak and punch your throat or something).
6. I'm learning to hug. (It has heretofore been more of an academic activity than an experiential one). [Thanks, Alison]
7. I'm smack dab in the middle of a major spiritual quest, and discovering I have far more questions than answers. Almost no answers, really. Lots of questions. It's both a cold and luminous place to be.
8. I cried through most of my brother's wedding. And my other brother's. And mine. Shut up.
9. I was the Prom King and Homecoming Prince my senior year, and both as a result of what I'm fairly sure was a cruel joke by the popular kids.
10. Despite years of acting lessons, dialectic practice, and an intense desire to be cool, I am entirely incapable of using slang in any kind of believable way. (I had my license to use slang revoked by a jazz drummer once... which is like having your license to drive revoked by Dale Earnhardt).
11. I read three books at a time: one fiction, one non-fiction, one philosophical/spiritual. And all of them very slowly.
12. I love mushy, lumpy food. Mashed potatoes, chicken pot pie, shepherd's pie, biscuits and gravy, chicken w dumplings... if my meal can be mushed into a big steaming amalgam of goo, it's right for me.
13. My worst job was as an overnight radio announcer and board operator on a traditional jazz station. I worked midnight - 8:00, two days a week, and was on the air for ONE MINUTE every hour doing traffic and weather...and there was a CCTV camera to make sure you didn't sleep inbetween. (But I did learn to love jazz, and to love the station).
14. My best job ever is the one I have now, and I feel tremendously lucky about that.
15. To borrow a line from Ben Doepke, music trumps almost anything. It is the truest language of the holy.
16. I have a deep and abiding love for Eminem's music. (Which is only enhanced when it's flanked by Edgar Meyer and Parliament on my iPod's shuffle).
17. I'm insecure about most things. If I'm coming off arrogant or condescending, it's because I probably worry you're better than I am.
18. I collect 2-5 new cigars a week, and smoke one or less a week. So... the collection keeps growing... and I'm running out space.
19. Despite being around it in the music scene for the last 15 years, I've never smoked pot. I really want to give it a shot, but I want to do it up right... save the experience for a really decent atmosphere and moment in time. Anybody got any suggestions?
20. Self-disclosure gives me the willies. This gives me the willies. I have the willies. I'm wondering if I'll ever publish it.
21. I once got to meet my musical hero, Bela Fleck, and the only thing I could think of to say to him was, "do you like pie?" Then I got embarrassed and walked away. We haven't spoken since.
22. My favorite drink is a Knob Creek, on the rocks, with a splash to open it up. My favorite beer is Guinness, in a glass, followed by another.
23. I come from 5 generations of Irish firefighters. My brothers and I blew it for everybody by becoming a doctor, a lawyer, and whatever the hell it is I do. (Fortunately, my cousin is keeping the tradition alive in NYC).
24. I dream of publishing a book some day. The problem is, I'm not sure about what, or written to whom. Again... anybody got any suggestions?
25. Growing up, my nickname was "fussy." I've never had a nickname since.
Peace to you,
Justin
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Today, I was party to the changing of our story.
At 4:30 this morning, I woke up from my air mattress on the floor of the Elections Assistance Commission in downtown Washington DC, where my brother works, and began my meeting with something truly historical. Stacy, my brother Matt, and my sister-in-law Jo had done a magnificent job of planning and packing...and we lit out for the subways around 5:00, armed with longjohns, cameras, subway tickets, and our Silver Passes to the standing-room section of the Capitol reflecting pool area.
By 5:30, we were on a short train ride to the Capitol, surrounded by the earliest-rising of the Obama inauguration-goers, all with eyes puffy with morning but wide with anticipation. By 6:00, we had joined thousands of people who had lined up for entrance to the "Silver Section" for those with passes.
The crowd was astonishingly polite, considering the time, the temp, the throngs, and the tease of six hours of waiting before we got to see our new President sworn in. Folks huddled with their friends and family for warmth, and good-natured joking prevailed over the few pushes and scattered dumbassiness. We worked our way through line after line, through checkpoints and by National Guardsmen and countless police and volunteers. (I told a bit more of the story of getting to our spot, complete with pics, here on my Flickr account, or on the ol' Video Diary if'n you're interested).
The hope that seemed to electrify the air in the District yesterday became actual overt, tangible expressions of joy and energy today. Everywhere we went, people were talking to strangers, chatting it up about what Barack Obama means to them, sharing stories of their excitement, their background, their journey to this spot, and their hopes for what today's inaguruation means. Obama ran on a platform of change and hope...these are sentimental footnotes to most Presidential campaigns, the kind of comulsory claptrap used to putty together vague campaign promises. But for this campaign...for this candidate...change and hope were built-in...they were inherent in becoming the first African-American president. You couldn't elect Barack Obama without electing for change. I won't list here all the reasons why the person and policy of Barack Obama, far beyond his race, underscores every inch of his platform for hope and change...it's a topic I've covered before and will likely cover again soon...but what the people of the US voted for was real change, echoing well beyond politics and into damn near every facet of how we live together as Americans.
The inauguration was stunning. By the time we were in and shifted a few times (again, check out the Flickr account), we were about 400 yds away from the Capitol steps, and surrounded on all sides by coats, hats, and the steaming breath of the excited. Three hours of waiting punctuated by the occasional shot of Obama's limo closing in on the Capitol (which was always met with huge cheers from the crowd) were spent trying to keep the handwarmers warm and the toes from getting stepped on. The anticipation built with every passing minute, and despite chilly winds and more than a little claustrophobic crowding, we couldn't but palaver with those around us as if we had all just come from the same cocktail party, and had already spent an evening chattering. Despite being in the absolute racial minority (I'm guessing 70/30 black/white mix in our section), I was talked to as a brother and Stacy as a sister...I was encouraged into choruses of "Yes We Did!" and presumed to be an equal advocate for social and political racial equality. It was incredible...and the sense of general trust and positive regard for humanity was tremendously inspiring.
As musicians played and speakers spoke and poets read, there was a slow-sea change in my heart...I began to feel proud of my country...not just in my head; not just in theory anymore. I don't tend to feel much of anything until I've really thought about it first...and today was finally my chance to culminate my many thoughts on what makes this election mean so much to me into actual feelings about it. My chest was swelled with national pride as the trumpet flourishes announced the arrival and entrance of our new President, and my own cheers drowned out the screams around me as he took his seat, and as he took his oath.
President Obama (I'm not getting tired of saying that any time soon, if you're wondering) gave a very stirring speech that truthfully, I need to read a half dozen more times to truly understand. I encourage you to take the time to read it...preferably out loud...but here are two passages that instantly brought tears to my eyes:
We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.
In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of shortcuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the fainthearted -- for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things -- some celebrated, but more often men and women obscure in their labor -- who have carried us up the long, rugged path toward prosperity and freedom.
and...
To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.
By the conclusion of the ceremony, I was exhausted...physically, mentally, emotionally...and I was euphoric. As we joined the streaming throngs who filled the streets to celebrate and meander back towards wherever it was we were going, it was as if we'd spilled into a post-WWII ticker-tape parade. There was cheering, laughing, hugs, signs being waved, and bits and pieces of paper and scraps flying everywhere. I felt like our nation, in that moment, exhaled...like we had finally made it through, and felt comfortable enough to just rest for a moment.
We found our way to L'Enfant Plaza station, shuffled our way through the tired (and by this point occasionally crabby) crowds, and found our train towards home. By the time we made it through the front door and collapsed into bed for a late-afternoon warming nap, I had spent nearly everything I had in me to take part in this historic event...and I loved it. I'm so grateful to have been one of the 2,000,000 people there to congratulate our new President and, most importantly, to share in this massive step forward for our country.
More to come.
Peace to you,
Justin
Monday, January 19, 2009
I can't help but feel like I'm just hours before experiencing a pivotal moment in my life.
I'm in Washington DC, staying with my brother, and getting ready to head to the inauguration of America's first African-American President. We will be joining the estimated 2 million other Americans in reveling in this historic occasion. I can't believe I get to be a part of it.
The drive out here had a sense of electricity throughout. Technically, it was just Stacy and I in the car together for nine hours plowing our way through the snowy and largely darkened midwest...but it felt like we were part of something much much bigger. As we passed and rode alongside the other drivers bound for DC, I felt like an electron chasing a wire towards the first electric bulb. I felt momentum, a sense of moving forward...something I haven't felt for a long time, and certainly something I wouldn't have felt driving towards our nation's capital.
To think I'm currently sitting a few miles from the spot where Barack Obama will be elected tomorrow...and to think that tomorrow I will be standing only couple hundred yards away while it happens...it's insane. I have never before seen two million people in one place. I have never heard the roar of two million voices, or the rattle of two million hands...I can't wait to hear it tomorrow as President Obama concludes his oath. I can't wait to celebrate with two million others...to scream and cheer with those around me...to embrace my loved ones around me and the strangers to either side of me in a communal celebration of a truly new day. To walk in the center of the electricity that is this remarkable moment in history.
We must be careful not to deify Mr. Obama...not to mistake this remarkable man as the sole reason for our energy and vibrance this week. I am more thrilled to have Barack Obama as our next Commander in Chief than I can articulate, and for reasons that I have largely already articulated in public and private forums...but this is not about Obama alone; far from it. It's about our next huge step, and the realization that we have finally broken the barrier to the nations most aspirational role. A country as rebellious, young, and radical as ours is bound to have massive flaws as we grow and create our own rules...and the flaw of cultural and institutional racism against Africans (and then African-Americans) has been perhaps our most visible sin. While the battle against this type of racism is far from over, tomorrow we get to celebrate our next biggest step.
To think that I get to be party to this culmination of the story of our nation to this date...it's unimaginable. I will keep ya'll updated as we go... but please join me in celebrating this unprecented victory step in the war against racism in this country, and in embracing and welcoming our nation's new leader.
I'm really, really charged.
Peace to you,
Justin
I'm in Washington DC, staying with my brother, and getting ready to head to the inauguration of America's first African-American President. We will be joining the estimated 2 million other Americans in reveling in this historic occasion. I can't believe I get to be a part of it.
The drive out here had a sense of electricity throughout. Technically, it was just Stacy and I in the car together for nine hours plowing our way through the snowy and largely darkened midwest...but it felt like we were part of something much much bigger. As we passed and rode alongside the other drivers bound for DC, I felt like an electron chasing a wire towards the first electric bulb. I felt momentum, a sense of moving forward...something I haven't felt for a long time, and certainly something I wouldn't have felt driving towards our nation's capital.
To think I'm currently sitting a few miles from the spot where Barack Obama will be elected tomorrow...and to think that tomorrow I will be standing only couple hundred yards away while it happens...it's insane. I have never before seen two million people in one place. I have never heard the roar of two million voices, or the rattle of two million hands...I can't wait to hear it tomorrow as President Obama concludes his oath. I can't wait to celebrate with two million others...to scream and cheer with those around me...to embrace my loved ones around me and the strangers to either side of me in a communal celebration of a truly new day. To walk in the center of the electricity that is this remarkable moment in history.
We must be careful not to deify Mr. Obama...not to mistake this remarkable man as the sole reason for our energy and vibrance this week. I am more thrilled to have Barack Obama as our next Commander in Chief than I can articulate, and for reasons that I have largely already articulated in public and private forums...but this is not about Obama alone; far from it. It's about our next huge step, and the realization that we have finally broken the barrier to the nations most aspirational role. A country as rebellious, young, and radical as ours is bound to have massive flaws as we grow and create our own rules...and the flaw of cultural and institutional racism against Africans (and then African-Americans) has been perhaps our most visible sin. While the battle against this type of racism is far from over, tomorrow we get to celebrate our next biggest step.
To think that I get to be party to this culmination of the story of our nation to this date...it's unimaginable. I will keep ya'll updated as we go... but please join me in celebrating this unprecented victory step in the war against racism in this country, and in embracing and welcoming our nation's new leader.
I'm really, really charged.
Peace to you,
Justin
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Two days ago, our country elected Senator Barack Obama as our next president. I don't need to retell his story here; anybody who has found this blog stepped here on a sea of news articles, biographies, and stories about who this extraordinary man is, where he came from, and what he wants to do.
But I will repeat our story. We are a country which, for the last eight years, has lived under a sneaking suspicion that the end of the last great superpower was nigh, and that our great nation of freedom, opportunity, and personal liberty was being chipped away by a relentless pattern of human rights violations, wiretapping, misrepresentation and the war it was predicated upon, foolhardy executive power-grabbing, economic tumult, and the discouraging feeling that we, the American people, were having the wool pulled over our collective eyes.
I am tired of going to foreign nations and sheepishly admitting my country of origin, for fear of the string of foreign-language expletives and shameful curses that I would be forced to respond to. I'm tired of defending the liberty that my grandfather fought, shot for and was shot for in light of a bumbling figurehead, a puppet executive, and an inexplicable drain of the very liberties and respect for humanity that our country was built on. I'm tired of being embarrassed by our leader, and by the kind of myopic zealotry and undereducated fundamentalism that came to characterize our twice-elected leader. (For which I am equally to blame...I voted for our current President in both elections...and I am sorry).
...and today, I am breathing with fresh lungs, and a heart beating heavily with hope.
This week, we elected America's first African-American president. To be slightly more broad, we elected America's first non-white president. And I can't imagine being any happier that this person is Barack Obama.
I cannot wait to tell my children that I was there when Barack Obama was elected. I am so thrilled that my children will not grow up in a world where only white males can reach the highest office in the land. I am so proud that the rows of pictures that make up the "wall of presidents" at every grade school, middle school, and high school in the country will now have a dark-skinned face...at least one dark-skinned face, and hopefully many more...for as long as this country is established. My children will never know a world where black men and women have no President who looks like them to aspire to. And the children of black men and women across this country will never know a world where the "white majority" did not trust someone who looked like them to serve as their chief executive and leader.
I truthfully wondered if I would ever see this day. And it is one of the great honors of my life that I got to be a part of electing this man.
I don't know that I believe that God takes a hand, or even necessarily an interest, in the politics of our country. But I will tell you that I thank Him for a race well run, for two candidates that made this country proud throughout...for many of us, proud for this first time in years...and for the gift that is this radical milestone in the development of our young nation. And I hope He hears it.
John McCain is an, without dispute, an American hero, and would likely have made an outstanding leader...I have been proud to support his cause and character in my small social circles where I could throughout his campaign. But this is Barack Obama's time, and this is America's time for Barack Obama. I think maybe we are finally ready. I hope we are.
May God's hand guide you and protect you as you take your first steps of executive leadership, President-Elect Obama. I'm proud to follow.
Peace to you,
Justin
Sunday, September 07, 2008
[photo by Ellen Karns]
Of Zen and the Art of Humidor Maintenance...
I've taken to smoking cigars. Well, that may conjure the wrong image. Better said, I've taken to the hobby of cigars, which includes some smoking. Mostly, it includes reading about cigars, learning about cigars, shopping for cigars, setting up one's humidor to season cigars, and, after smoking, reviewing and journaling cigars.
I guess it's a little like Carson Palmer saying, "I've taken to playing football on Sunday afternoons."
So, what makes it all worth it? Of all things, why cigars? Certainly, I could have found a hobby that's cheaper, less smelly, more socially acceptable, and generally doesn't make you die...
I've been wondering this same thing. Why, of all the things i could spend my ever-dwindling free time on, would I choose this archaic throwback to the days when we didn't know any better?
...I think it's because it's meditative, and that makes it fun.
When you spark a cigar, even a smaller Corona or a stubby Robusto, you're committing to 30+ minutes of doing nothing else. You are engaging in a fully immersive self-indulgent activity. The thing is rich, and deep, and attention-keeping...and, perhaps more importantly, it's pungent and smelly and the smoke spreads everywhere...meaning you can't very well do it inside, and you can't really do it while you're doing anything practical. When you have a cigar in your hand, it becomes what you're doing for that half-an-hour, and I love that.
I've also discovered that cigars are inherently social, as long as those you're being social with like the smell of cigars. For some reason, in a way more powerful than beer or vodka or appetizers or cigarettes or dance music, when you light a cigar with someone, you're bound to talk about things. Usually, things that matter to you.
I like my new hobby. It's simultaneously profound and generally useless. It's meaningful, and its purposeless. It's masculine and timeless, and hopelessly stereotypical and outdated. It's instantly social, and turns people off immediately. It's delicious and tasty, and it smells like rotten campfire the next day.
Mostly, it's relaxing. So let me know if you'd like to join me for a cigar sometime...I'd like that.
Cheers,
Justin
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
A 2:30 a.m. poem...
As I sit awake with another periodic bout of entirely inexplicable insomnia, here is a scrap of poetry I made on my fridge about a cure for the problem...
if you ask a book
as i do,
delight in no repose as sanguine
as its scholarly ennui
Peace,
Justin
if you ask a book
as i do,
delight in no repose as sanguine
as its scholarly ennui
Peace,
Justin
Monday, July 21, 2008
[photo from by michael wilson]
I keep turning up the music to try and drown out the sadness.
I’m on a plane from Dallas back to Cincinnati, and I’ve got my headphones on. The good ones. The ones that surround your ear, block everything else out. They’re supposed to anyway. But I’ve been through Fiona, then Fallout Boy, then Metallica…pushing it louder and louder, trying to forget about it, because men on business don’t cry on planes.
I’m trying to stop thinking for a moment about my friend Katie who died this week, and mostly trying to stop imagining what it feels like to be her family right now.
It feels surreal, to tell you the truth. Like an abstract poem I don’t quite understand, but the more I study the words the less I like the shadows they keep casting.
God damn it.
She was so bright, so fun, so powerful, so sweet, and so unstoppably honest. She was brave as hell, too…from her career to her relationship with her partner to her motherhood to battle with this tumor…so brave. More brave than I’ve ever hoped to be.
She was articulate, kind, and creative. She had a singing voice that spelled sugar and push simultaneously to me; a boyish timbre rutted into a Brownie undertone, as if Scout herself bought a guitar and learned to wail. Her recordings became a critical part of the soundtrack of my college days. Her recording of “Blue Like That” still stands as one of my most treasured audio-lockets…and if I think more about that, I will cry on this plane, and I don’t intend to do that.
Katie was giving and adventurous. When I called her in the midst of putting together her second record and invited her, at absolutely no pay, reward, or promise of decent food, to trek out into the wilderness of Indiana with my brother and I to play music and entertain junior high kids for a weekend…she didn’t hesitate. She packed her guitar, donned a preposterous wig and Cruella deVille jacket, joined our silly weekend without fanfare or prodding, and spent the next 72 hours improvising the flavor of ridiculous dialogue that makes 13-year-olds giggle.
When I caught my hand on fire trying to play a lighter-fluid dragon, she did the only thing that made sense to her at the time…shoved it between her thighs and squeezed. We laughed until one of us peed.
The only thing that ever bothered her was when someone would call her by her full-name-as-one-word, like “TigerWoods” or “GarthBrooks.” She was a musician and aspired to sing for the world, but I never got the feeling she wanted to be a celebrity…not like that.
Katie gave out of a very honest place, and she gave a lot. She sang out of a very real place, and she sang beautifully. She was hilarious, and she was lovely.
I have no idea how to think about Katie’s death.
I’m sad, and I’m angry, and I’m doubting. And I’m so, so sorry. Reider family, I am so sorry. Karen, I am so sorry. I feel like you deserve better than this.
Katie, I miss who you are. I’m glad you are not suffering any more, and I know you’re back home with your mom…wherever that place is…but I can’t help but feel like the world was better with you here.
Peace,
Justin
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt.
"The Fates lead him who will. Him who won't, they drag."
Seneca, ~30 a.d.
I think of the future sometimes.
Most of the time, I'm thinking of the very, very near future. As in, eight hours from now when the project summary comes due or twenty four hours from now when I'm supposed to be on a plane, or five minutes from now when I will have needed to be at a meeting for 15 minutes.
I spend a lot of the remaining time thinking about the past...what went right, what went wrong, and how what went right was probably just something going wrong that went at it wrong. (I am, despite the words of those close to me, not truly a cynic at heart...I am a rampant and disappointed idealist, perhaps, but not truly a cynic). I worry, and worrying for me is a mostly about confusing the near future with a distant past.
But sometimes, I think of the future. The real future.
For me, right now, these moments are occupied wondering about being a dad. I am not a dad, and I have no immediate reason to believe I will soon be a dad. But I think about it a lot...we think about it a lot. For me, it's not a yearning, exactly...not a need...but it feels like a want...like the happy memory of a first crush, it's a quiet and peaceful want that won't quite leave, but doesn't cause much trouble.
My friend Jimmy just had a baby, and my friend Ryan just had a baby. I have met one, and can't wait to meet the other. Two of my best friends in the world are dads. Like, the real kind of dad...like my dad was a dad. I struggle to imagine them as my dad...waking up early to get chocolate Entenman's donuts on Saturday mornings and grunting under the car as he drains engine oil in the hot afternoons. But, for some reason, I can imagine me doing it. They may become their dads, and that is likely a very good thing. And I may become mine...that is also a very good thing. We will learn to clap at recitals and work late for soccer-uniform money and to sit and watch and genuinely love our kids when they do the little things that bring them joy, whether we understand them or not. I hope I have those days. I don't need them just yet, but I hope I get them.
At the same time, I'm surprised at the lack of aching. I think, after two years and some change, I may be finding some peace in the unknowable To-Come. I'm tired of trying to predict it, honestly, and I'm becoming slightly thrilled at my inability to beat it. There is a peace in that...it's strange, but there is.
I don't know what is to come. I don't know if it includes birth, or adoption, or joy, or heartache, or another 50 years of the a marriage better than my tiny imagination would have sketched...with child or without. I don't know. But the peace, perhaps, is in knowing that I'm allowed to stop telling myself I should know.
Peace,
Justin
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Aaaah, Gay Paris...the city of romance, the city of love, the city where bread is a mandatory part of every balanced breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snack. Aaaah, Gay Paris.
So my travels have taken me to thriving little burg of Paris, France, where I'm learning at least several words in French, pronounced with an accent reminiscent of a garbage disposal filled with whole artichokes. So far, while in Paris, I have found my way from the airport to my hotel with a cab driver who spoke no English other than "Jou Like George Boosh?" (my answer to which I'm certain he didn't comprehend...but the tone defied borders), bought a magazine (no small achievement when you don't know the words for "buy" "how much," "magazine," "can I" and "a"), found my way 2 kilometers from my hotel to our facility on foot, and even got an old guy to respond in French when I said "bonjour," implying I sounded French enough to fool him.
I have also, during my time here, eaten some of the finest tasties that have ever graced my palate. I had pastisse, a delightful licoricey pre-meal liquer intended to shock your taste buds into licoricey submission to the meal to come; coc a vin, which the menu described as "a homemade old rooster soaked in Marsala wine," prompting both the questions, "how old was the rooster, and how do you home-make one?"; escargot soaked in butter, garlic, and what I assume was heroin; crepe Suzette, which is French for "creepy Suzy"; and enough freshly-baked baguettes to make one consider shredding one's Adkins book and crushing it into some kind of spreadable jam.
I also ate a creme brulee for lunch that will likely prompt any number of lurid dreams for the next few days, and real French Fries which were...umm...well, they were pretty much like American Fries, but in France.
Despite their reputation, the French people have been remarkably kind, polite, and generally agreeable. With the exception of the bar owner who kept yelling about how ridiculous it is that the "French can't smoke in France despite France being French," everyone has been very well-behaved...downright hospitable at times, even. This is a far cry from my single day in Paris ten years ago, when I, as a high school near-grad backpacking with no money to spend, was welcomed as a leprechaun welcomes a drought. I've even carried on tiny conversations with real-deal French people, and enjoyed learning tons of little cultural ideosyncracies and idioms (such as, "I lost my G," which refers to shedding an accent when speaking English, and not, in fact, to having a buddy from da hood pass away).
So far, it's been a great trip! I look forward to sharing more after tomorrow, when I get to get out and actually see the city a bit (been cooped up inside of a facility most days). Au Revoir! C'est La Vie!
Peace,
Justin
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
I don't believe in angels, but I do believe in maids.
I'm in Dallas, Texas this week...home to JR (and the one who shot him), the grassy knoll, and the first Steak-House/Gas-Station I've ever seen. I'm surrounded by pickup trucks and people who wish they owned bigger pickup trucks in a land so expansive that the office towers seem to be built out long before they're built up, just because they can. Dallas, Texas is also the home to Narrissa, the Ecuadorian Maid, and the closest thing to an angel I think I've met.
I met Narrissa while she scrubbed my tub. I had come back from breakfast to find the door open, her giant-maid-cart (home to villages of tiny soaps) in front of my door, and her feet sticking out of the entrance to my hotel room's bathroom. She was yellow-gloved and scrubbing furiously...working so hard at something nobody would ever, ever thank her for...and unaware of my presence. I cleared my throat, which I gather scared the living @#$# out of her, as she jumped in a way that only a person on their knees can. She immediately turned around and stood, a vision of tiny Latin maternalism, less than five feet tall and with a wholly ambiguous aging that Latin and Asian women seem to have won in the racial-bonuses lottery. (I guessed her somewhere between 30 and 60...turns out she was 62). What got me was the smile...real, deep, proud, humble, and born from somewhere I've never been.
She greeted me with a "hi, sir, do jou wan me to leeb?"
"No," I replied...stumbly and a little taken aback by her grandma's-cookies warmth, "No, not at all."
"OK, I'll be done in a mow-men. Is OK if I pass de bac-ume?"
"Yeah, of course...please."
She pulled off her gloves, started the vacuum, and swept around me while I opened my computer and started to get to work. An email came in from a co-worker that included a picture of a child recently born to (another) co-worker. I opened it to my screen. The sweeper stopped behind me. A confident, quiet, and infinitely cinnamon voice:
"Is your baby?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Is a peek-shur of your baby?"
"Oh...OH, no, no...just a friend's baby."
"You have cheel-drun?"
"No. Not yet."
"How long you haf been married?"
"Five years. Well, just over five years."
"Oh. Good! Cheel-drun come soon."
I paused. I had nothing to say back to this. I hoped so. I hope so now. I want that...we want that. We have for a while. We worry. I said something very, very honest to someone I just met:
"You really think so?"
"Jes. I think so."
Sweeper clicks back on. Engine spins up, carpet meets rotating-bristle-brush, and Narissa goes back to sweeping. I'm left feeling very different than when I woke up...a little stunned, and a bit like I just got half-a-telegram from Jesus, that got cut off right after, "Justin, I've got something important to tell you, but it's good news..."
I turned back to my computer. My heart was thumping a little. I can't tell you why I believed her, but I did.
The sweeper shuts back off. I look into the desk mirror over my shoulder.
"Can I pray for jou?"
Total....stunned...silence.
"Umm, what?"
"Can I pray for jou?"
Yes.
"yes."
"I'm shore. Jour tall...will you seet while I pray?"
I sat, flushed and a little shell-shocked.
"Whas jour name?"
"Justin."
"Ju-stin. Good. I pray in my language. OK?"
Yes. Absolutely, yes.
"Yes."
She stood across from me while I sat on the edge of my (just made) bed, held a hand up in a Christian mudra I'd seen many times but never felt until now, and prayed in Spanish. She prayed for me, for Stacy, for the blessing of a son...she spoke of wombs, and organs, and fruit, and health, and birth...she spoke of something so private that to have done it in English would have been offensive. She spoke with reverence, but with authority, and seasoned with a knowledge so deep of something so deeply unknowable that I shrunk in a kind of humble shame. I felt her prayer rinse over me, starting at the heart and radiating outward, spilling over my gel-hair and polished shoes and just-ironed shirt. She prayed, and she meant it, and I think she actually spoke to God. I don't claim to know how that works, but I think she did it.
She finished praying, said "Amen," and looked at me just long enough to let me know that her prayers were in love, not in plea for my response. She rushed over to the desk drawer, grabbed a Gideon's Bible, opened to Psalm 127, pointed at it, and waited for me to read aloud. I did. She smiled. And then she went back to the bathroom to scrub the tub.
She was done. She wanted nothing...no money, no thanks, no conversion moment, not even a prayer in her favor. She just wanted me to be prayed for, and fully expected me to receive the blessing. It's like she waited...like she was planted there...like she had been there, in my hotel bathroom, in Dallas, Texas, just waiting for me to come. I feel like she was waiting for me to come along, all filled with insecurities about child-bearing and reproduction and would-we-ever-be-able-to and just waited. I came, she prayed, then she was done.
I tried to thank her profusely. Good god, I even tried to give her money to say thank you...it's stupid, but it's all I had to offer. She would have none of it. It didn't fit her somehow...it was far too cheap, it didn't fit the plan. She was there to pray, and she was there to scrub, and that was all.
As you may have noticed, it's been a very long time since I've written. My last post was about an inspiration lost...and I think I've been waiting to find it again. I had no idea I'd find it in a hotel bathroom in Dallas.
Thank you, Narrissa. I can't wait to send you a picture of the blessing some day.
Peace,
Justin
I'm in Dallas, Texas this week...home to JR (and the one who shot him), the grassy knoll, and the first Steak-House/Gas-Station I've ever seen. I'm surrounded by pickup trucks and people who wish they owned bigger pickup trucks in a land so expansive that the office towers seem to be built out long before they're built up, just because they can. Dallas, Texas is also the home to Narrissa, the Ecuadorian Maid, and the closest thing to an angel I think I've met.
I met Narrissa while she scrubbed my tub. I had come back from breakfast to find the door open, her giant-maid-cart (home to villages of tiny soaps) in front of my door, and her feet sticking out of the entrance to my hotel room's bathroom. She was yellow-gloved and scrubbing furiously...working so hard at something nobody would ever, ever thank her for...and unaware of my presence. I cleared my throat, which I gather scared the living @#$# out of her, as she jumped in a way that only a person on their knees can. She immediately turned around and stood, a vision of tiny Latin maternalism, less than five feet tall and with a wholly ambiguous aging that Latin and Asian women seem to have won in the racial-bonuses lottery. (I guessed her somewhere between 30 and 60...turns out she was 62). What got me was the smile...real, deep, proud, humble, and born from somewhere I've never been.
She greeted me with a "hi, sir, do jou wan me to leeb?"
"No," I replied...stumbly and a little taken aback by her grandma's-cookies warmth, "No, not at all."
"OK, I'll be done in a mow-men. Is OK if I pass de bac-ume?"
"Yeah, of course...please."
She pulled off her gloves, started the vacuum, and swept around me while I opened my computer and started to get to work. An email came in from a co-worker that included a picture of a child recently born to (another) co-worker. I opened it to my screen. The sweeper stopped behind me. A confident, quiet, and infinitely cinnamon voice:
"Is your baby?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Is a peek-shur of your baby?"
"Oh...OH, no, no...just a friend's baby."
"You have cheel-drun?"
"No. Not yet."
"How long you haf been married?"
"Five years. Well, just over five years."
"Oh.
I paused. I had nothing to say back to this. I hoped so. I hope so now. I want that...we want that. We have for a while. We worry. I said something very, very honest to someone I just met:
"You really think so?"
"Jes. I think so."
Sweeper clicks back on. Engine spins up, carpet meets rotating-bristle-brush, and Narissa goes back to sweeping. I'm left feeling very different than when I woke up...a little stunned, and a bit like I just got half-a-telegram from Jesus, that got cut off right after, "Justin, I've got something important to tell you, but it's good news..."
I turned back to my computer. My heart was thumping a little. I can't tell you why I believed her, but I did.
The sweeper shuts back off. I look into the desk mirror over my shoulder.
"Can I pray for jou?"
Total....stunned...silence.
"Umm, what?"
"Can I pray for jou?"
Yes.
"yes."
"I'm shore. Jour tall...will you seet while I pray?"
I sat, flushed and a little shell-shocked.
"Whas jour name?"
"Justin."
"Ju-stin. Good. I pray in my language. OK?"
Yes. Absolutely, yes.
"Yes."
She stood across from me while I sat on the edge of my (just made) bed, held a hand up in a Christian mudra I'd seen many times but never felt until now, and prayed in Spanish. She prayed for me, for Stacy, for the blessing of a son...she spoke of wombs, and organs, and fruit, and health, and birth...she spoke of something so private that to have done it in English would have been offensive. She spoke with reverence, but with authority, and seasoned with a knowledge so deep of something so deeply unknowable that I shrunk in a kind of humble shame. I felt her prayer rinse over me, starting at the heart and radiating outward, spilling over my gel-hair and polished shoes and just-ironed shirt. She prayed, and she meant it, and I think she actually spoke to God. I don't claim to know how that works, but I think she did it.
She finished praying, said "Amen," and looked at me just long enough to let me know that her prayers were in love, not in plea for my response. She rushed over to the desk drawer, grabbed a Gideon's Bible, opened to Psalm 127, pointed at it, and waited for me to read aloud. I did. She smiled. And then she went back to the bathroom to scrub the tub.
She was done. She wanted nothing...no money, no thanks, no conversion moment, not even a prayer in her favor. She just wanted me to be prayed for, and fully expected me to receive the blessing. It's like she waited...like she was planted there...like she had been there, in my hotel bathroom, in Dallas, Texas, just waiting for me to come. I feel like she was waiting for me to come along, all filled with insecurities about child-bearing and reproduction and would-we-ever-be-able-to and just waited. I came, she prayed, then she was done.
I tried to thank her profusely. Good god, I even tried to give her money to say thank you...it's stupid, but it's all I had to offer. She would have none of it. It didn't fit her somehow...it was far too cheap, it didn't fit the plan. She was there to pray, and she was there to scrub, and that was all.
As you may have noticed, it's been a very long time since I've written. My last post was about an inspiration lost...and I think I've been waiting to find it again. I had no idea I'd find it in a hotel bathroom in Dallas.
Thank you, Narrissa. I can't wait to send you a picture of the blessing some day.
Peace,
Justin
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Saying Goodbye...
I got a chance to say goodbye to my friend Gaile today.
There was a memorial service for her at our old church. It was unlike any other memorial service I've been to. There were two videos, a live band on the stage singing worship songs, cameras recording the event...and 800+ people in attendance. Oh, and an airplane fly-over and a parachuter tribute. I'm not kidding.
If you're wondering what kind of royalty merits this kind of sendoff celebration...you didn't know Gaile. What made this all made sense is that she never would have believed it was for her.
The 800+ people in that auditorium came because they had been touched by this one woman in some deep way. Think of that...here's a woman who was by no conventional definition "famous"...she held no office, hosted no talk show, owned no corporation. She just loved every single person she came in touch with. Every one. And nearly a thousand came today to try to find some way to say thanks.
To some of us, she was a mother, to some a counselor, to some a sister and peer, and to most a walking example of what we want to be like when we grow up. She felt like love, like light, like the kind of humble shining understanding of God that I only taste on my best days.
As I wrote in my last post, Gaile was truly good, and what an honor it was to be among the hundreds of people who came today to celebrate that.
I don't begin to understand heaven. But if it exists, then Gaile is there. And my guess is the celebration at her arrival is far louder than ours in the wake of her departure. But for one hour, we may have rattled the windows up there a bit...proclaiming that, for whatever her return to God may be like, she sure did a damn fine job down here. And that, for all that heaven will bring her, we miss her like hell.
Goodbye, Gaile. And thank you, from one of the many you loved.
Peace,
Justin
There was a memorial service for her at our old church. It was unlike any other memorial service I've been to. There were two videos, a live band on the stage singing worship songs, cameras recording the event...and 800+ people in attendance. Oh, and an airplane fly-over and a parachuter tribute. I'm not kidding.
If you're wondering what kind of royalty merits this kind of sendoff celebration...you didn't know Gaile. What made this all made sense is that she never would have believed it was for her.
The 800+ people in that auditorium came because they had been touched by this one woman in some deep way. Think of that...here's a woman who was by no conventional definition "famous"...she held no office, hosted no talk show, owned no corporation. She just loved every single person she came in touch with. Every one. And nearly a thousand came today to try to find some way to say thanks.
To some of us, she was a mother, to some a counselor, to some a sister and peer, and to most a walking example of what we want to be like when we grow up. She felt like love, like light, like the kind of humble shining understanding of God that I only taste on my best days.
As I wrote in my last post, Gaile was truly good, and what an honor it was to be among the hundreds of people who came today to celebrate that.
I don't begin to understand heaven. But if it exists, then Gaile is there. And my guess is the celebration at her arrival is far louder than ours in the wake of her departure. But for one hour, we may have rattled the windows up there a bit...proclaiming that, for whatever her return to God may be like, she sure did a damn fine job down here. And that, for all that heaven will bring her, we miss her like hell.
Goodbye, Gaile. And thank you, from one of the many you loved.
Peace,
Justin
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
I lost a friend this week, and the world lost something bright.
Gaile Reider was magnificent. She was smart, beautiful, maternal, wise, and...most of all...benevolent. She was, as few are, thoroughly good.
For those of you who knew Gaile, I'm joining you in mourning, and in celebrating her life.
I miss you, Gaile. I know whatever comes next is probably better, but I can't help but feel like we're lesser for your passing. You were good to me...thank you.
Peace,
Justin
Gaile Reider was magnificent. She was smart, beautiful, maternal, wise, and...most of all...benevolent. She was, as few are, thoroughly good.
For those of you who knew Gaile, I'm joining you in mourning, and in celebrating her life.
I miss you, Gaile. I know whatever comes next is probably better, but I can't help but feel like we're lesser for your passing. You were good to me...thank you.
Peace,
Justin
Thursday, August 09, 2007
For my 100th post, I'd like to offer you...
...the Tao of the Starfish-Thrower.
I remember when I was in high school attending a “motivational speaker” who came to encourage us to stay off of drugs, or stay in school, or don’t drink at the prom, or make the most of ourselves, or something. The speaker was doing pretty well endearing herself to us, for the most part; she had not tried to use “teen language,” she didn’t enter to a canned rap backbeat, and she didn’t fall down. That and the fact that she got you out of history class bought her some credibility.
Just towards the end of her presentation, she began to share a personal story about something that had happened to her on vacation. You see…there she was, on the beaches of North Carolina, enjoying a morning walk…when she happened upon a shore full of at least a thousand beached starfish. If you don’t know where this story is going, you’ve never been to a charity fundraiser or a Christian church, and may want to stop and go here.
It probably goes without saying that the assembly turned into a jeering mass of high-school jadedness shortly thereafter, and, if I remember right, ended with a vice-principal threatening to give us (all 1800 of us) detention if we didn't force ourselves to listen to the speaker's conclusion.
The plight of the speaker isn't the point of this post, however...it just gave me a fun way to talk about starfish...
As I sat on the porch last night with Stacy and my friend Dan, the conversation turned to charity, responsibility, and justice. We had expressed that we all felt guilty about living in a suburb in Ohio, versus in a dump in Mexico, a street in China, a FEMA trailer after Katrina, etc. We all felt bad that we had, while others didn't.
We talked a lot about what we were doing for the world...and, perhaps more emotionally-impactful, what we weren't doing for the world. We talked about giving money, giving time, and the nagging sense that if we were really good people we'd be in Darfur, or Iraq, or Applachia, serving the poor. And maybe that's true. But I also realized something else, and it had everything to do with that starfish story. It is this:
...the guy who threw the starfish back acknowledged two truths:
1. I saved that one.
2. (By implication) I did not save the rest.
The reality is, the Starfish-Thrower knew that the other starfish would die. He had to. The other guy told him so, and his reply denotes agreement. By choosing the 3,418th starfish on the beach, he chose to let the 3,417th starfish die. That starfish was no different than that which he threw, save for its location only inches away. In any given moment, he picked one to throw, and by doing so, doomed all those he would not pick.
I have to realize that every time I spend a dollar on a double cheeseburger or half a beer or 1/3 a gallon of gas, I am not giving it to feed Katrina victims. True. But I also have to realize that every dollar I spend feeding Katrina victims, I am not clothing the children of Afghanistan. And every dollar I spend clothing the children of Afghanistan, I am not releasing the sex-slaves of Malaysia. Every choice I make to save a starfish lets another one die.
So, given this reality...how do we deal?
Here are the options I see:
1. We do nothing, because people will always suffer and starfish will always beach.
2. We try do save all the starfish.
3. We pick a starfish, and let others die.
#1 is tempting. The amount of suffering in the world is absolutely unending (as, for what its worth, the amount of joy), and totally unfathomable. Therefore, it's tempting to shut one's eyes, huddle in the corner and rock oneself in to sleep in a sort of nihlistic possum-catatonia. But it's also a cop out. That's the whole point of the story...save one even if you can't save 'em all.
#2 is stupider. There's no quicker way to assure you're completely ineffective than to dedicate yourself to something you're bound to fail. You'll burn out, become uber-cynical, give up hope of ever accomplishing anything, and drink until it stops hurting.
#3 is hard as hell. OK, great, you throw a starfish back. That's the easy part. You donate to Red Cross, you show up at Ground Zero, and you serve in the Peace Corps. But then what? How do you eat that $7 Quizos while children die of hunger? How do you drink your $4 Starbucks while pregnant women die of cold for lack of blankets?
The answer...as far as last night's thinking would get me...
..you just do.
You accept it as reality. Just like the Starfish-Thrower.
People will suffer. They will always suffer. In unimaginable ways. (Again, just as we will experience joy in lush profundity). That is truth. And that sucks. Somehow, you learn to accept it, and you find the one thing you're going to do about it in that moment.
That one thing.
You contribute to the cause.
You drive to the blast zone.
You parent.
You volunteer.
You hug your mom.
You eat, and laugh to get stronger and revived.
You fight the war against something evil.
You protest the war against something human.
You come home from work because she waits for you.
You write the blog.
You work, to make the money.
You pray.
You hope as much as you can.
You sleep, so that you can do it again.
You do the one thing, and you value that for what it is. It is a drop in the bucket, and until you become present to that reality, I think you will inevitably go to #1 or #2. Let it be your drop in the bucket. The bucket will never fill...true. Live with that. It never will. But that doesn't mean you didn't add your drop. Choose futility; it's forever superior to ambivalence.
I am not a world-saver. I am not even yet a Starfish-Thrower, really. Not really. But I am learning to love those that were saved, and mourn for those that died, and perhaps to do so with equal reverence.
Peace,
Justin
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