My sister has been on a journey. Every day, well every week day and most weekends, for the past two years she has woken up to go to school. She is a non-traditional student. After working for five or six years to spend 2.5 years and change in Africa she realized a passion for photography, more accurately she realized that she could help tell an entire story with a single picture. She freezes time in shuttered moments through the lens of a camera. It's pretty impressive, the way she tells stories. She left behind the comfort of other jobs to pursue something that she deemed worthy and has yet to look back.
My Brother-In-Law has been on a journey. Every day, well every week day and most weekends, for the past two years he has woken up to work on school. He is a non-traditional student. After working for five or six years to spend 2.5 years and change in Africa he realized a passion for drawing, more accurately he realized he could make drawings come alive with a leaded pencil. He creates an image that tells a story in the white pages that elegantly fill the pad of his sketch book with life like art. He left behind the comfort of other jobs to pursue something that he deemed worthy and has yet to look back.
In an otherwise safe world, a world that often beckons for traditional routes toward vocations, they took the road less traveled. They gave up their cars and comforts to follow their passions. As my sister walked the carpet leading to the stage, graduating with a hand shake and a wave she simultaneously closed and opened chapters of her dreams. She worked toward the dream of what she felt her heart desired and dared to go for it, with out a safety net. It was not easy, but she made it. They made it.
Today they head off, across country back into the unknown. The road is open. The road is free. They are headed west, and who knows where they will end up.
My girlfriend and I are on a journey, as my car turned from 79,999 to 80,000 I celebrated another 10,000 miles. This celebration was different. My girlfriend had been next to me when my car turned from 69,999 to 70,000. We've been adventuring together for 10,000 miles; finding our passions in the seeing of a sunset, the feeling of the wind in the face with windows down, the view of mountains and waterfalls, the emotion of peace, love, and scenic views.
We've been on a journey. And while my adventure currently keeps me in my current city and my sister and brother-in-law's takes them to another part of the country, we are all taking the road less traveled. We are pursuing and finding the passions that lead to the freedom for which our souls long. We are inspiring and inspirations to each other. So here's to 10,000 miles on the road less traveled and to the hope of ten thousands more.
Way to go Jeff and Adraine!
Monday, May 24, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Life as an Artist
Standing with my right shoulder behind the groomsman in front of me blocked my view of the groom. I could see the bride's face, full of electric excitement, every word she spoke through her beaming mouth accentuated the gleam in her eyes as she waited for the pastor to get to the part of the kiss and the announcement of her name. I stood there thinking about how this is art. This is a masterpiece, a wedding in a beautiful setting of a white building with a perfectly crafted wooden vaulted ceiling and blue stained glass windows; music containing a harpist, people sitting, standing, gathering for a moment all captured with a photographer's lens. This is art. This moment is artistic, it is beauty far beyond my sometimes simplistic view on beauty.
A couple days later I was playing a soccer game. The rain poured down on us for seven and a half minutes at a time. The players ran back and forth, chasing a ball that did not feel the kick we gave it. There was a fire in one individual's eyes, he was alive as he ran up the field carrying the ball off the ground in a majestic motion that made it appear as though the ball and him were connected at the foot. All was right in that moment. His movements were crisp, yet improvised. He body seemed to know what his brain had yet to think of, as he moved in not all together overly complicated, yet poetically perfect motions. A song to the rhythm of the rain, to the fall of his feet, to the sway of the trees, to the where the ball and feet meet played a simple and elegant symphony. It was art. This was artistic.
In every sport I play, in everything which I participate I want to see the art. I love sports in part because to those who are incredible at those sports there is an artistic beauty in the way the carry themselves, in the way play the game. It is beautiful to watch an athlete who is really "on" and wonderful to be involved in a moment when you witness something truly amazing, truly beautiful, truly memorable. It is interesting because those in the that moment rarely seem to realize that they are truly creating something beautiful, they are just acting in the moment that is but a brushstroke in the midst of other moments. But for those of us watching we feel, we think, we act as though we are part of something truly remarkable and indeed usually we are.
I think one of the things that drives me to be better is that I want to feel that art as I move. I want to be a part of that artistic moment. I want to understand so much what I am seeing, to experience that moment that it causes me to push myself. In this sense I try to seek to understand any sport that someone loves so that I can see the beauty of it; or learn to play it myself so that I can experience the beauty first hand; or see the pure beauty in two people's lives come together as partnering puzzle pieces of individuals interlock to create something better than the single incomplete picture.
At the end of the my life I want to have created a masterpiece. Every moment I want to be a brush stroke toward something bigger than myself. I look at the world and I think sometimes we've lost the view of artists. We have lost the grace of the moment, the flow of freedom, and the heart of humanity. The interesting thing about this is that a masterpiece, whether in art or writing, is not created by a single word or brushstroke. The masterpiece is created by the putting together of several beautiful and sometimes mundane individual moments culminating in a finished breathtaking product.
When I finish with this world, when I finish with this day, when I finish with this moment in eternity, when my blimp on the history line of humanity is over I hope to have left a little masterpiece that perhaps someone would have picked up, added on, and offered their take on in order to better their work of life. At the end of today, I hope to have added to the painting.
A couple days later I was playing a soccer game. The rain poured down on us for seven and a half minutes at a time. The players ran back and forth, chasing a ball that did not feel the kick we gave it. There was a fire in one individual's eyes, he was alive as he ran up the field carrying the ball off the ground in a majestic motion that made it appear as though the ball and him were connected at the foot. All was right in that moment. His movements were crisp, yet improvised. He body seemed to know what his brain had yet to think of, as he moved in not all together overly complicated, yet poetically perfect motions. A song to the rhythm of the rain, to the fall of his feet, to the sway of the trees, to the where the ball and feet meet played a simple and elegant symphony. It was art. This was artistic.
In every sport I play, in everything which I participate I want to see the art. I love sports in part because to those who are incredible at those sports there is an artistic beauty in the way the carry themselves, in the way play the game. It is beautiful to watch an athlete who is really "on" and wonderful to be involved in a moment when you witness something truly amazing, truly beautiful, truly memorable. It is interesting because those in the that moment rarely seem to realize that they are truly creating something beautiful, they are just acting in the moment that is but a brushstroke in the midst of other moments. But for those of us watching we feel, we think, we act as though we are part of something truly remarkable and indeed usually we are.
I think one of the things that drives me to be better is that I want to feel that art as I move. I want to be a part of that artistic moment. I want to understand so much what I am seeing, to experience that moment that it causes me to push myself. In this sense I try to seek to understand any sport that someone loves so that I can see the beauty of it; or learn to play it myself so that I can experience the beauty first hand; or see the pure beauty in two people's lives come together as partnering puzzle pieces of individuals interlock to create something better than the single incomplete picture.
At the end of the my life I want to have created a masterpiece. Every moment I want to be a brush stroke toward something bigger than myself. I look at the world and I think sometimes we've lost the view of artists. We have lost the grace of the moment, the flow of freedom, and the heart of humanity. The interesting thing about this is that a masterpiece, whether in art or writing, is not created by a single word or brushstroke. The masterpiece is created by the putting together of several beautiful and sometimes mundane individual moments culminating in a finished breathtaking product.
When I finish with this world, when I finish with this day, when I finish with this moment in eternity, when my blimp on the history line of humanity is over I hope to have left a little masterpiece that perhaps someone would have picked up, added on, and offered their take on in order to better their work of life. At the end of today, I hope to have added to the painting.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Life ADHD and Creating
I admit that I am reader of comments. I love reading an online news article just to read the comments others write at the bottom in response to the article. I especially love the irony of people call others intolerant or idiots, morons or complete crack pots and as the one person calls the other an idiot. I can sit back and correct the commenter’s spelling, grammar, punctuation, or sentence structure. I always find it easier to be the critiquer than the creator.
It’s easy for me to critique a story, a person, or a view. It’s much harder to put a logical idea, or well written story out there for others to critique, read, talk about, or share. The irony in all of this is that the point of telling my story, or writing a book is to tell people that we can all help one another in small ways and in doing so can make a real impact and positive change in the world around us. This means that people will talk about, critique my story, my writing, my views. I run the risk of being called everything from a moron to a semi-intelligent individual, an attention hog, self-involved, narcissistic (I mean I’m writing a blog about myself and my writing).
Lately I’ve paused writing to make sure I’m doing it all for the right reasons. I want to be sure that while this is my story, the purpose, the tone, the motive is right. I have also paused writing because the weather has gotten nice and I joined a soccer league and I have Life ADHD. I run around looking at everything I could do and then investigate twenty five different ideas all at once (twenty-five is only a slight exaggeration). Let me give you an example. In one month (not this month, just a past month a while ago), I applied to be in the Peace Corps, the CIA, a USAID job, a teaching position in Spain, three jobs in three different cities in the US, and was writing my book, investigated how to do Teach for America, and America Corps, took the ASVAB to see what I could do in the military, looked at how to apply for PH.D. programs, and researched how to start a non-profit foundation to raise money for scholarships for students who age out of foster care.
Out of those things, I got accepted into the Peace Corps, but my application was put on hold until I removed my application from the CIA (as a member of the Peace Corps you cannot work for any intelligence agency), learned that Ph.d. programs require the GRE, which costs too much money for me right now, and that Teach For America doesn’t accept applications until August, and I accepted the job I currently work in, and have made some good progress in starting a non-profit (that is still a fairly young idea, but if my book does well I need a business to put the money into and I would rather travel and speak to raise money for scholarships than to just line my own pockets, this actually makes a lot of sense even if I’m not explaining it well).
So what’s my point? My point is that sometimes I get so caught up in the comments that I forget to be the creator. Sometimes the comments give good ideas, sometimes the commentary strikes true and causes you to intrinsically reflect on who you are and what you are about. And sometimes, for freshness sake it is good to take a break, collect and check myself to make sure that I am not just rotely going through the motions of something I am not passionate about. I’ve realized that writing and helping others is not a job it’s a passion and it’s something I want people to see, read, experience how it impacts those around them. In that sense I am doing what I love, spending time creating what others read and what others experience, for I don’t want to spend my life reading what others create. I want to spend my life creating what others read and experience.
What are you creating?
It’s easy for me to critique a story, a person, or a view. It’s much harder to put a logical idea, or well written story out there for others to critique, read, talk about, or share. The irony in all of this is that the point of telling my story, or writing a book is to tell people that we can all help one another in small ways and in doing so can make a real impact and positive change in the world around us. This means that people will talk about, critique my story, my writing, my views. I run the risk of being called everything from a moron to a semi-intelligent individual, an attention hog, self-involved, narcissistic (I mean I’m writing a blog about myself and my writing).
Lately I’ve paused writing to make sure I’m doing it all for the right reasons. I want to be sure that while this is my story, the purpose, the tone, the motive is right. I have also paused writing because the weather has gotten nice and I joined a soccer league and I have Life ADHD. I run around looking at everything I could do and then investigate twenty five different ideas all at once (twenty-five is only a slight exaggeration). Let me give you an example. In one month (not this month, just a past month a while ago), I applied to be in the Peace Corps, the CIA, a USAID job, a teaching position in Spain, three jobs in three different cities in the US, and was writing my book, investigated how to do Teach for America, and America Corps, took the ASVAB to see what I could do in the military, looked at how to apply for PH.D. programs, and researched how to start a non-profit foundation to raise money for scholarships for students who age out of foster care.
Out of those things, I got accepted into the Peace Corps, but my application was put on hold until I removed my application from the CIA (as a member of the Peace Corps you cannot work for any intelligence agency), learned that Ph.d. programs require the GRE, which costs too much money for me right now, and that Teach For America doesn’t accept applications until August, and I accepted the job I currently work in, and have made some good progress in starting a non-profit (that is still a fairly young idea, but if my book does well I need a business to put the money into and I would rather travel and speak to raise money for scholarships than to just line my own pockets, this actually makes a lot of sense even if I’m not explaining it well).
So what’s my point? My point is that sometimes I get so caught up in the comments that I forget to be the creator. Sometimes the comments give good ideas, sometimes the commentary strikes true and causes you to intrinsically reflect on who you are and what you are about. And sometimes, for freshness sake it is good to take a break, collect and check myself to make sure that I am not just rotely going through the motions of something I am not passionate about. I’ve realized that writing and helping others is not a job it’s a passion and it’s something I want people to see, read, experience how it impacts those around them. In that sense I am doing what I love, spending time creating what others read and what others experience, for I don’t want to spend my life reading what others create. I want to spend my life creating what others read and experience.
What are you creating?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The Running in My Head
The following is an excerpt from a chapter in the book. It's about running and while there is a whole other part to the chapter that I am leaving out of this, it is about a period of time, between my 8th grade year and my freshman year. Needless to say I ran everywhere. I could tell you the distance in minutes of surrounding towns and could literally run for almost two to three hours without a rest, sometimes, depending on the situation I was going through it could be more. My freshman year, I ran a 2:09 half mile, 5:15 mile, and a 10:30 two mile, I guess you could say my pacing was pretty good.
I run, but I am not a runner. I run as the blur of bricks facaded houses fade to thick oaks, past the cars, through the center of town in front of the buildings that show the form of one step in front of the other, up the hills until there is only the country. Through rows of cornfields, until I feel that I can reach the horizon. I fail to notice I'm tired, fail to notice the distance, my lungs rush with the freedom of being alive. I run not to freedom but to anything, anything different from the average view of the things that remind me what I am.
The steady rhythm of the rise and fall, of foot meets pavement drove me further into a trance that pushed the failure of me far from my mind. No one could do this, no one could see the things I've seen in these places, the rolling hills dissolve into the line of heaven and earth outside small town Wisconsin, where farm fields rushed the sunset, standing out as cardboard houses on a game-board world, pawns standing as obstacles for the sun to reach. This was my place, the quiet hills, where I could leave, but choose to stay.
The mist of a morning, through the fresh summer air would turn to the dusk of the evening through the crisp fall twilight. Seasons would change and every day I could run as far as I wanted. No one would care when I returned or where I went. The voice of who I said I could be would echo loudly in the silence of being alone with myself, while competing against the failure I thought I was. And when the thoughts got too complicated, when it seemed to hard to sort the feelings from reality, I turned around and ran, with the rhythmic steps of one in front of the other, till it was me and nature, till it was me verse the pavement, till the world made sense, till I knew I would win. I run, but I am not a runner.
From Wanderings of a Broken-Hearted Boy.
I look forward to sharing more with you as the story continues to develop.
I run, but I am not a runner. I run as the blur of bricks facaded houses fade to thick oaks, past the cars, through the center of town in front of the buildings that show the form of one step in front of the other, up the hills until there is only the country. Through rows of cornfields, until I feel that I can reach the horizon. I fail to notice I'm tired, fail to notice the distance, my lungs rush with the freedom of being alive. I run not to freedom but to anything, anything different from the average view of the things that remind me what I am.
The steady rhythm of the rise and fall, of foot meets pavement drove me further into a trance that pushed the failure of me far from my mind. No one could do this, no one could see the things I've seen in these places, the rolling hills dissolve into the line of heaven and earth outside small town Wisconsin, where farm fields rushed the sunset, standing out as cardboard houses on a game-board world, pawns standing as obstacles for the sun to reach. This was my place, the quiet hills, where I could leave, but choose to stay.
The mist of a morning, through the fresh summer air would turn to the dusk of the evening through the crisp fall twilight. Seasons would change and every day I could run as far as I wanted. No one would care when I returned or where I went. The voice of who I said I could be would echo loudly in the silence of being alone with myself, while competing against the failure I thought I was. And when the thoughts got too complicated, when it seemed to hard to sort the feelings from reality, I turned around and ran, with the rhythmic steps of one in front of the other, till it was me and nature, till it was me verse the pavement, till the world made sense, till I knew I would win. I run, but I am not a runner.
From Wanderings of a Broken-Hearted Boy.
I look forward to sharing more with you as the story continues to develop.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Down Goes Fraiser
It's a welcome back party for me, although no one in the coffee shop knows it. I'm sitting at my little laptop, new because my old laptop electrocuted me. Headphones in and typing what you are reading. I will remember this, but I do not remember the following:
There's an old Snickers commercial that portrays a football player getting hammered. He lays on the ground as the trainers run toward him. He looks up at the trainers. They ask him where he is, "On a football field." They ask him the date, "Sunday." They ask him who he is, "I. Am. Batman!" He jumps up and they take him off the field. The Snickers slogan jumps up as he is clearly out of it and not going anywhere for a while.
It's a beautiful Wednesday evening, I am running full speed. All 135(I like to say closer to 150) pounds of me, after the soccer ball. I am a half step away from the ball. I hit a brick wall, it's the goalie. I fly through the air and land.
I wake up on Friday Morning. I'm wearing my soccer uniform. I have a flight to CO, yesterday. I missed it. I have a splitting headache. I do not remember a thing.
Wednesday night, it's blue skies and 70 degrees, I mean perfect. I get back up from ramming a brick wall with my head. I jog off the field. I run back on the field. I have no clue what position I am, this is not that uncommon, so know one worries. I look at a person yelling at me. He's on my team.
"What city am I in?"
"Are you serious?"
"How'd I get here?"
"I think I'm dating someone?"
"You need to go sit down."
I walk off the field bewildered. I ask the same questions again and again. Finally the EMTs arrive at the field. They ask me the date and I reach for my phone, I'm still a clever little dude. They take my phone and ask me to get on a stretcher or put on a neck brace. I ask for some dignity. They give me none.
I arrive at the Hospital. I have the same questions. The doctor wants to admit me, I say no. I leave. I wake up on Friday. I woke up on Thursday. I called people, two sometimes three times. I do not remember any of those conversations.
I leave the hospital on Thursday night. I get in the car. We stop to pick up Motrin. I get out of the car. I have to use the bathroom, only number 1. I look around. I ask my taller new, barely knew me, friend if I should go on a car's tire in the parking lot. He laughs.
"I could always blame it on the concussion."
"haha"
"I can't do it. A Concussion and a ticket all in one night, that would be a lot."
I guess I held it. I was only three minutes from home.
I wake up Thursday morning and packed my bags for CO. Called my friend. Told him I was coming. I don't make it. I fall asleep. I wake up Friday with a massive headache.
It's a "Greg"story.
I missed my trip to CO, but I'm good now. I'm back to writing, which means this will be updated more often. Thank you to all those who supported me, hung out with me, made up answers when I asked the same questions, entertained yourself at my expense, called me, and made sure that I was ok, woke me up every two hours, and put up with my seemingly endless barrage of wonderings and attempts to show I was not injured. Thank You!
Well that's where I've been. I'm glad I remember my password.
There's an old Snickers commercial that portrays a football player getting hammered. He lays on the ground as the trainers run toward him. He looks up at the trainers. They ask him where he is, "On a football field." They ask him the date, "Sunday." They ask him who he is, "I. Am. Batman!" He jumps up and they take him off the field. The Snickers slogan jumps up as he is clearly out of it and not going anywhere for a while.
It's a beautiful Wednesday evening, I am running full speed. All 135(I like to say closer to 150) pounds of me, after the soccer ball. I am a half step away from the ball. I hit a brick wall, it's the goalie. I fly through the air and land.
I wake up on Friday Morning. I'm wearing my soccer uniform. I have a flight to CO, yesterday. I missed it. I have a splitting headache. I do not remember a thing.
Wednesday night, it's blue skies and 70 degrees, I mean perfect. I get back up from ramming a brick wall with my head. I jog off the field. I run back on the field. I have no clue what position I am, this is not that uncommon, so know one worries. I look at a person yelling at me. He's on my team.
"What city am I in?"
"Are you serious?"
"How'd I get here?"
"I think I'm dating someone?"
"You need to go sit down."
I walk off the field bewildered. I ask the same questions again and again. Finally the EMTs arrive at the field. They ask me the date and I reach for my phone, I'm still a clever little dude. They take my phone and ask me to get on a stretcher or put on a neck brace. I ask for some dignity. They give me none.
I arrive at the Hospital. I have the same questions. The doctor wants to admit me, I say no. I leave. I wake up on Friday. I woke up on Thursday. I called people, two sometimes three times. I do not remember any of those conversations.
I leave the hospital on Thursday night. I get in the car. We stop to pick up Motrin. I get out of the car. I have to use the bathroom, only number 1. I look around. I ask my taller new, barely knew me, friend if I should go on a car's tire in the parking lot. He laughs.
"I could always blame it on the concussion."
"haha"
"I can't do it. A Concussion and a ticket all in one night, that would be a lot."
I guess I held it. I was only three minutes from home.
I wake up Thursday morning and packed my bags for CO. Called my friend. Told him I was coming. I don't make it. I fall asleep. I wake up Friday with a massive headache.
It's a "Greg"story.
I missed my trip to CO, but I'm good now. I'm back to writing, which means this will be updated more often. Thank you to all those who supported me, hung out with me, made up answers when I asked the same questions, entertained yourself at my expense, called me, and made sure that I was ok, woke me up every two hours, and put up with my seemingly endless barrage of wonderings and attempts to show I was not injured. Thank You!
Well that's where I've been. I'm glad I remember my password.
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Wreckage and Rebuilding
We stood alone on an empty street. Slowly dragging dry wall to an already filled curb. We would talk but the strange silence of standing in a neighborhood with no people creepily grabbed our attention. It was as if we were meant to be solemn, meant to look in wonder, stare in bewilderment, empathize with the loss of a post-apocalyptic city.
When the comic books, movies, stories all share their Armageddon views I will always remember the pure emptiness of New Orleans during the Thanksgiving of 2005. We served food to the elderly, the ones who couldn't leave and stood talking with the sheriff about how they were going to rebuild a downtown that had no hotels, windows broken and no people. We walked the neighborhoods, seeing messages in paint that warned of shoot on sight policies for stealing food. We gutted a house, dragging everything to the curb. We were the only people. Empty. Hopeless.
The lady we helped said they will return. She said she will not leave. She said it didn't matter if she were the only one to come back, she was coming back. We went through her belongings, she didn't want to be there as we gently bagged the physical memories of an entire family, carrying them to a curb where after city streets were cleared and power would return they would be moved to the dumping site, never to be seen again. Pictures, memories, even the dry wall, carpet, refrigerator had to be moved. Everything.
My brother Joe and I, along with my friend Jon went with a local church to help rebuild houses. We went to the French Quarter and Canal street on a Saturday night. The streets were empty with only a few natives and business owners who had returned with their families to tend to their livelihoods. I wondered then, if New Orleans would ever have any hope of returning.
5 years later, and one weekend ago. I returned with my other brother Jeff, his wife and close friends. The streets were covered with "Who Dat?" slogans and saints memorabilia. The city teemed with people, the riverfront was packed with ships flowing in and out. People celebrated on Bourbon Street. My memories of the hopelessness that existed years before were replaced with a profound sense of amazement. The resilience of a city, the resurgence of a cities team, the pride I felt flow from the ambiance of Canal Street, the natives who had returned to see their city renew. These people had rebuilt their lives. They did not give up, they worked, they got back up and made new memories; they remembered their past, even making light of the tragic response (one store had a shirt that read "FEMA. The New F word).
While spending time with my family was great, it was incredibly refreshing to see a city desolate and empty be filled with smiling people. It reminded me, amidst some of the horrific devastation that occurs across the world that people are ultimately resilient. It reminded me that by lending a hand in the most seemingly insignificant way we are truly helping a life rebuild. I am honored to have seen an empty city and return to a full city. Way to go New Orleans!
When the comic books, movies, stories all share their Armageddon views I will always remember the pure emptiness of New Orleans during the Thanksgiving of 2005. We served food to the elderly, the ones who couldn't leave and stood talking with the sheriff about how they were going to rebuild a downtown that had no hotels, windows broken and no people. We walked the neighborhoods, seeing messages in paint that warned of shoot on sight policies for stealing food. We gutted a house, dragging everything to the curb. We were the only people. Empty. Hopeless.
The lady we helped said they will return. She said she will not leave. She said it didn't matter if she were the only one to come back, she was coming back. We went through her belongings, she didn't want to be there as we gently bagged the physical memories of an entire family, carrying them to a curb where after city streets were cleared and power would return they would be moved to the dumping site, never to be seen again. Pictures, memories, even the dry wall, carpet, refrigerator had to be moved. Everything.
My brother Joe and I, along with my friend Jon went with a local church to help rebuild houses. We went to the French Quarter and Canal street on a Saturday night. The streets were empty with only a few natives and business owners who had returned with their families to tend to their livelihoods. I wondered then, if New Orleans would ever have any hope of returning.
5 years later, and one weekend ago. I returned with my other brother Jeff, his wife and close friends. The streets were covered with "Who Dat?" slogans and saints memorabilia. The city teemed with people, the riverfront was packed with ships flowing in and out. People celebrated on Bourbon Street. My memories of the hopelessness that existed years before were replaced with a profound sense of amazement. The resilience of a city, the resurgence of a cities team, the pride I felt flow from the ambiance of Canal Street, the natives who had returned to see their city renew. These people had rebuilt their lives. They did not give up, they worked, they got back up and made new memories; they remembered their past, even making light of the tragic response (one store had a shirt that read "FEMA. The New F word).
While spending time with my family was great, it was incredibly refreshing to see a city desolate and empty be filled with smiling people. It reminded me, amidst some of the horrific devastation that occurs across the world that people are ultimately resilient. It reminded me that by lending a hand in the most seemingly insignificant way we are truly helping a life rebuild. I am honored to have seen an empty city and return to a full city. Way to go New Orleans!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
I was going to title this: "Two Posts in 2 Days", but then I changed my mind. Now I shall call it ... "Monkeys Can Dress Up Too"
I realized today that I have a pandemic problem of sorts, I like to write in busy places, where eclectic people gather. Usually these places entail coffee, because coffee shops also have free wifi internet, which shockingly Al Gore did not invent. The problem is I don't want black coffee, I want the good stuff. I want candy coffee. It's delicious and, according to Wired Magazine, coffee has an ingredient that kills cavities. So besides being good, I now feel I have ample justification to say it is good for me as well.
I used to think that writing was pretty simply. My idea was that writing involved sitting in an apartment, usually in your underwear, watching TV until one felt inspired by something and then one would write about said inspiring something.
I wish this were the case, or at least I wish that my inspirational did not cost a cup of candy coffee. Really, it doesn't. I just say it does because it gives me an excuse to sit in a coffee shop and watch interesting people, someone right now is making out with someone else. The dude...I assume boyfriend or maybe secret mister (I assume secret mister is the male form of secret mistress), walks into coffee shop. The girl unassumingly sitting on a stool staring at her computer is intently staring, I mean this is not the typical, "I'm working stare", this is more like, "If Jesus comes back and people are screaming I would have no idea Armageddon was even happening because I'm so intent upon my work" type stare. She is oblivious to his arrival. He is behind her. Then he spots her and like a cougar, which attack from behind their victims according to Bear Grills, lunges at her, grabs her and promptly begins a 15 minute make out session. After which finishes, he packs up her computer and escorts her out of the coffee shop. I wink at him (really I did, but sadly did not get any response)...I know what happens next. Have a good night coffee porn couple.
My point is that when you follow something or do something you truly enjoy or even spend time with people you really enjoy spending time with, you never really know how it is all going to turn out. There's risk involved, there's cost involved. Often, when it comes to things, people, passions that you love it's worth the cost and risk.
I am thinking about this because I had a conversation with this kid from a bad background. He and I were talking about life and he stated that it wasn't worth the risk of really getting to know people because it seemed the reward was heartbreak. That's a really sucky way to live. I mean, honestly, I used to live like that. It was sad. Luckily I had really good friends that constantly pulled me away from that thinking. My friends Keith and Zach in Colorado, Brandon in Illinois, and Jerry in Iowa were some of those people. I would tell them I didn't want to be myself around them because I was afraid they wouldn't like me. They told me I was an idiot and to get over myself. I am still working on that. You can ask some of my close friends who really know me.
Seriously though, the reality is that over a quarter, that's 1 out of every 4, of students in college come from broken homes. This also means that a lot of us out of college also come from some sort of broken homes. Sometimes this means that we grow up without trust in relationships or others that seem instilled in people at an early age. However, I hold that most of that thinking and the actions that result as a consequence of such thinking are just copouts for an unwillingness to attempt something that potentially has risk. I told him that, "Monkeys can dress up and do what he does. Honestly, a monkey could go to class for him, get the same grades as him, and fail out like him." But if he really wanted to try and risk the failure then he was becoming the man he wanted to be. And even if he failed, he could get back up and try again. He left my office to go and actually study or maybe just grab a beer and think. It's funny because my own comments made me think too. I give good advice, but probably should be careful about calling students monkeys.
I used to think that writing was pretty simply. My idea was that writing involved sitting in an apartment, usually in your underwear, watching TV until one felt inspired by something and then one would write about said inspiring something.
I wish this were the case, or at least I wish that my inspirational did not cost a cup of candy coffee. Really, it doesn't. I just say it does because it gives me an excuse to sit in a coffee shop and watch interesting people, someone right now is making out with someone else. The dude...I assume boyfriend or maybe secret mister (I assume secret mister is the male form of secret mistress), walks into coffee shop. The girl unassumingly sitting on a stool staring at her computer is intently staring, I mean this is not the typical, "I'm working stare", this is more like, "If Jesus comes back and people are screaming I would have no idea Armageddon was even happening because I'm so intent upon my work" type stare. She is oblivious to his arrival. He is behind her. Then he spots her and like a cougar, which attack from behind their victims according to Bear Grills, lunges at her, grabs her and promptly begins a 15 minute make out session. After which finishes, he packs up her computer and escorts her out of the coffee shop. I wink at him (really I did, but sadly did not get any response)...I know what happens next. Have a good night coffee porn couple.
My point is that when you follow something or do something you truly enjoy or even spend time with people you really enjoy spending time with, you never really know how it is all going to turn out. There's risk involved, there's cost involved. Often, when it comes to things, people, passions that you love it's worth the cost and risk.
I am thinking about this because I had a conversation with this kid from a bad background. He and I were talking about life and he stated that it wasn't worth the risk of really getting to know people because it seemed the reward was heartbreak. That's a really sucky way to live. I mean, honestly, I used to live like that. It was sad. Luckily I had really good friends that constantly pulled me away from that thinking. My friends Keith and Zach in Colorado, Brandon in Illinois, and Jerry in Iowa were some of those people. I would tell them I didn't want to be myself around them because I was afraid they wouldn't like me. They told me I was an idiot and to get over myself. I am still working on that. You can ask some of my close friends who really know me.
Seriously though, the reality is that over a quarter, that's 1 out of every 4, of students in college come from broken homes. This also means that a lot of us out of college also come from some sort of broken homes. Sometimes this means that we grow up without trust in relationships or others that seem instilled in people at an early age. However, I hold that most of that thinking and the actions that result as a consequence of such thinking are just copouts for an unwillingness to attempt something that potentially has risk. I told him that, "Monkeys can dress up and do what he does. Honestly, a monkey could go to class for him, get the same grades as him, and fail out like him." But if he really wanted to try and risk the failure then he was becoming the man he wanted to be. And even if he failed, he could get back up and try again. He left my office to go and actually study or maybe just grab a beer and think. It's funny because my own comments made me think too. I give good advice, but probably should be careful about calling students monkeys.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Back to the Writing
I'm still writing my book. It's hard, fun, emotionally draining, and all around awesome. I had a conversation with my brother. We talked about some of the experiences I'm writing about. They are deep, and hard.
In some ways it's strange because I'm fact checking my own life. I'm calling my brother to make sure this really happened or check to see if he remembers if I'm actually right in what I'm saying.
Sometimes its hard because the topic material is my own life. I'm putting myself out there. I'm putting all of the baggage out there for you to read. I'm telling my story and my families' story, the good and, sometimes, the bad; the real and authentic.
While, I refuse to use any names I know there are those reading who will wonder if I am talking about them and those who know I am talking about them. There are those who will want to meet these people, there are those who will have a cord struck and will want to talk about their experiences, struggles, hopes, and hardships. Then there are those, and this is my real fear, in my family who will be unhappy with what I've written.
Yet, I find with every chapter I am energized. I feel a sense of excitement in my soul that can only be explained as a cathartic realization that this is a story worth being told and worth being lived. With every day I find myself being pushed by my own writing to live out the story because ultimately I want to create what you read, not just read what others create. I want to live in such a way that inspires others to rise from the dust of their own messy lives, because we all have messy lives, and find something that makes them come alive. I want to help people not settle for anything less than a full life filled with experiences that are as real as the movies we watch and stories we read.
I think the ultimate result of writing this story is that I hope to inspire someone to say..."This isn't a fade to black ending. This isn't a dark and depressing story. This isn't a sad moment in our humanity. This is where we stand with our hands held high, fists clenched in victory, as we face our fears, face our demons, face our inadequacies, face our fill in the blanks, and say to hell with living the status quo that has sometimes been thrust upon us by those around us and make up our own ending. This is where we end on the crossroads of our past and our futures. This is not an ending. This is just another beginning."
In some ways it's strange because I'm fact checking my own life. I'm calling my brother to make sure this really happened or check to see if he remembers if I'm actually right in what I'm saying.
Sometimes its hard because the topic material is my own life. I'm putting myself out there. I'm putting all of the baggage out there for you to read. I'm telling my story and my families' story, the good and, sometimes, the bad; the real and authentic.
While, I refuse to use any names I know there are those reading who will wonder if I am talking about them and those who know I am talking about them. There are those who will want to meet these people, there are those who will have a cord struck and will want to talk about their experiences, struggles, hopes, and hardships. Then there are those, and this is my real fear, in my family who will be unhappy with what I've written.
Yet, I find with every chapter I am energized. I feel a sense of excitement in my soul that can only be explained as a cathartic realization that this is a story worth being told and worth being lived. With every day I find myself being pushed by my own writing to live out the story because ultimately I want to create what you read, not just read what others create. I want to live in such a way that inspires others to rise from the dust of their own messy lives, because we all have messy lives, and find something that makes them come alive. I want to help people not settle for anything less than a full life filled with experiences that are as real as the movies we watch and stories we read.
I think the ultimate result of writing this story is that I hope to inspire someone to say..."This isn't a fade to black ending. This isn't a dark and depressing story. This isn't a sad moment in our humanity. This is where we stand with our hands held high, fists clenched in victory, as we face our fears, face our demons, face our inadequacies, face our fill in the blanks, and say to hell with living the status quo that has sometimes been thrust upon us by those around us and make up our own ending. This is where we end on the crossroads of our past and our futures. This is not an ending. This is just another beginning."
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Self Proclaimed Imperfect Perfectionist
I missed a lay up today. The coach, the Vice Chancellor of the University and my former boss (I quit my job and am now in a new department, this is covered in a previous blog and hence i will leave this aside to get back to the drama occurring in this current blog. You should really catch up by reading the previous blog or the one before.) The coach, as I was saying, took me out of the game. It was not an easy lay up. It was one of those, I made a really nice move, was surrounded by giants measuring 6'2", maybe 6'3", when you are 5'5" they really seem like giants towering over you, almost like Ogres hungry for the ball which is their dinner.
I jumped. I was higher than them. (I can jump high, my dad told me so. For most people the encouragement my dad gave me would seem more out of duty, but my dad was honest when he said it. I know that he was honest because he and my mom one time agreed that I was a shrimp and told me so.) I hung in the air. I was so close. It was on my right side. I let it go with my right hand, I'm naturally left handed. The ball hit the backboard, the rim and came safely down with out going through the hoop. It was a missed lay up.
I jumped back up. I tipped the ball, the short giants didn't stop me. I hit the ball. It went up. It hit the backboard. It hit the rim. It came down without going through the net.
I missed a second lay up in a matter of 1 second, that's 00:00:01:00. The couch subbed me out. I rode the pine for the rest of the game. I have splinters on my butt.
For those of you wondering, I was playing in a faculty/staff vs. students basketball game to kick off Homecoming week at my university. As a point of note us, faculty/staff members, won in overtime.
I was really ticked off. I am a perfectionist. I hate missing even a single shot, let alone a lay up. I don't care how hard of a shot it is, if the ball hits rim I should have, could have made it go in.
Today, I finished an article for a magazine. I pitched an article about growing up in Foster Care. The magazine editors read some of my other material, including possibly this blog, and said, "Give us a 1000 words." I did. I wrote it. I finished it. I got so excited that I sent it to people to proofread, which is the right thing to do. I waited 25 minutes. I started to get anxious. What if it sucked? There's no way someone will publish my writing. I'm not that good. I'm a perfectionist it's probably not right and never will be. I proofread it one more time and sent it to the editor.
I got my first edit back from my people with red all over it. I had sent it to the editor too early. I knew it was too early. I know it was too early. I was so dissappointed. I thought I blew my chances because I got angry. What a stupid, stupid mistake! I'm a failure. After many revisions I sent an email to the editor, stating that I had read the article again and wanted to add/reword a couple things and that I would send an updated copy before the end of the week.
Not the impression I wanted to make. I hate when I make mistakes, especially simple ones. I hate when I miss lay ups. Yes, this is one of those blogs where I self-disclose some bit of information, but I must. You see the article was about growing up in foster care and I wrote this statement, "Those of us who come from these types of backgrounds are hard on ourselves. We do not need to be told what we are doing wrong. We have grown up believing that we were born wrong."
It's true. There are days that I go back to believing that I have one chance to fail or succeed. No matter how many times I prove this theory wrong it seems to haunt me like the ghost of some fish I caught. I've proved it wrong literally over and over again. I mean, I one time asked to be excused during the middle of an interview for my first professional job after graduate school because I had to use the rest room. I got up from the interview table, did my business and returned. I finished the interview and swore that I was done with that job possibility. I had failed. I had one chance and I failed. Needless to say, Twenty minutes later I got offered the second interview, three weeks later I got offered the job. I proved my theory wrong.
I know that my article is good, the one I've edited four plus times is better than the original I sent. But I am an imperfect perfectionist. I think that what I have will never be right and sometimes I hold so tightly to that thought that I cease to perform my best.
I think that there are many out there who hold so tightly to things, thinking that we only have one chance to fail or succeed. We only have one lay up, miss and sit, make and play. The reality of what I am relearning, because I never learned this as a child and many of us didn't, is that our failures, our misses don't make us failures. Its the way we get back up. Tomorrow I'll go play basketball and I'll make my lay ups. Today I'm editing my article and then sending it to the editor of a magazine, more confident than I was before. Who knows what will happen. But published or unpublished my success is in the effort of my learning, not in the consequences of a single mistake. That is something I can be proud of and with which I can stand having fully confidence that my past mistakes do not dictate my future successes. What we are to become remains solely up to us. I'm a good basketball player for a short guy one lay up will not persuade me otherwise.
I'm a self-proclaimed imperfect perfectionist. "Imperfect" being the key term that I'm most proud of.
I jumped. I was higher than them. (I can jump high, my dad told me so. For most people the encouragement my dad gave me would seem more out of duty, but my dad was honest when he said it. I know that he was honest because he and my mom one time agreed that I was a shrimp and told me so.) I hung in the air. I was so close. It was on my right side. I let it go with my right hand, I'm naturally left handed. The ball hit the backboard, the rim and came safely down with out going through the hoop. It was a missed lay up.
I jumped back up. I tipped the ball, the short giants didn't stop me. I hit the ball. It went up. It hit the backboard. It hit the rim. It came down without going through the net.
I missed a second lay up in a matter of 1 second, that's 00:00:01:00. The couch subbed me out. I rode the pine for the rest of the game. I have splinters on my butt.
For those of you wondering, I was playing in a faculty/staff vs. students basketball game to kick off Homecoming week at my university. As a point of note us, faculty/staff members, won in overtime.
I was really ticked off. I am a perfectionist. I hate missing even a single shot, let alone a lay up. I don't care how hard of a shot it is, if the ball hits rim I should have, could have made it go in.
Today, I finished an article for a magazine. I pitched an article about growing up in Foster Care. The magazine editors read some of my other material, including possibly this blog, and said, "Give us a 1000 words." I did. I wrote it. I finished it. I got so excited that I sent it to people to proofread, which is the right thing to do. I waited 25 minutes. I started to get anxious. What if it sucked? There's no way someone will publish my writing. I'm not that good. I'm a perfectionist it's probably not right and never will be. I proofread it one more time and sent it to the editor.
I got my first edit back from my people with red all over it. I had sent it to the editor too early. I knew it was too early. I know it was too early. I was so dissappointed. I thought I blew my chances because I got angry. What a stupid, stupid mistake! I'm a failure. After many revisions I sent an email to the editor, stating that I had read the article again and wanted to add/reword a couple things and that I would send an updated copy before the end of the week.
Not the impression I wanted to make. I hate when I make mistakes, especially simple ones. I hate when I miss lay ups. Yes, this is one of those blogs where I self-disclose some bit of information, but I must. You see the article was about growing up in foster care and I wrote this statement, "Those of us who come from these types of backgrounds are hard on ourselves. We do not need to be told what we are doing wrong. We have grown up believing that we were born wrong."
It's true. There are days that I go back to believing that I have one chance to fail or succeed. No matter how many times I prove this theory wrong it seems to haunt me like the ghost of some fish I caught. I've proved it wrong literally over and over again. I mean, I one time asked to be excused during the middle of an interview for my first professional job after graduate school because I had to use the rest room. I got up from the interview table, did my business and returned. I finished the interview and swore that I was done with that job possibility. I had failed. I had one chance and I failed. Needless to say, Twenty minutes later I got offered the second interview, three weeks later I got offered the job. I proved my theory wrong.
I know that my article is good, the one I've edited four plus times is better than the original I sent. But I am an imperfect perfectionist. I think that what I have will never be right and sometimes I hold so tightly to that thought that I cease to perform my best.
I think that there are many out there who hold so tightly to things, thinking that we only have one chance to fail or succeed. We only have one lay up, miss and sit, make and play. The reality of what I am relearning, because I never learned this as a child and many of us didn't, is that our failures, our misses don't make us failures. Its the way we get back up. Tomorrow I'll go play basketball and I'll make my lay ups. Today I'm editing my article and then sending it to the editor of a magazine, more confident than I was before. Who knows what will happen. But published or unpublished my success is in the effort of my learning, not in the consequences of a single mistake. That is something I can be proud of and with which I can stand having fully confidence that my past mistakes do not dictate my future successes. What we are to become remains solely up to us. I'm a good basketball player for a short guy one lay up will not persuade me otherwise.
I'm a self-proclaimed imperfect perfectionist. "Imperfect" being the key term that I'm most proud of.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I need to write, like advertisers need to put pants on their advertisments.
It is official. I have moved to the Dilworth area of Charlotte, NC. Dilworth is the community about a half mile to a mile and a half of the downtown Charlotte area. It's teeming with young professionals, cool looking older homes, good restaurants, bars, coffee shops. It's the city life I've been craving. I figured now that I should have more time, since I actually usually finish work at 5, I should probably look for a second job to pay for my habits. Those habits being coffee, cable tv, and traveling to South Africa for the World Cup. These are important habits to support, one stains your teeth, one rots your brain, and one potentially could kill you in a plethora of ways.
The reality is that I actually want to save money for these items. Hence, I figured I'd do something about it. I've always wanted to work in a coffee shop. This would be a very profitable endeavor as it would not only pay me, but support one of my habits, that being coffee for those of you wondering.
I have searched for barista positions. (Which I was slightly disturbed to realize that even males are baristas. I thought maybe as a male you would be a baristo. This is not the case.) Not being able to find any, I did what any self respecting 26 year old would do. Search Craiglist. I found a tab for both "writing gigs" and "writers wanted".
I thought to myself, "Self, this could be a great opportunity. Not only would it make you sit down and write, which would actually help me keep this blog updated because I am at times a slacker, but it would get you paid." I searched. There were a couple of ads that offered more than a little information to be desired such as "Looking for writers to write reviews. Please send cover letter and resume, along with writing samples for consideration." I decided to respond, but did not want any of my information out there in case it was a dismal attempt to steal my identity.
Here is the response (I have removed the reply back information):
Hi there,
Thanks for your interest in the website reviewer position. We are currently looking for honest people with a keen eye for detail to visit various adult sites online and write the things they like and dislike about each. We will require 12 reviews per week which are due by 2pm EST every Friday.
The starting wage for this post is $350 per week which rises after 6 months. No previous experience is required for this position. The only requirement we have is that you submit a 100-word review of the member’s area at a pre-selected site (www.exposedcelebrities.net). It's completely free to join so don't worry about any costs (be sure to cancel within 3 days or you will be billed).
Please submit this review to ... within 48 hours if you're still interested. This position can be taken from anywhere, it's going to be a home-based position. If this isn't for you we thank you for your time.
Thanks for your time
Yes. If I so chose I could have written reviews for dirty websites. Thank you craigslist. Naturally, I think this may be many other dudes dream jobs.
This is the conversation that went through my head.
"Hi Mom. Is dad there? Put him on the phone too."
"Mom, Dad, I have a paying writing gig."
"Yeah. I'm excited too. It pays $350 a week."
"No, it's not degrading at all. I review porn sites."
"Yes, I am an expert at that. I have a keen eye for detail."
"Is this weird for you all to hear?"
"Would you feel comfortable telling grandma that I made it as a writer."
"Thanks. I love you too. I'm glad you're so proud of me and helped me be the man I am today."
"The world will never be the same. Writing reviews is just the start."
It's not that I'm totally against writing porn reviews. It's just that I couldn't write any porn review with a straight face. Maybe, I'm not mature enough. Maybe, I'm just not the right guy for the job.
Insert joke where ever. I'm off to find a writing gig, or some other kind of gig that involves something where the people around me wear pants (which was originally a reference to the number of super bowl adds containing men without pants). Wish me luck. Hopefully I'll update this more and more as I continue to settle into my new life and schedule.
The reality is that I actually want to save money for these items. Hence, I figured I'd do something about it. I've always wanted to work in a coffee shop. This would be a very profitable endeavor as it would not only pay me, but support one of my habits, that being coffee for those of you wondering.
I have searched for barista positions. (Which I was slightly disturbed to realize that even males are baristas. I thought maybe as a male you would be a baristo. This is not the case.) Not being able to find any, I did what any self respecting 26 year old would do. Search Craiglist. I found a tab for both "writing gigs" and "writers wanted".
I thought to myself, "Self, this could be a great opportunity. Not only would it make you sit down and write, which would actually help me keep this blog updated because I am at times a slacker, but it would get you paid." I searched. There were a couple of ads that offered more than a little information to be desired such as "Looking for writers to write reviews. Please send cover letter and resume, along with writing samples for consideration." I decided to respond, but did not want any of my information out there in case it was a dismal attempt to steal my identity.
Here is the response (I have removed the reply back information):
Hi there,
Thanks for your interest in the website reviewer position. We are currently looking for honest people with a keen eye for detail to visit various adult sites online and write the things they like and dislike about each. We will require 12 reviews per week which are due by 2pm EST every Friday.
The starting wage for this post is $350 per week which rises after 6 months. No previous experience is required for this position. The only requirement we have is that you submit a 100-word review of the member’s area at a pre-selected site (www.exposedcelebrities.net). It's completely free to join so don't worry about any costs (be sure to cancel within 3 days or you will be billed).
Please submit this review to ... within 48 hours if you're still interested. This position can be taken from anywhere, it's going to be a home-based position. If this isn't for you we thank you for your time.
Thanks for your time
Yes. If I so chose I could have written reviews for dirty websites. Thank you craigslist. Naturally, I think this may be many other dudes dream jobs.
This is the conversation that went through my head.
"Hi Mom. Is dad there? Put him on the phone too."
"Mom, Dad, I have a paying writing gig."
"Yeah. I'm excited too. It pays $350 a week."
"No, it's not degrading at all. I review porn sites."
"Yes, I am an expert at that. I have a keen eye for detail."
"Is this weird for you all to hear?"
"Would you feel comfortable telling grandma that I made it as a writer."
"Thanks. I love you too. I'm glad you're so proud of me and helped me be the man I am today."
"The world will never be the same. Writing reviews is just the start."
It's not that I'm totally against writing porn reviews. It's just that I couldn't write any porn review with a straight face. Maybe, I'm not mature enough. Maybe, I'm just not the right guy for the job.
Insert joke where ever. I'm off to find a writing gig, or some other kind of gig that involves something where the people around me wear pants (which was originally a reference to the number of super bowl adds containing men without pants). Wish me luck. Hopefully I'll update this more and more as I continue to settle into my new life and schedule.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Following Dreams and Making Change
I love working on a college campus. The other day as I walked past the main entrance of the campus on my way to an office I passed a construction truck. The truck was sitting waiting for a goose to cross the street, which sounds like the start of a joke. Instead of honking his horn the driver, a young bearded man donning a red hat rolled down the window, leaned out and began quacking. I wondered, as I chuckled if this man really believed that he could persuade the goose to move more quickly across the street through quacking or if the man legitimately thought he could speak goose. I watched as I walked, knowing that as a university employee it might be a bad example to stop and stare at the man. It dawned on me though that this man may have very well just been entertaining himself while working, driving his truck to and fro with its heavy loads. I felt slightly bad for judging him as crazy.
A few steps later I narrowly passed a student who was dancing to his music. His mouth was moving slightly speaking the words while his legs and body were moving to the rhythm of the beat. He smiled at the words and danced his way off to what I assume to be his next class. I chuckled, as I turned and watched him dance away, smiling at the thought that he was happy.
I thought about how I want to live a big life, a life that makes people smile. There's songs that talk about dancing through life, specifically I think that's from the musical "Wicked", but I thought about how fun it looks to dance through life. I know there are ups and downs but the thought of living a passionate existence, wading through the muck and mire of everyday life is a thought that is truly exhilarating. The thought has stayed with me as I've stopped writing for the last couple of months. I stopped because I wanted to change from negative to positive. I stopped because writing stopped being my dream and started to be a duty.
Today I'm typing because I realized that writing makes me smile. Forming a thought into a coherent sentence, making that sentence a readable thought that could possibly embed into someone's soul is an awesome challenge that I truly believe could change the world. Working with students makes me smile. Just like talking to students, watching them follow their dreams makes my eyes light up and my heart fill. I apologize if this sounds sappy and sentimental, but the reality is that what I wanted and what I needed were right in front of me. I realized that I could not teach others to follow their dreams if I was not following my own. I would not tell others how to make change in their lives if I was not willing to change my own life.
This was hard to swallow. So before I wrote another word, before I finished another sentence. I made some changes. I looked at moving back to a state where I felt safe and comfortable. I thought about quitting my job and walking away completely from my current university and city. But ultimately I decided that I needed to stay in that city because leaving would be the safe choice, even though it sounds more radical. Following my dreams does not mean running away to the safe harbor, it means wading through the muck and mire to find the joy in doing what makes you come alive. My city was not the issue, I actually really like my current city. In the end I switched my position to a job that allows me more one on one student interaction, which I love. But you know what, ultimately I know that even that is not the issue. The issue lies in changing perspective, in finding what you are good at, what you are made to do and then throwing yourself into it.
I may or may not be a good writer. Hell, this may or may not make sense, maybe it seems like I'm a guy trying to get a goose to cross the road by quacking like a duck. But I know two things: I love writing and I love helping people. Maybe by removing the safe road I have allowed myself to make real positive change in my own life and opened up more of an opportunity to follow my dreams. At least I know this, while typing this in a crowded coffee shop while looking at a skyline, I'm dancing in my seat and it's not because I have to use the bathroom. It's because I'm confident this is right.
A few steps later I narrowly passed a student who was dancing to his music. His mouth was moving slightly speaking the words while his legs and body were moving to the rhythm of the beat. He smiled at the words and danced his way off to what I assume to be his next class. I chuckled, as I turned and watched him dance away, smiling at the thought that he was happy.
I thought about how I want to live a big life, a life that makes people smile. There's songs that talk about dancing through life, specifically I think that's from the musical "Wicked", but I thought about how fun it looks to dance through life. I know there are ups and downs but the thought of living a passionate existence, wading through the muck and mire of everyday life is a thought that is truly exhilarating. The thought has stayed with me as I've stopped writing for the last couple of months. I stopped because I wanted to change from negative to positive. I stopped because writing stopped being my dream and started to be a duty.
Today I'm typing because I realized that writing makes me smile. Forming a thought into a coherent sentence, making that sentence a readable thought that could possibly embed into someone's soul is an awesome challenge that I truly believe could change the world. Working with students makes me smile. Just like talking to students, watching them follow their dreams makes my eyes light up and my heart fill. I apologize if this sounds sappy and sentimental, but the reality is that what I wanted and what I needed were right in front of me. I realized that I could not teach others to follow their dreams if I was not following my own. I would not tell others how to make change in their lives if I was not willing to change my own life.
This was hard to swallow. So before I wrote another word, before I finished another sentence. I made some changes. I looked at moving back to a state where I felt safe and comfortable. I thought about quitting my job and walking away completely from my current university and city. But ultimately I decided that I needed to stay in that city because leaving would be the safe choice, even though it sounds more radical. Following my dreams does not mean running away to the safe harbor, it means wading through the muck and mire to find the joy in doing what makes you come alive. My city was not the issue, I actually really like my current city. In the end I switched my position to a job that allows me more one on one student interaction, which I love. But you know what, ultimately I know that even that is not the issue. The issue lies in changing perspective, in finding what you are good at, what you are made to do and then throwing yourself into it.
I may or may not be a good writer. Hell, this may or may not make sense, maybe it seems like I'm a guy trying to get a goose to cross the road by quacking like a duck. But I know two things: I love writing and I love helping people. Maybe by removing the safe road I have allowed myself to make real positive change in my own life and opened up more of an opportunity to follow my dreams. At least I know this, while typing this in a crowded coffee shop while looking at a skyline, I'm dancing in my seat and it's not because I have to use the bathroom. It's because I'm confident this is right.
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