Day 35: Neighbors with plows.

The snow piling up outside today made me realize that if you have a neighbor with a snowplow on a truck, you've done something right along the way.

I don't know if I've done anything right or it's just that I've gotten lucky, but I've had some great neighbors through the years. I had a neighbor Al who was retired and had a lot of time on his hands. He had two of every tool imaginable, worked part time in a hardware store, and knew what he was talking about. Al liked things precise and orderly. I was a young home owner with little kids running around. Keeping the yard up to his standards was possible. But according to Al, we were a big step up from the people who lived in the house before, so even though I knew he didn't like how my tree hung over into his yard, he didn't say anything about it. Al edged my lawn, let me borrow his tools, gave great advice (whether I asked for it or not), and was just a good guy.

Craig lived nearby and was a genius at just about everything. There pretty much wasn't anything you couldn't ask Craig about and he couldn't either fix it or know who could. Craig was matter of fact, did thing right, wasn't satisfied until everything was, and worked hard.

Same with Steve. He built his own house, built the cabinets and everything else in it, and knows how to fix anything. Steve has helped me put in a wood floor, fix a broken water pipe, put in counter tops, and a hell of lot more.

Today, my neighbor Andy plowed my driveway. Didn't ask him to. He just did it, along with the driveway of everyone else in the circle. He helped fix my daughter's care not too long ago, as well.

Pays to have good neighbors when it snows. 

Day 34: Being Humbled

In an odd way, I think being humbled once in a while is an incredibly positive experience. I use “humbling” in the sense of being knocked down a peg or two or having it pointed out that you’re not any more special than the slob standing next to you in line. I don’t mean “humbling” in the sense of being told you’re ugly or bald or you can’t sing or your golf game sucks. I don’t know anything about that. (cough)

Periodically, I’ve told my kids a story about being humbled in 7^th grade by my basketball coach, a ninja where the art of humbling was concerned. After the final Friday practice before our first game on Monday, he came to me in the locker room and told me I would be starting at point guard. One important condition, he said, was that I wasn’t to shoot—at all. I was out there to pass. He told me that over the weekend he would be driving by my house periodically to make sure that was the only I was practicing. Shooting was a no-no. Only passes off the side of the house.

True to his word, he drove by multiple times. Each time he found me doing only what he had instructed. When the game rolled around, he asked if I remembered his instructions. I said yes. He also told me under no uncertain terms was I to go below the free throw line when we were on offense because I was to be the first one back on defense. Hyped and full of myself, I said, “Sure thing.”

30 seconds in, I passed the ball to a teammate who put up a shot. Hyped and full of myself, I sprinted to the basket to put the rebound back in for a basket, only the ball bounce off the rim long to the other team, which proceeded to score an uncontested layup because, you guessed it, yours truly trekked below the free throw line. By the time the ball had come out of the night, I had barely made it back to half court.

40 seconds in, coach yanked me out of the game, asked in so many words if I had peanut butter for brains, and promptly exiled me to the end of the bench before I could answer. There I stayed the rest of that game and the next one, too.

“You know what I did?” I’d ask my kids.

“What?”

“I never went below the free throw line again.”

To this day, I respect the hell out of what coach did that day and the lessons he handed me. He humbled me, and I had it coming. I got caught up in the prestige of being a “starter” when what I should have been caught up in was making sure I did what a “starter” was supposed to do—perform.

Being humbled isn’t easy for most people I’ve found. I’m prideful (and just insecure) enough to not always take being knocked on my ass with the appreciation it probably deserves. Sometimes, it’s not been until much further down the road when the fog of anger and hurt has lifted that I’ve even been able to see the positives in taking some deserved lumps. In a lot of ways, it seems there aren’t many guys like coach around who are capable of giving a kid a hard life lesson. In a lot of way, the opportunity to even do so doesn’t exist. I miss the old-school ways of yesteryear in a lot of ways. I’ve never been in favor of belittling a kid, which I saw a little too much of growing up by all walks of people, but I find myself missing the days when kids seemingly weren’t the center of the universe simply because they’re able to eat, sleep, and breath but instead had to earn the right to be respected before they could demand it.  

Day 33: The Small Town Influence

Educated in a small town,

Taught to fear Jesus in a small town,

Used to daydream in that small town,

Another boring romantic, that’s me.

-               -John Mellencamp

Growing up in a small town was one of the most positive things to happen to me, and that remains true through today. I lived in a small town the first 17 years of my life. And though I haven’t lived in one permanently since, the influence of those years has never left. As I age, the desire to return to a small town and never leave only grows stronger. I can’t even say that I still love the particular small town I grew up in. I can say, however, I still love the notion of living in a small town.  I love the sensibility and the idea and the pace and security it offers. I love that everything is scaled down, and that there’s much less chance of being exposed to unrelenting examples of excessiveness.

Still, I get that a good many people who grew up in a small town perish the thought of ever having to go back. I understand the complaints about how confining a small town is, about how a small town can pigeonhole a person, about how a small town provides fewer opportunities, and about how reputations can be gained unfairly and allowed to run amok. I understand how a small town can label a person without much justification and then isolate and segregate that person. I understand how some people feel trapped, alone, stranded, and misunderstood in a small town. I can relate to the feeling that it’s difficult to reinvent yourself in a small town.  I especially understand the sense that “no one understands me here” that can come from living in a small town. 

When I was growing up in a small town, I completely understood the kids who declared, “I can’t wait to get out, and when I do, I’m not coming back.” I understood because I shared the feeling. I did want out. I didn’t intend on going back. I didn’t think a small town could give me what I needed. Hell, for the longest time, I sunk way too many hours awake at night dreaming of being a music writer who would drink himself to happiness or torment, whichever came first, all surrounded by the wonderfully sinister trappings only a big city could extend.  

That was a teenager’s dream, though. The more years that separate me from that kid, the more I realize how fortunate I was to have enjoyed my childhood and how positive of an influence it was throughout the rest of my life. I’ve come to realize that a lot of the notions I felt true of a small town are also true of a big city. I learned, for example, a person can be labeled and judged and stereotyped no matter where he lives. I learned a big city can provide avenues of opportunity, but if you don’t possess the skill or talent or attitude, it doesn’t matter. I’ve learned that a small town can isolate, but it can also liberate.

Looking back, I value that I not only knew every kid’s name in my class but also in my entire town. It made me a more attentive, compassionate being. I value the freedom I had to walk the streets at midnight without fear. It made me put a higher value on liberty and freedom. I value having been able to listen to trains moan off in the distance out of an open window without anything interrupting the serenade. It taught me to sit in stillness and just appreciate and wonder and imagine. I value having been able to ride my bike into the country and swim in the creeks with my friends, pick green apples, or just sit for hours and stare at a fishing pole with no urgency to be somewhere else. It taught me to be content.

I think most of all I value having experienced what it means to have a true sense of being home, of having a place that felt right. That’s the allure of a small town that sticks with me: being home, going home, feeling at home, feeling at peace.

I don’t know if I’ll die in a small town, but the idea is appealing. 

Day 32: Defining Positivity

Throughout February, I want to explore positiveness in ways that go beyond just writing about things that I feel positive about or people or experiences that have left me feeling positive. I want to get more in-depth with this experiment. I want to define what being positive and optimistic means to me specifically, but also what being positive means to others. I want to find out where those two worlds meet or if they can. I want to explore who and what are my own positive influences and why. I want to try and understand why I crossed paths with these people and if there was a destined reason for our encounters. I want to dig into what possessing a positive frame of mind really entails and if creating a positive outlook is something I can do whenever needed. I want to document those positive acts that I’ve witnessed and the ones that I’ve pulled off myself. I want to uncover what was beneficial about those moments and why they don’t occur more often. Most of all, I want to gain a clearer picture of if it’s possible for me to life a positive, optimistic life all day, every day. To be positive, I must know what positiveness is.

Help me out by detailing what being positive means to you. 

Day 31: A Month Of Being Positive

I did it. For 31 straight days I managed to think, feel, and write about something positive for at least a few minutes each day. I have to say I’m a bit proud of myself for doing so. I honestly didn’t know if I had it in me. I didn’t know if I could manage to not let my negative, beastly side show itself even once in these daily writing and offerings. I’m proud I was able to beat the beast back and keep him at bay, even if only temporarily, in order to instead allow myself to contemplate, envision, and grasp hold of positive emotions without feeling strange or disingenuous about it. I’m better for living these true moments filled with optimism.

I have no idea how this experiment will play itself out over the remaining 11 months of 2012, and I have no idea if I’ll indeed be permanently changed by this endeavor. I can say, however, that I’m pleasantly surprised at the results so far. I’m pleasantly surprised at how forcing myself to stop wallowing and whining and wishing and hoping and plotting and swerving and generally gravitating to misery has made me feel more enthusiastic for living, breathing, exploring, and welcoming the next moment, not fearing it or wondering if I’ll regret it.

Hey, I realize I’m not exactly tearing down the Berlin Wall here, but living a more purposeful life tinged with a positive vibe has been special so far. January is done. Now onto the rest of my days. 

Day 30: MMA

I'm cheating a bit today by reposting something I wrote quite a few months ago on my other blog concerning my love for Mixed Martial Arts. I write "love" in the sense that I love watching, reading, and analyzing it. To date, I have shown my love by actually participating, but I'm hoping to change that soon. Odd as it might sound, watching guys purposefully try to hurt each other leaves me feeling extremely positive, as I try to describe below: 

In recent years, I’ve grown an odd fascination with mixed martial arts. I’m hooked. I’m an unabashed fan who can't get enough. I’ve spent what has probably amounted to too many hours contemplating exactly why I’m so absorbed by violent kicks to the head, swinging elbows to the jaw, arms and legs being bent in directions that God didn’t intend them to. 

More often than not when my wife passes through a room in which I’m watching an MMA match, she’ll ask, “Why do you watch that stuff?” Typically, I start to mutter some kind of a reasonable explanation, only to usually end up slouching down in the couch, turning my head away, and trying to avoid the embarrassment that she expresses on her face for being married to someone who takes pleasure in watching two men purposely seek to make one another bleed.

Still, among those friends that share my appreciation for the sport, I’ve seldom felt a stronger kinship among people who share a like-minded interest, and that includes such passions I hold dear as kids, music, movies, writing, politics, golf, the Yankees, etc. When I’m talking the finer points of MMA with like-minded souls, I find myself blissfully content. When we’re analyzing upcoming matchups to Nth degree by drawing comparisons to previous matches and shared opponents, the strength of a fighter’s ground game vs. his striking ability, or the merit of his jujitsu, I think to myself, “If only I could put this much thought into my own future.” The whole topic baffles me to no end.

The feeling only compounds when I realize that pretty much throughout my entire life, I’ve hated both being in fights and watching them. Even when the fights I’ve seen (and I witnessed too many for my taste) had some kind of justifiable element to them, in that one of the guys/girls getting beat on had it coming, I’ve hated them. Even when I’ve had to fight for some reason or another that I really believed in, the feeling that I’d rather be anywhere else doing anything else was always present. To this day, when I see a physical confrontation occur, it sticks with me for days, and not in a good way. I vividly remember being in a cab years ago near Times Square. The cab in front of us screeched to a halt, only for the driver, a huge man, to jump out and sprint to the front of the limo parked in front of him, also being driven by an equally huge man. The two exchanged a few brief words and then set about pummeling each other in the middle of the street. To this day, the image takes me back because not only were they senselessly harming one another, but also because seemingly everyone on either side of the street and in the surrounding cars didn’t seem to take notice.

Maybe the reason I can rationalize MMA's worth is that to me, an MMA “fight” isn’t a fight. Rather, it’s a well-thought out, well-prepared for battle much in the same way two men form strategies during a game of chess and execute moves made to attack and defend. Rather than move pieces about a board, though, MMA “players” look to exploit physical weaknesses or vulnerabilities in an opponent. They seek to use their own strengths to exploit the other’s weaknesses. Not everyone who views MMA from the outside recognizes this, and I guess honestly, I don't expect them to. Violence is violence after all, whether the two participants are willfully engaging or not. 

Ultimately, there’s too much violence that already exists in the world without men and women willingly engaging in it. Would the world be a better place without UFC pay-per-views beaming into homes world-wise every month? Yeah, most definitely. Still, are these “battles” all that much different from the battles that take place in corporate America every day, where CEOs aim to permanently injure or maim competitors? Is it any worse than the political battles that occur every hour in Washington and play out on news TV 24/7 in which drastically divergent sides purposefully seek to discredit and damage one another in ways that are often dishonest and illegal? At least the participants in an MMA fight know they’re engaging in competition for which everyone knows what is allowable and what is not. Everyone knows the risks up front. Everyone knows what’s expected and what’s not. Further, I’d argue that the kind of mutual respect that takes place inside an eight-sided square during a MMA fight, especially following the battle, occurs in few other venues with as much genuine sincerity and purpose.  

I know this much about my fascination with MMA: At least in part, it’s directly tied to a lifelong appreciation/respect/admiration/etc. for the “warrior” mentality, particularly the samurai culture and lifestyle. I respect beyond all description anyone capable of making discipline not just part of his life but the reason he lives. So many people, including myself, waver day after day, often just to suit needs presently at hand with little or no thought. So many people push supposedly rigid ideals and morals aside without hesitation if it means propelling themselves even one step further to some kind of prosperity. So many people walk around obstacles instead of climbing them. So many people settle for less when more is possible because it might require a little extra effort. So many people refuse to sacrifice even the slightest because settling for mediocrity is far easier than working a little harder to obtain greatness. I admire anyone who possesses the discipline to push their boundaries and venture into the unknown. To seek what they’re truly capable of.

Are there knuckleheads who merely want to “rip somebody’s head off" in MMA circles? Hell yeah. But you can find “that guy” in any environment, and often you don’t have to look too hard. Few environments, however, provide the capacity that MMA does to both mentally and physically tap yourself dry—to really challenge yourself to not only meet fear in the eye but kick it the hell out of the way and stomp all over it as you keep walking to the unknown. I admire the hell out of that.

That’s how I see MMA. I wish there was an easy way to explain all that when my wife asks, “Why do you watch that stuff?” 

Day 29: Laying Around

I miss my dog Miles on Sunday mornings like this. Bit gloomy and overcast outside. Winter has barely sailed halfway by. No apparent reason to get up and get rolling. No reason to put one step in front of the other. Just a need to lay around and contemplate existence. To reason about the wonders of the world. To eat and drink when needed. To be thankful when appropriate, but mostly to relax.

Miles was a great laying-around partner. There's nothing truly like having a partner who shares the same bare-minimum expectations out of the day. Nothing like being in tune with someone or something else that just wants to lay around and not meet his potential for the time being. Nothing like having a dog that will just lay there at your feet, or even on them, and let you know there's no reason to go anywhere or be somebody or control anything or fall prey or hunt or devise or tinker or tweak or conjure or craft or bake or sew. Miles was the epitome of laying around, and I miss him dearly.

If you don't see the benefit in laying around from time to time, you're not doing enough of it. If you put in the time of laying around and still don't realize a benefit, you're not doing it correctly. Laying around isn't about being lazy. It isn't about wasting time. Laying around isn't about shirking responsibilities or "resting." Laying around is about exploring. About rejuvenating. Laying around is preparing. It's about reflecting on what's already happened so you'll know what you want to happen. Laying around is about reflecting on what's going to happen so you'll know how it might make you feel, react, or not react. Laying around is just as important as being up and on your feet; it's just that too many people missed the day of school when the teacher lectured about thinking and creating and imagining. I think more people would create and explore and even devise  if they would only lay around more.

That's my plan, anyway.