Day 104: Fight Club

First rule of Fight Club is that I must talk about Fight Club. Just finished watching for like the 100th viewing, and I learn more about myself each time. I don't even consider Fight Club a movie any longer. I consider it a manual. A template. A wake up call. Motivation. Not to destroy but to come alive. Not fear. Not fret. Not flinch. Just do and keep doing. React. Be. I don't consider Fight Club cinema. I consider it essentially.

There are a lot of ways to interrupt Fight Club, and I've heard a lot of them. Mine is the importance of cutting out what is not essential and redefining what is.

Day 103: Rain

Every spring I hear this person or that person or many persons complain each time it rains. I hear them denounce the rain. State what a nuisance it is. Declare that it is welcome or needed. Even during years when it doesn’t rain all that much and it’s beyond obvious that more rain than less is exactly what’s needed, such as this season where I live, people still complain. Well, speak for yourself, because I don’t feel that way.

Give me a good rainy spring day or night any time. For auditory reasons alone, I’m more than happy when a steady rain falls from the heavens. The pit and pats. The smacks and whacks. The drip, drip, drips. They make my blood flow. They lift my spirit.

Really, there’s very little I can think of that’s as seductive to me as the splattering of a rain falling from the sky, especially one that’s backlit by a soft yellow glow floating outward from a procession of streets lights lined up and down an avenue. It’s a magical and mysterious atmosphere that’s created. It’s an atmosphere that conjures thoughts, good and bad. That births possibilities.

A rain cleanses. It purifies. It drives away the dust and dirt. It creates its own presence.

Some of the best moments of my life have occurred during a rainstorm. Some of my best memories featured rain as a backdrop. Some of the most enlightening minutes I’ve spent on earth where experienced standing under the open sky as the water drenched me.

Your life been feeling stale and without purpose? Been feeling lethargic and undetermined? Lacking motivation and a sense of being? Stand in the rain for even a few minutes. Let it send some shivers down your spine. Let it raise goose bumps. Let a rain pour down over you. Let it soak your clothes. Let it sting your bare arms. Stomp in a puddle. Smell the freshness of the grass. Listen and watch the trees accept the gift. You’ll feel refreshed and renewed. You’ll feel alive. You’ll know there’s a greater power at work than yourself. Better yet, let your dog run in the rain. Let your small child or grandchild dance in the wetness. Watch the excitement and wonder that comes across their faces. Then you’ll know the rain’s magic.

I don’t mind at all if the rain drives me indoors. It’s a message I need to get something done. It’s a sign I need to take notice of something that’s not outdoors. It’s an opportunity to just walk to a window and stare outward. An escape from looking inward. It’s a chance to just witness.

Better yet, get yourself a lawn chair, unfold it in your garage, sit down, and pretend you’re watching a really good movie or a play unfolding in front of you. Don’t force the action; just let it come to you. Watch the birds soak it in. Watch the grass pop and bend. Revel in the tinks and tats of the raindrops spitting off the gutter. Stick your bare foot under the gutter and let the rain’s residue chill you. Let it move you. Let it dictate how you feel. I don’t think you’ll be sorry. 

Day 102: Go Climb A Tree

Something I haven’t done in longer than I can remember is climb a tree. I’m thinking it’s about time I did so again, though. There aren’t really a lot of good candidates in the neighborhood where I live. It’s a fairly new housing development, and nearly all the trees are less than 10 years old and not fit to provide a really good view. But I’m sure with a little effort, travel, and tree sightseeing I can find something that will suit my needs.

Why even bother? Because I think every once in a while you have the change your view. You have to seek out a safe sanctuary that puts you back in touch with the basics. You have to rise above the mundane and invent a little excitement and wonder. And the sanctuary you seek out can’t one that’s provide by just locking yourself away in a room, and the view can’t be one obtained by just taking an elevator to the top floor or looking at your window. You need to take a unique, off-the-beaten journey to get the full effect. You have to switch things up. You have to get Zen about this stuff or you’re just becoming part of the scenery and not appreciating the simple pleasures it provides. Every once in a while, you have to put the fork in the opposite hand and see how it feels. You have to put your socks on before your pants. You have to sleep on the opposite side of the bed, drive down different roads, and wear your hair a little differently. Well, that last example isn’t a good one in my case.

Look, I’ve been called a “tree hugger” once or twice in my time, but it’s not like I have an affinity for scaling large plants. I’m just determined that at this point in my aging life to do things occasionally that are far removed from sitting down or typing or cleaning or fixing something. I’m determined to do something that defies my age—that in fact de-ages me. Are there legions of men around the world climbing trees? Hell, I don’t know. I don’t care. That’s the point. I don’t want to care about some things. I just want to do. Too much thought equals too much anxiety equals too many obstacles equals never getting anything done.

Am I worried about falling out of the tree? Maybe. Is that worry going to stop me? Hell, no. I’ve fallen out of trees before. And even if I do again, it will be worth it. Just like it’s worth it every summer when I take a dive down the Slip N’ Slide with my daughter and feel the aches and pains the next day. You just have to put the brain on idle once in a while and let the heart take over.

When I do find that tree, I’ll be sure to take a few photos and share the view.  

  

Day 101: Wiggenhorn Park

If a kid is lucky, he comes across a park that he can come to call his own. A boy needs a park, a place he can escape and laugh and learn and be free.

I’ve been lucky in that pretty much everywhere I’ve ever lived there was within walking distance a park. In college the beautiful Harmon Park in Kearney, NE, was just a few blocks from our house, and it was a fantastic place to sneak away to. It came complete with a cool little stone castle, rock gardens, quality tennis courts, and plenty of room for Frisbee golf.

Straight out of college in North Platte, NE, I lived in a house that was directly across the street from a park that was surrounded on all sides in a circle by houses. Not only was it a nice neighborhood to live in, the nature of the circled houses kept the park fairly hidden and private. Better, it had a nice basketball hoop, which always scores points in my book.

When I moved to Lincoln, NE, just over the hill from the trailer (yes, trailer) that I lived in with a friend was an elementary school that, you guessed it, had a basketball court, plus some other goodies, including a bike path right off the edge of the property. Later, when I moved across town, the glorious Hazel Abel Park was within three blocks of my apartment, and I spent many afternoons there contemplating life.

The first house I lived in with my wife in west Lincoln was located a block away from an elementary school that had a ton of playground equipment for our kids to go crazy in. We often walked over and climbed the jungle gym and spent care-free hours that I still treasure.

When we moved to north Lincoln, there was a small park with a few toys, including a twisting jungle gym I’ve never seen since, barely a block away. There was another park just down the bike path that ran directly behind our house that was bigger and possessed one of the steepest slides I’ve ever witnessed.

When we moved to our current house even more north of Lincoln roughly 10 years ago, there wasn’t a park anywhere in the vicinity, but there was one that was promised to be built. Eventually, that park came to fruition and is just two blocks down the street tucked into the wetlands that surround the neighborhood. Although the park lacks a whole lot in the way of toys, there is a walking path that takes you nice and deep into the wetlands, and we’ve spent countless hours there with all our kids.

For me, though, the park I will always call my own is Wiggenhorn in Ashland, NE. That’s the park where I grew up. That’s where I learned to swim. That’s where I played baseball and football and basketball and tennis with my friends. That’s where the neighborhood kids would gather with their toys guns, swords, knives, and whatever other weapons they could pull out of their toy boxes and closets and proceed to divide into two teams and wage war in a long game of “army,” climbing trees and hiding in bushes waiting in ambush.

Wiggenhorn is where I won the Longest Snowball Throw contest during the Winter Carnival, and it’s where the other neighborhood kids and I would take our sleds in the winter and go down the hill next to the park, climb back up, and do it all over and over again. Wiggenhorn is where I hung out until the tennis court lights would automatically shut off at 11 p.m. and then longer. It’s where I learned about girls and later swung on the swings at night with girlfriends.

Wiggenhorn was the park where my 5th birthday party was held, and it’s where my extended family on my mom’s side would gather for Memorial Day and Labor Day and other holidays when I was young and play long games of softball.

Wiggenhorn is where my grade school classes would trek at the end of the school year for a picnic, bringing our own lunches and pop and playing games before we separated for the summer.

Wiggenhorn is where I heard my friend’s girlfriend say, “Ewww, that’s gross” from behind the bush next to the one I was in, making time stand still in uncomfortable silence until my girlfriend and I could no longer contain our laughter.

Wiggenhorn is the park where a 15-year-old girl slapped the holy hell out of me when I threw a firecracker too close to the kid she was babysitting. It’s the park where the game Tennisball—a combination of tennis and baseball played by two-man teams on one side of the courts and that outlawed home runs—was invited. It’s the park where my fellow track team members would venture to and play baseball with the local kids instead of running the miles we were supposed to.

Wiggenhorn was home to the baddest-ass rocking seesaw the world has ever known and the even more bass-ass four-seated merry-go-round that came with a push-pull handle that let you achieve unbelievable and incredibly dangerous speeds.

Wiggenhorn was the site where the Kendall Colts battled the El Rancho Raunchos in epic football games on Saturday afternoons, as well as against the boys from the East Side. It’s the place I ice skated for the first time, flew a kite, skateboarded, spent hours shooting baskets, and occasionally fell asleep at after stopping to take a breather during a late-night walk home from one party or another.

Wiggenhorn is the place I went down a tornado slide for the first time, and it’s where I snuck a kiss here and there.

Wiggenhorn will always be my park.

Day 100: 100 Days Of Positivity & Counting

April 10 marks the 100^th straight day that I’ve written about one topic or another that paid tribute in some manner to positivity. My goal with this blog from the very outset back on January 1 was to keep this up for an entire year, and I have every intention to see that through. Truthfully, though, if something unfortunate was to happen to me and this was the last day I was able to post an entry, I’d be proud of this effort. Early on in those first few weeks of writing, I had my doubts I’d make it this far. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do this day and day out or that I even wanted to. There have a few days when I just wasn’t feeling “it,” not until I forced myself down at the typewriter and put my toes in the fire. Early on, I wasn’t sure my eyes could recognize enough glimmer in the world to see something positive about it each and every day. Even now, as I type these very words, I wonder if it will be possible to write about 366 different positive topics. I’m determined to give it a good try, though, and that in and of itself is something positive.

I can say that I did set out on this goal with complete and utter commitment in mind. I really am devoted to exploring the positivity that life has to offer, and more specifically, the positivity that is at work in my life. My conviction to that aim is true, and that, too, is something positive.

A lot of entries have stemmed from my love of certain facets of life, such as writing or sports or playing guitar or family, and the positive influences those aspects have had on me and me thinking and my approach to living. Other entries have stemmed from past events or memories and how they have transcended time and live on in the present. Others entries still have spawned from current events and contained my interpretations of such, as well as my deductions of what is positive about those situations that I can take away.

I have no idea how successful any of these attempts definitively been, but from a learning standpoint at least, I know I’ve gained a great deal. I didn’t set out with the intention of this blog having any impact other than to hopefully make myself a better, more appreciative person. In that regard, I think it’s been a success. I do feel more aware of the objects and people and feelings that I encounter throughout my days that lend some type of encouragement. I do feel more cognizant of the factors at play that lift me up throughout my waking hours, that give me hope, that lend some promise and optimism. I do feel blessed to have applied myself to view the world through a different filter, to hear words with a different ear, to experience moments with arms open and accepting vs. closed and guarded. I do feel blessed to seek out positivity vs. pessimism.  

Moreover, I’ve been beyond pleased at the number of people who have read these posts and shared them with others. To date, the blog has had nearly 3,400 page views. Certainly, that’s nothing earth shattering, and I’m by no means every going to be a threat to breaking the Internet, but still, I never expected even a sliver of those views. I never expected the kind of remarks that various people have made along the way, and I never expected that some of the things I’ve written would have sparked similar feelings in some people. I’m extremely thankful for that. I’m extremely appreciative for the encouragement. Hell, I’m extremely appreciative for any reaction at all. Sometimes, life really surprises you, and I think I’ve learned that not all surprises have to be negative ones.

Here’s to 266 more days. 

Day 99: True To Thyself

I've found that no matter who  you are, where you live, who you surround yourself with, where you venture, what you do for a living, and so on, people are always testing you. They test your convictions. They test your patience. They test your morals and morale. They test your virtue. They test you character. They test your strength and intelligence. People are always testing you. Always pushing and prodding to find out what you're made of or what you lack. They test your endurance. They test your trust. They test your memory. They test your decision making. People live to test others.

At least for me, the key is not refusing to take the tests. The key is not caring what score I get. My every last intention is to stick on the path that I've chosen. I've chosen that path for a reason. I know what's on the path. I know where the path began. I may not know where it will end, but I believe I know what I'll find when I read the conclusion, and I believe I know that's what I desire.

If someone wants to knock me off the path, so be it. I expect it. Sometimes, I even welcome the challenge. If someone is persistent and makes it his or her mission to make me forget my way, so much so that he or she neglects to get on their own path, too bad for them. My job is to keep stepping back on the path and keep taking steps. My job is to believe in why I'm on the path. Trust in the path. Be part of the path. Know that I'm on it for a reason and that despite those who would take pleasure in preventing my from taking another step, I don't have time to oblige their fancies. I've work to do. I've learning to do. I've enlightenment to obtain. The tests are part of that enlightenment. Taking time to contemplate the intent behind the tests or waiting around for their judgment aren't.

I have nothing against a challenge or forced reflection, but when it's misguide or full of contempt or delivered with malice, that's another story. I have fewer years ahead of me than behind. I can't waste my moments wondering off on side tangents that don't lead anywhere other than straight into a wall, possibly the same walls I've already run into. I'll take your tests when I deem them worthy. But I won't wait around for you to total my score. I'm not concerned in the least with your grade. Save it for someone who wants to be lost. 

Day 98: Playing Catch

I love playing catch, the kind with a glove and ball. I'll play with anyone. I'll play with an eight-year-old, 98-year-old, and anyone in between. I love the pop of the glove. I love the feel of the ball in my hand. I love the feel of the seams on my fingers. I love the smell of the ball, but the smell of my glove even more. Most of all, I love the memories playing catch brings back.

This afternoon, I played catch with my 14-year-old daughter. Each time I threw her the ball, I could picture her at five and then eight and then 10. I could see her aging through the years, and honestly, it made me a little sad to see this girl nearly as tall as me standing there across the lawn, older and wiser and more independent and one year closer to being out on her own. It made me a little nostalgic for the days when I was teaching her how to catch, how to step into her throws, how to open her glove like an alligator to pick up grounders. It made me a little woozy inside knowing those days are gone and they aren't coming back. I wonder if we'll always be able to play catch. If there will come that day when I ask her to play but she'll say she doesn't really like that stuff anymore. I wonder if there will come that day when she'll play with her own kids and or I will. I hope so. 

I've played catch with my own dad. We were playing the day the ball sailed over my head and into the neighbor's yard. When I went to retrieve it, their Dalmatian sprung up and bit my on the neck, and when I knocked him off and ran for all my life was worth, he snatched his mouth around my arm and I drug him a while until my dad put his boot right into his belly and the dog whimpered home. Yet another time my dad saved my ass. 

I've played catch with more cousins than I can count. More friends than I can count. I've played catch with my girlfriends. I played catch my co-workers during our breaks. I learned to throw a knuckleball while playing catch. I learned to throw a curveball doing the same. I've played catch with my wife and all of my kids, other than my four-year-old, and I'm sure we'll play more times than she'll probably want. 

There's something about playing catch that transcends time. Father and sons. Mother and daughters. Grandparents and grandchildren. Playing catch bridges generations. 

Playing catch requires concentration but absolutely no focus at all. Playing catch is magical. It's leather and cowhide and air and sun and time. It's conversations or saying nothing at all. It's pitching and catching. It's popflies and grounders. 

Playing catch is simplified beauty.