Day 118: Beer

I don't drink much anymore. In fact, I drink very little really. I was never someone who just went to the store and bought a case just for sitting around and drinking casually while doing nothing anyway. I saved my consumption up for a purpose usually, like making a fool of myself. Like professing love for some girl I'd never see again. Like picking a fight with someone I had no business picking a fight with. There were certain periods when I drank quite a bit, like in college and heading to the bar every night after work when I was reporter. (That was pretty much expected, however.)

These days, I pretty much save my consumption up for the three or four times a year I get together with old friends and gladly tell the same stories we've been telling for the last 30 or so years, which is cool. I don't jones for the stuff anyway. Rarely think about. Rarely wish I had a beer in my hand. But there are those days when it sure sounds good, including today for some reason. Never sure why. Never sure what brings it on. But today was one of those times. I didn't though. Sometimes, I think it's just better thinking about it than actually doing it. 

Day 117: Hush Little Baby

I'm feeling seriously sleep-deprived today. I'm tired. The kind of tired that makes it difficult to think long enough to string more than a few words together without making tyop after tpyo after ytpo. I'm used to a certain lack of sleep. My wife is, as well. Our lives are weird and strange and chaotic and demanding and filled with stress and tension and responsibilities--pretty much like everyone else's lives, so there's no complaining about it. No whining. Just dealing with it. Accepting it. Taking it as it comes and living with the headaches that literally come from not getting enough ZZZZs. It is what it is. 


The positive side of lacking missing hours of sleep is that sometimes the reason it occurs is because I was providing comfort, namely to a child. Such was the case last night. I heard my little girl crying in her bed and was compelled to find out why. My wife is not any different in this regard, and she would have been the one to go to her aid if only she had heard her first, which is a great many cases she does. The worst sound in the world to me is a child crying in there bed in the middle of the night. It's never for a good reason. I suspect a nightmare was the source of my baby's discomfort last night. Sometimes it's because she's ill or wakes up in the dark confused or lonely. Whatever the reason, when I hear a cry in the middle of the night, it shoots a panic alarm off in my soul that's unlike any other feeling I've experienced. Last night wasn't filled with that type of panic, just the same amount of concern. 


The greatest feeling in the world for me as a parent is helping a child fall back to sleep. Just stroking their hair, humming or singing, telling a story, or even crawling into bed, snuggling up, and falling asleep for a few hours yourself. What power. What a gift. What a true means to relay compassion and warmth and security. That's all kids are looking for in a parent, after all, comfort and security. They just want to feel that everything is OK. They don't necessarily want to hear it. They want to feel it. They want to know the adult in their room is going to chase the shadow away. They want to know the mommy can explain what that noise was. They want the daddy to be there at the ready, willing to face down any dangers that should enter the door. They just a big, warm arm wrapped around them to keep them nice and tidy for a few hours. They want logic explained in a way they can understand. 


I don't function well without sleep. I'm pretty pathetic in fact. I make mistakes. I'm irritable. I slack and fall behind. My head hurts. My eyes can't focus. I'm a general mess. But I'll willingly go without if it means giving a few more hours back to a child. She deserves it, and I know she'll do the same for her kids. 

Day 116: I Need Your Advice

This week is a good example of those times when staying positive is difficult for me. I’ve been really down on myself all week, and for not really good reasons. I’m doing positive things. I’m recognizing the positivity in moments happening before my eyes. The setbacks I’ve experience have been relatively minor in the big scheme of things. Yet, I feel like crap about myself.

Encouraging others to stay positive is something I think I’ve always been good at. Having coached a lot of kids in a lot of different sports and having been coached myself has helped me learn that skill. Having my own kids who are of spread out age-wise and who are very different personality-wise also helped me learn different ways to communicate encouragement. That’s a must, because as a friend so aptly pointed out to me today, not everyone responds to encouragement and motivation the same way. In fact, some people don’t need much encouragement at all. They don’t want a pat on the back. They know when they’ve done a good job. Others need it constantly.

One thing I don’t think I’ve ever been good at is helping myself stay positive. I’m lousy at it. When I get down on myself, I really get down on myself, as in “you’re such a piece a crap” getting down on yourself. I have my theories where this trait stems from, and I recognize it’s certainly not doing me any good in the present or the long run to beat myself silly with the self-loathing. Still, for as long as I remember, no matter how much I tell myself, “You’ll be alright, kid, just keep plugging away,” there’s an a-hole voice in the back of my head that counters with, “No you won’t, sucka. You don’t measure up.” I tend to listen to that little bastard more often than the do-gooder who is offering me a glimpse at the light.

But how to smack the bastard in the mouth and shut him up for good? That I don’t know. What works? How does one keep himself up? How do one keep himself putting one foot in front of the other? I’m not a quitter. I’ll gut whatever it is I’m doing out. I just don’t always feel good about myself while I’m doing whatever it is I’m doing. I’m not afraid of challenges, either. In fact, the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve welcomed them. But I want to learn to gauge my expectations, and if things don’t go my way along the way, I don’t want to feel like I’m toiling away for nothing.

So, what’s your advice? What words do you offer yourself to make you believe in yourself? What gets you through the struggles with a positive state of mind? Was there a turning point you arrived at? Is the trait inherent or can it be learned? I want your advice. If you read this blog, leave a comment here or Facebook or Google+ or however you ended up here. I’m always up for learning a few trade secrets, especially ones that will round me out. 

Day 115: I Wish I Would Stop Wishing

Today, I’m going to give myself a long overdue pep talk. I’m going to tell myself something I’ve told myself before but need to again.

Self, stop spending your time thinking about things you want to create and spend your time creating them.

I need this pep talk because I realize I’m letting myself down. I realize I’m not doing everything I can to make myself a more complete and happier person. I'm holding myself back. Why? I’m afraid what I produce won’t be good enough. It's that simple. 

I’m thinking these things because of a conversation I had today that centered on wishing for things instead of doing things, about talking about doing things instead of just getting to work.

Time to stop wasting time.

I’ve had a similar conversation with several people over the years about writing and art in general. Somehow the topic of being a writer will come up, and the other person will say something along the lines of, “I wish I could write.” My contention is and always will be that you can. My contention is that everyone can write. You just have to do it. Make no mistake, I do believe there are different levels of writing. Some writers are extremely vulnerable and will take their writing places that a majority of people fear to visit, let alone document and share publically. Some writers have immense vocabularies and use that skill well. Others possess the same wealth of words but use them poorly. Some writers are structurally perfect and abide by all the grammar rules. Others barely know what an adjective is but express meaning and emotion flawlessly, if not unconventionally. But no matter what “level” of writer a person falls into, my contention is that they can write. Why? Because every individual has a distinct, meaningful voice. Some people just don’t know how to use that voice or don’t want to use that voice or been told their voice doesn’t matter or been threatened not to use that voice or are waiting for a good reason to use the voice or are attached to any number of different situations for which they don’t put pen to paper. But they still have a voice.

In all honesty, I have no idea how good of a writer I am. I really don’t have a good idea of what even constitutes a good writer. I know that when I read someone’s stuff I recognize what I believe is good or not, but as for myself, I really can’t be objective about it. There used to be a time when I cared. Over the years, though, I’ve sincerely stopped giving a crap. Someone thinks I’m good enough to pay me to do it every day, so there’s that, and sitting at a desk writing for a living is a hell of a lot easier on the body and my personal longevity than digging holes, working in a construction job, landscaping yards, sucking up fumes in a factory, and a lot of other jobs. And I speak from lots of experience there. But although I take pride in my work, which is writing, I don’t really care anymore whether I perceive it to be good or not. There are more important things for me to care about, such as focusing on what my writing is saying vs. how well I’m saying it.   

I myself have said many, many times, “I wish I could paint” or “I wish I could draw” or “I wish I could take photographs.” The thing is, I can and I do. It’s just that what I produce isn’t at the level that I would like it to be, so I don’t do it nearly enough, although I enjoy doing it. So, I understand what people are trying to convey when they say “I can’t write.” But this is all bullshit. Despite not being able to obtain or display a certain skill level, my paintings and drawings are still uniquely mine. They represent my vision, just as my writing represents my thoughts and perceptions and purpose. Why not do it?

Too often, I think the message gets buried in the structure. Some people take a real nice photograph with plenty of smiles and big wide teeth showing, but what are they saying? They’re documenting a moment in time, but what is the message? Sometimes, I can’t tell. In other words, I’d rather read someone’s grammatically incorrect sentences that are full of truth and reason and emotion and honesty than someone’s pristine copy that only regurgitates what a whole lot of people have previously uttered. I want perspective. I want insight. I want opinion. I want uniqueness. I want personal observations and retrospections. I don’t want static. I don’t want vanilla. I don’t want gloss or flash or unwavering by-the-rulebook mish mash. I want grit and grime. I want words that are meant to instigate thought, not impress because of sound sentence structure. Screw that. I’d rather read something from someone who “can’t write” than someone who can but has nothing to say.

The world would be a better place if everyone was forced to produce art. To really produce art. Not manufacture it, but build it from the bottom up. If everyone had to stop for a half hour a week and turn the TV off, put the cell phone down, and hone in on what they’re seeing and hearing and feeling and transfer that into something the world would be better.

Guys who build motorcycles and cars? That’s art. Women who sew quilts? That’s art. Chefs who shape food? Art. Backyard gardeners? Art. What makes them different from people who say “I wish I could . . .”? They do it. What the hell are we afraid of? Someone won’t like what we turn out? So what? Someone might snicker? Big flipping deal. It might not meet our personal standards? So, alter your standards. Just create. There’s no failure in trying. And that goes for myself.

Day 114: Saying, “I’m Sorry”

Yesterday, I read an amazing article published at OregonLive.com that a friend posted on Facebook. I’m so thankful I took the time to actually click the link and read it. Often, I see things that look interesting or that I know I should spend a few minutes reading or looking at but don’t for one reason or another. I often think that when I do, there’s a higher power at work that leads me to veer down a tangent I didn’t expect to travel on in order to learn a lesson or identify an issue I’ve been neglecting or to just contemplate the importance of some aspect of my life that I haven’t been devoting enough attention to. Whatever the reason, yesterday, I took a few moments, stepped off the beaten path, and was greatly rewarded for doing so and by what I found.

Though I highly encourage everyone to read the article, if you don’t, it essentially boils down to a man making an apology to another man who he felt he had done wrong. It’s that simple; a basic story that details a man’s need to say, “I’m sorry, and I needed you to hear that.” But this article is also about so much more. It’s about perseverance and morals and ethics and bravery and humbleness and introspection. It’s about looking deep within yourself, recognizing you’ve made mistakes, and recognizing that you can become a better person by staring down those mistakes and rectifying them, no matter how difficult or exhausting or painful it may be. This is an article about a man who as a boy felt he had dishonored a teacher. Thirty-nine years later he did something about it by making amends for his actions. It’s an article about healing painful wounds. Who doesn’t have some of those in his or her closet that could use some exorcising?

The article led me into some deep thought concerning the various apologies that I need to make myself. The wrongs that I need to make right. The people I did wrong and how it may have changed them. How if I’d have carried my actions out differently, their lives may have turned out slightly different, too. Everyone has such apologies to make. Everyone puts at least some of these on the backburner. Everyone eventually puts enough distance between their transgressions and themselves, whether purposefully or because they lack the courage or vulnerability or humbleness to confront and rectify them. Despite the time and distance, though, the mistakes we’ve made, particularly the egregious ones, remain. They don’t truly disappear.

As in the case of the man in this article, it’s understandable why we make some mistakes. We can go to great lengths to rationalize some errors and even fully believe the rationalizations. Still, no amount of rationalization will truly ease the discomfort of knowing you’ve caused someone pain, intentionally or not. It won’t dissipate completely the discomfort and disappointment and truth that we know about ourselves, that when we were faced with some type of adversity, we took the easy way out or looked the other way rather than risk vulnerability or demonstrate strength in order to do the right thing at the right time.

I know I’ve failed to do the right thing at the right time many times. I know some of those failures are probably forgivable, but they’re still failures. Forgiving them doesn’t change the fact that I wavered when I should have stood tall. It doesn’t change the fact that I kept my mouth shut when it should have been wide open. It doesn’t change the fact that instead of stepping directly into battle, I flinched momentarily or failed to engage at all.

Positively, I think that as I’ve aged and grown more aware of the importance of standing on principles, I’ve done a better job of making it clear where I stand and taking decisive action when it was needed, whether that meant risking exposing myself in some way or putting myself in the minority and risking the contempt and ridicule of the larger majority. Still, I know there are those who I owe an apology to, those who I should have stepped up and fought for but didn’t. Whether it was a classmate so many years ago who could have benefited from having me fight on their behalf against or a child being berated by a parent in the grocery store, I know I could have done more. Whether it was a girlfriend I could have treated better or a stranger I could have reached out to with aid and comfort, I know I could have done more. Whether it was family I took my anger out on or friends I took for granted, I know there are apologies to make.

I’m not sure where one should draw the line between simply learning from your past and actively doing something to address the past, between letting sleeping dog lie and making a wrong a right. I’m not sure if some people even want such apologies. Perhaps they’ve made their own peace and it didn't require having anything to do with those who slighted them. I do know there’s much to be gained from reflecting on those you’ve failed and using that knowledge to not let it repeat in the future. I do know that I sincerely mean it when I say if I’ve done you harm or caused you pain, I do apologize.

Day 113: Reversing Roles

One of my favorite games to play with my daughter, 4, is letting her pretend that she's the mom and that I am the child. She absolutely loves it, and so do I.

Tonight she asked to play that very game, and of course, I obliged. Immediately, "mom" informed me that she had to venture off to work, but not before saying, "I love you, my boy. I'll miss you. And when I come home I'll cook your favorite supper. Macaroni and cheese." And off to work she went, but not without telling me she would call me to make sure I was doing OK, and also not without introducing me to my new babysitter who she reassured me would play all my favorite games. Sure enough, it wasn't 15 or 30 seconds later when she called me on her imaginary phone, asking, "My son, how are you doing? Are you taking a nap like a good boy? When I get home I'll play with you and tell you story."

My part in this game is to act every bit like the little boy. Fail to do so, and she'll let me know sure enough. It's easy enough to do if you just let your imagination go and play along. That's hard for some adults. Maybe it speaks to the state of my maturity, but pretending I'm a little boy isn't all that difficult. (That's a little worrisome, I suppose.) Not too much later, my "mom" told me she didn't have to go back to work anymore, and she proceeded to push me on the swing, which I very much actually enjoyed.

Letting your kid lead you along in play is so important and so educational, and not for the kid but for the parent. You can learn a lot about how your kid perceives you and what exactly your importance to her is. You can learn a lot about how well you play as an adult, how well you make time for them, and how well you listen. If you're child acts and talks and conducts herself in a way you'd expect and like an adult to act, you're probably doing a good job as a parent and as an adult yourself. Luckily, I didn't hear my daughter dropping any F-bombs or scream at me or berate me or tell me to bugger off when I asked her to push me on the swing some more. Maybe I'm doing something right.

Letting your kid lead you in play also lets the child make the decisions. It let's them be the responsible one. It enables them to think on their feet. Think in a hurry. It enables them to be in a position of power and authority. I love when my daughter gets to step outside her comfort zone and take on something new. I love it more when she guides and directs me. She's good at it, and it makes me listen and follow. That's an important trait I don't think enough parents engage in. That's too bad. There's so much to be learned from the other side of the fence.

Day 112: Patience

I think an important part of being positive, or at least attempting to be more positive, is learning to be more patient, something that's not always easy for me. I get irritated, sometimes too easily. I know it's due in part to a lack of sleep, something that seems to have plagued the last two decades of my life. But I also get irritated easily because I live with a lot of diverse people. As much as I love them and they love me, it's hard sometimes to carve out your own quiet place, something that everyone needs. I adore my little girl. Absolutely adore her. But there are those moments when a 44-year-old man doesn't want to sit in the sandbox and build yet another city out of wet sand. He wants to sit in the lawn chair and read all afternoon. Those moments require patience. There are moments when I don't want to see another strange face passing through my house. I just want to sit on my couch, comforted by the knowledge that this is my domain. Sharing space with teenagers doesn't allow that. This requires patience. My wife is an absolutely animal lover. She'll invite an elephant in off the street if she runs into one. I love this about her. I also get annoyed by the overabundance of little paws pittering and pattering across my floor. This requires patience. I'm guessing my family would argue that I'm no more patient now than I have ever been, but I do notice a change in myself since I've embarked on this journey of positiveness. I do notice I'm less likely to feel irritated or annoyed, or at least it takes more to get me to that state. That's a good thing. I needed it. Lord knows I give people enough reasons to be annoyed and irritated with me.