Day 139: Waiting On The Storm

Love when a thunderstorm starts to roll in. I'm not always crazy about the results, but that looming darkness and eerie wind and the quietness plays with the mind and the senses, and I dig it. Outside my window right now, there's a storm brewing, inching ever closer from the West. It doesn't look violent (yet), but it looks ominous and full of potential. I tend to like things that have potential, that pose to make a mark. Let it come. 

Day 138: Don't Call Me "Sir"

Three times today, someone referred to me as “sir.” Look, I've been called a lot of things, and many of them weren't good. Some of them were true, some weren't. Some I deserved, some, eh. Some things I've been called don't really affect me. Others grind on my nerves. Being called "sir" is one of those nerve-scrapping things. 

Logically, I know the individuals who called me "sir" today were only being polite, which given how many people I’ve witnessed demonstrate poor to no manners lately, I greatly appreciate. (This includes you, Mr. Sailor-mouthed Fisherman Guy standing in the Wal-Mart checkout line who couldn’t close his trap long enough the night before Mother’s Day last week to stop dropping massive waves of f-bombs one after another during a particularly intense conversation with your buddy on the finer aspects of the perfect catfish hole, this despite you being surrounded by children, elderly shoppers, and many others who didn’t share your infinity for the f-word, no matter how damn many catfish there was in that there hole.) Still, despite my appreciation for respect and cordiality, I despise being called “sir.” Hate it. Beyond hate.

I’m not a sir. Not anywhere close to it. In fact, in my opinion, no one deserve the title. It’s an elitist word, and I’d just as soon no one ever associated me with it again. I know this is petty and anal and probably stupid to even waste words on, but I’m serious. Being called sir may not exactly be offensive, but it doesn’t go down well with me.

Maybe it’s because I wear a suit and tie to work every day that the word gets lobbed my way. People see a tie and they attach greater meaning to it than it deserves. Being called “sir” sure doesn’t happen as often on the weekends when I’m just wearing shorts, a hat, black rock concert T-shirt, and tennis shoes. The same women at the gas station who say, “Thank you, sir” when I’m buying coffee Monday through Friday don’t see me in the same light on Sunday mornings when I stop in for the same coffee before a golf game. Those mornings, it’s just “thank you.” And I prefer it that way.

Being called “sir” makes me feel old. Makes me feel separated and removed. It makes me feel as if I’m supposed to represent something I don’t. It makes me cringe. Somehow, “sir” makes me feel detached, as if I’m no longer a part of the norm. It’s as if I’m being viewed as if I’ve achieved something significant. I haven’t. Really. Trust me. I haven’t brought warring nations together in peace. I haven’t sat in prison for decades because of my fight for racial equality. I haven’t painted masterpieces or composed music that induced tears. I haven’t invented surgical instruments that have saved countless lives. I haven’t constructed edifices where people join together in faith. In no way am I a sir.

Handing me the taco in the drive-thru lane that I just bought from you doesn’t make me a sir.

Depositing a check in my account at your bank does not make me a sir.

Buying dog food in your lane at the grocery store does not make me a sir.

Opening a door in an act of kindness as you pass by does not me a sir.

Here’s my positive spin on this: If you must use the word “sir,” save it for those you really, really deem to deserve it. That way you’ll preserve the honor and dignity of the word. You’ll give it the heft it deserves. You’ll ensure the luster it deserves is maintained. You’ll make
“sir” a word or prestige. Please, don’t waste it on me. Me you can call dude, kid, man, big daddy, B, brotha, fella, weirdo . . . whatever it takes. Just not sir.

Day 137: Faith

I don’t know if there’s a God or not. I’m certainly not here to answer that question or persuade anyone into believing what I believe. I’m not here to convince myself into thinking one way or another. Perhaps the most beautiful gift that life hands over to man and woman is free will—the ability to make up our own minds. Now, hopefully you do some due diligence and arm yourself with a sizable chunk of information and gather a good-sized collection of opinions representing all points of view, but even if you don’t, it’s up to you to arrive at your destination in your own way. Even if you celebrate and pay honor to your faith in the midst of others who share common ground, ultimately faith is a personal, individual journey.

All that said, I’ve always been fascinated at the correlation one can draw between faith and happiness. I’ve noticed over the years that arguably the happiest people I know are those who also have strong faith. The people who are most comfortable and confident in themselves hold great faith. The people who are most optimistic and positive are those with a strong foundation that’s built on faith. Among those I know who are able to look forward to the opportunities that each and every coming day may bring are those who exhibit strong faith. I don’t think this is a coincidence.

Honestly, I’m not 100% certain where I come out on the notion that there is a purpose for everything. That everything happens for a reason. I’m not certain to what degree I hold up blind faith. I have trouble seeing a definite reason why some horrific abuses occur and why some deaths are so heinous and grisly. It’s difficult for me to make rhyme or reason out of why children are taken advantage of or why the elderly who are brutally discarded. I don’t understand the reasons why torture or genocide occurs. I don’t see the purpose. But I’m fascinated by people who can. In many respects, I admire their ability to see something redeeming in the sinister and senseless. Maybe they’re just making the best out of a bad situation, or maybe they know something I don’t. I’d like to believe in the latter.

On a less tragic note, I’m also fascinated by people who handle setback after setback and discouragement after discouragement with such grace and dignity. It honestly moves me to view people stare down disappointment and reshape it into an opportunity to improve. More often than not, the people I witness who do this best are people of strong faith. Again, probably not a coincidence. I hate to speak for them and proclaim the source of their perseverance, but if I had to, I’d say that they’d attribute a vast majority of their resilience to believing in something stronger than themselves, something that pushes and pulls them along, leading them to a grander, finer ending point.

Strong faith makes me think of a 13-year-old girl who is a longtime friend of my daughter. I doubt I’ve met many people of any age who display such steadfast faith. Sincerely, I draw inspiration from her ability to see each day as a great opportunity to examine and explore, to be bigger than one’s self, to mature and move forward. I also can’t think of too many others as willing to publicly state the source of their faith. It takes strength to publicly document your conviction in today’s society, particularly if you’re a teenager. Amazing. I also think of my great aunt by marriage, someone who has dealt with a long string of setbacks and done it with indescribable grace. I think of a friend who is a reverend, humanitarian, and source of endearing bright light. His ability to effortlessly spread love through his faith is utterly remarkable. I think of the many people I know who have transformed their lives from being people who followed paths that lead them into nothingness to being people who drew faith from something mightier than themselves and found new paths that led to fulfillment I’m sure most of them likely never thought existed.

I’m fascinated by faith. It can do wonders. It can move mountains. It can make the impossible possible. I fascinated how faith can splinter but be repaired, how it can plummet but then soar. I’m fascinated by how some people’s faith never wavers, never rises or falls, only remains constant. I think I’m most fascinated how faith can instill strength that seemingly wouldn’t otherwise exist. 

Day 136: The Plain Truth

I appreciate the plain truth. The art of telling people the truth, unfortunately, seems to be lost. These days, I run across too many people who don't want the truth and don't want to tell it. In fact, it sometimes seems they don't want anything to do with it at all. They'd rather stare into the abyss and not learn thing one about themselves, not face even the smallest of truths concerning themselves.

I guess I'm a glutton for punishment because It just don't want that view. I want a perspective that may be a little more harsh to my ego and sense of being but that's at least real. I'd rather the truth be told the truth and live with the ramifications than be fed spoonfuls of phoniness. I rather risk the the hurt, pain, remorse, etc. than choke on manufactured joy. I'd rather live in the reality than devise a better but false one.

The older I get, the more I seek this type of life. I want the truth when it's pleasant. I want it when it's painful. When it's apparent. When it's hidden. I want the truth as it was and it will be. I don't want to be lied to. I don't like fabrications. I don't like revisionist history. I don't like pathways that tiptoe around the truth. I like cutting to the core and getting it out and getting it dealt with. Deal with the truth, and there's nothing hanging over you, nothing weighing you down, nothing keeping you awake at night.

I understand why tiny white lies may have been introduced to the world. Some people prefer to save others pain. I respect that. And I understand about covert operations and double switches and secret agents and the secret double agents performing covert operations. I suppose some of that is necessary and can be justified. But back here in the real world where real people live and breath in a real way, I don't understand lying for the sake of making yourself look or feel better. I don't understand lying to create a false reality. I don't understand stepping all over the truth to the point it can't be recognized any longer. And for the record, by not revealing the truth, you're still lying. The alteration of words my not leave your mouth, but what's unsaid is still a lie.

Give me the truth. I admire those who can do. I value their conviction and courage. I hold their straight-ahead approach in high regard. I'd like to obtain that sense of realness. Whether I will is another story. I don't like confrontation, and I certainly don't like hurting feelings. That may make me weak in my own desires. But where the truth concerns me, I want it. I may not like it, and I may not accept it with the most grace initially, but ultimately, where obtaining a greater sense of self is concerning, I want the truth to smack me right between the eyes. 

Day 135: The 3 O'clock Walk

There’s a little routine I like to do each afternoon. I call it the “3 O’clock Walk.” Two hours past 1 and two hours before 5, I divide the afternoon right down the middle, exit my desk, and start to steppin’.

I love my 3 o’clock walk. The walk around the block. The walk along the trees. Among the leaves. The walk to clear my mind. To see the sun. To smell the grass. To hear the birds say “hi.” To whistle at the clouds aimlessly floating by on a powder-blue sky. To watch the cars slinking past, oblivious to it all.

I love my 3 o’clock walk, the time when I put my feet into motion. Put sunflower seeds in mouth and spit them on the sidewalk passing by. Put my arms in gear and my brain in park. Put my ears on alert and my nose on detail. Leave the chatter behind. Put the stress on hold. Give the expectations a rest. The change in scenery does a man good.

Some days I walk alone. Some days I walk with a friend. Some days I hum. Some days I go blank. Some days I fixate and regret. But I walk and walk and walk. Sunlight can't penetrate walls, and wind can’t breathe through closed windows. And all the action happening outside the windows in front of my desk bears no sound. I need the 3 o’clock walk. I need to participate. I need to engage. I need the elements. The activity. The peace. I need the pace slowed down. I need a path with different texture. I need to rearrange. 

I love my 3 o’clock walk. 

Day 134: Happy Belated Mother's Day

If you’ve been in the midst of a good mother, you know it. They exude something special that’s almost impossible to describe. They possess some strange power that’s teaming with elements of loyalty, unwavering support, forgiveness, unconditional love, patience, understanding, and tolerance. Fathers can possess these same elements, but they seem to have trouble exhibiting all of them simultaneously. I guess I shouldn’t speak for all fathers. It would be more accurate to say I have trouble exhibiting all those elements at once, but I don’t think I’m alone. The ability to balance unwavering support and while showing patience at the same time, for example, is usually a deal-breaker for me. My nature is to lay out my expectations clearly and upfront. I don’t suffer fools too easily, and that includes my kids. Hence, when they fall short, out goes understanding and out goes patience. Enter mom.

The world would be a sad, sad place without mothers. Imagine if mothers died immediately after giving birth, as happens with some species. Imagine if all children were left to fend for themselves immediately upon entering the world. Imagine what an ugly, narcissistic, violent, everyman-for-himself place it would be. (More so than already, that is.) Imagine if kids didn’t have at least one kind, understanding face to look into. Imagine if they didn’t have at least one source of truth to count on.

Good mothers can make a life. A bad mother can break it beyond repair. A good mother can inspire and soothe. A bad mother can create a monster. A good mother can heal and transform a broken soul. A bad mother can mangle it beyond recognition. There’s an inherent power and force that mothers can wield for the positive that I’ve seen nothing else like.

I think of all types of mothers, I have the most admiration for single mothers, particularly those who are left with little to no help from a dead-beat dad. The strength and patience and devotion that such mothers must exhibit on a daily basis is amazing. There is no buffer for a single mother. She makes all the decisions. She takes all the blame. She holds all the responsibility. She is the bank. She is the bread winner. She is the emotional epicenter. She is the disciplinarian. She cooks all the meals. She cleans all the dishes. She mends all the cuts. She fixes all the breaks. She picks up all the slack. She is the sun and moon. There’s no divvying up chores and duties and parent-teacher conferences and waiting for a teenager to come home past curfew and reading books to a toddler and lending a shoulder to cry on. Take a close at people you know who were raised by a single mom. There’s a closeness there typically that goes beyond the norm.

I’ve been so lucky to be surrounded by strong, supportive, devoted mothers, including my own and my wife. Fortunately, you can be a man but still learn a thing or two from the way a strong mother conducts herself. Just watch how she protects her child. Watch how she guards her child. Watch how she covets. Watch how she partakes. Watch how she resolves.

For any of my faults and areas where I probably fall short as a dad, I like to think I have the best of intentions for my kids at heart. I know I’m offering them something positive that will help them as adults. I know they’re learning things from me, and I know I give of my time willingly and generously. But being a mother is different. A father can offer a sense of strength and protection to a child. A mother, though, offers comfort. Eases the pain. Alleviates the hurt. And she does it instinctively.  

Day 133: Avengers

It's late, but let me say this, Avengers = movie viewing the way it's meant to be.