The 45 Blog

Rolling the half-full garbage can to the curb, I could feel it wobble as the contents moved around on the inside. The weight was shifting.

If it were empty, there would be no weight to shift around– therefore there would be fewer wobbles.

If it were full, the space inside would be minimal– therefore there would be no room for the objects to shift and cause unbalance.

It’s a message– be full of commitment to one singular purpose to stay balanced or be empty to achieve the same balance, yet be unfulfilled.

Those are the only real options because the consequence of being half-empty and half-full causes accidents. Things tip over during the wobble and everything gets messy.

For our evening walk, my wife wears her canary-yellow clogs. They guide us, brightening the walk and pavement, illuminating the dark in a manner that matches faith.

Our pace is quick so as to get home before the bats come out. I despise the winged mice filled with rabies, rumored to be blind, and dependent on echolocation to identify prey, friends, and to search the world for basic needs.

They can hear the shape of my leg , my location and even the stray hair on my beard.

Then I begin to wonder what the color “yellow” sounds like to bats, if its particular shade bounces back into the its ears, and if there’s a particular timbre to it. Yellow may sound like a church bell chime that ripples as water ripples, disturbed by a skipping stone. Or maybe yellow is the color of an angel’s song, just before the dark world ends , because the sun rises, chasing the bat away, dissolving into the dark as dark recedes from our awareness.

The smaller the leader, the bigger the bureaucracy .

The smaller the bureaucracy, the bigger the leader.

A car on a jack, revving its wheels at maximum RPM, and getting nowhere.

Sometimes that’s what a day feels like. Spinning, making noise, being loud.

The road doesn’t meet the rubber.

Instead, you have to drop the car , let the tires hit the road, and steer like you’re going some place.

Waiting or resting? The activity is the same, but the intent differs. Either can imply doing nothing, being inactive, being paused.

But with waiting, there’s the anticipation that something will happen. Depending on what that something is, waiting can be tiring and even anxiety inducing. Waiting to hear back from a job or a doctor can induce panic and create a monologue that ripples through your psyche– causing doubt.

Resting, on the other hand, is doing nothing and being paused to regenerate, to rest, to gather power and energy like a tropical storm over the ocean, in warm air, until it reaches its final form of a hurricane.

So are you waiting or are you resting?

The choice is yours, but mine is clear. I’m resting– it’s a sabbath between two roles — one in the past, and the other is simply someday, somewhere, sometime– but I’ll be ready.

Ever get the feeling that every action is just another cover up story for something more devious, something dirty, something to be kept secret until the timing’s right? I hope not, because living that way seems dark. To second guess each person’s intentions; to faithlessly utter words that shout but have no evidence; to look over your shoulder in your own home; to never understand the beauty of trust and faith in one another. All of that adds up to a kind of hell I don’t want to imagine. The sprinting from one pole of reality to the next possibility, without confidence , will do things to the human spirit that just aren’t good.

And yet, here we are. September 15th, 2024.

It’s 6:00 PM and my daughter is talking to me about Taylor Swift. She doesn’t mention anything about Russia, Ukraine and NATO. Nor does she say anything about the former president playing golf. But she does talk about church and Christ and that’s helpful.

Yet it’s the glamour of Taylor’s thigh-high boots, her fame, and her presidential endorsement and the fallout that she wants to talk about. We have five minutes, in this short time between the four mile forest hike we just took and dinner. She doesn’t mention the different shades of brown we saw amongst a herd of deer, leaping from one side of the ditch to the other, through sunlight that bleached them yellow, until landing. There’s a bourbon brown, soft bronze, copper-brown , as many shades as the world has eyes.

But she wants to talk about Taylor Swift. I think she’s just more comforting.

It makes sense. Taylor Swift is a common story– as daily as a weather report and more frequent than every rosary bead that slips through your fingers. If you share her, there’s something you have in common with the world. She’s the Type O negative blood type of casual conversations– everyone can receive her– and she’s wholesome. If you have nothing to say, just ask anyone a question– like, “Hey, have you seen Taylor’s latest post?”

“OMG! I can’t believe it.”

“Wait, wait wait, don’t tell me about it. I haven’t had my phone in 5 hours. I just wanted to get excited.”

But you can’t talk about other things.

You can’t mention God and not offend a person.

You can never really commonly say you are proud of the president.

Nor can you assume that every family is traditional, so now the default family is non-traditional.

And you can’t mention truths for fear of losing your livelihood.

But you can mention Taylor Swift. And you can create new words to explain something that isn’t real. And you can dance as a naked sex god in front of children, and you can confuse kids by sending them to ambitious counselors who tell them they are either depressed, gay, trans, or hyperactive.

But you can’t mention God, or why our country is the greatest country in the world. You can’t discuss policy. You can’t discuss truth. But Taylor Swift can be spoken of all day long. She’s a safe word.

Picking the next big project to edit. With two first drafts to two different novels written, it’s difficult. One seems conceptually stronger while the other has a more complex range of characters, living in two distinct cultures. I’m getting through the decision making process, but just need to re-read and think about which story wants to take me to more interesting places, teach me, and bring me back whole at the end of the edit in a couple of months.

Reading some essays about the Nation at Risk Report that was published 40 years ago. Astounding how little has been effective since its publication. So far, the recommendations still resonate, but very little was implemented. The biggest miss is that it doesn’t go beyond what’s quantifiable. While we look at the academic outcomes and the ROI of certain programs, there’s little that’s focused on character and culture, which feels like a huge miss. Without a unifying and inspiring vision for character and culture, it seems we’ll be at an academic loss for a long time. Why? You need a target, something to aspire to. Just getting to grade level doesn’t say anything– except, “Yep, kid. You’re where you should be. Nice job.”

For me, it comes down to a quote by Seth: “The best complaint is to do something better.” That’s what we’ll someday aim to do– just need the right org.

I just experienced one of those ghost feelings that comes accompanied with an image. I’m huddled in a room, with a blanket close to my ear, maybe 4 years old. I look a little lethargic– my skin the color of old oatmeal, all color washed away. I’ve probably been echoing on the inside. I’m trying to figure out why everybody is celebrating me. My great aunts are all there, as are all my aunts and uncles from my mother and father’s side. I sit and stare– not feeling any of the joy they exude, not sharing or participating– just an outsider looking into my own party– wondering why all the commotion.

I feel the same way now.

They’re planning a 50th birthday party for me– and I feel like that same kid in the blanket , wondering what they’re celebrating — especially when I don’t even have a job nor any status any longer. It’s just me, as myself, doing work that I believe is important–and overlooked. What good’s that? My skills and perspectives are likely useless– and could probably be carbon dated for how old they are. Sure, while the works completed for others are seen as good– and I have gratitude for helping– I myself have done little of the work I’m called to do. I write a lot, and read, and create– but very little of it is useful.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve gotten in the way of God’s plan for me. You’d think at 50 you’d know well that it’s easy to be your own obstacle. That’s what the egos job is– creating and curating the image you put into the world– then to maintain it, or else be rejected– which is its own kind of death– all the while it sacrifices elements of your true self to the shadow.

It’s the kind of dying I’m incorporating into my life now– and it’s a loss I haven’t quite felt before. Yes, people who I’ve been close to have died, but this feels entirely like something different. Without the role and income, you doubt your value to family, to those who once called you a friend, and then there’s the wife– the love of your life– who may not accept this unfiltered version, focused on his inner work.

This is the riskiest thing I’ve done. I’m excited, I’m scared, but I have faith. While it took some uncluttering to become empty enough to receive, my ears and heart are open to direction.

As a kid, I could never ignore when I saw one of these coin-operated rides. Some came in the shape of animals, others were construction vehicles. Once in a while, a store would have one customized to look like one of the company vehicles– planting the seeds in kids’ minds : You can work here. Only exact change worked, and it was usually a quarter or 50 cents to ride.

It was such a selfish little ride. To enjoy it, I had to ask my parents for the money, then expect them to wait for me to ride and get off. I didn’t think twice.

It’s wild to be nearly 50 years old, and viewing it as a selfish act after all these years. I nickel and dimed my parents for the shortest and smallest of pleasures– nothing big– just short term experiences that disappear like cotton candy on the tongue, or a communion wafer dissolving into our mouth and into our words for only as long as we taste it. We’re just human.