The 45 Blog

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.

Another night, composing, but somehow googled Sinead O’Connor. I can’t explain it, but months after her death, I still watch videos. We probably would differ on our world views and yet I feel like I could sit with her for a cup of coffee, and just listen– for days.

Watching your child want to belong is heartbreaking. I get it, but if they keep buying shit, like expensive ath-leisure-ware, in order to belong to some tribe– they’re going to go broke and be broken.

To add paint and color to a Japanese calligraphy piece is not an option. The color and images would distract from the meaning of the thick-black-lines, pulling the reader away from the message and its simplicity . It’s like looking at your shadow, severed into dots and rhythms.

So why do we distract the integrity of our own words with flash, pomp and lies? Adding colors and flares to the simplest gestures. And why do the images we’re presented lead us through tunnels so numerous, there’s one for every cell of our being, and any part of us we’d risk down the drain, just because we’re afraid of missing out.

On my morning walk, I spotted an autonomous lawnmower– absent a human.

I started thinking what it would be like to mow the yard without a body.

Then I wondered what it would be like to sit down with my family for dinner without a body–

And to embrace my wife without a body, for her to know I’m there.

Then I rubbed the callouses on the palms of my hand with my thumb, and felt grateful for the body, for this work of spiritual, tangible braille that I can touch, and read, and know God through.

When creating art and content becomes your resistance– when you use it to avoid the necessity to cold call potential clients. The social awkwardness you possess compels you to create, but not meet. This is the one thing to fix or else, frankly starve.

All night, the rain pours. Lightening flashes. The street illuminated by it all exposes a skunk walking down the road, like he owns the place. Then it all shuts off or simply goes missing into the shrubs, never seen again– just like memory or another insignificant picture we take with our cell phone. We’re all temporary on earth.