The 45 Blog

The day passed. I saw some people. Talked to an old friend about fiction and writing. Bought some bread. Ate some salad. Re-read a story and re-categorized it to the “ready to edit” tab. Then I read some more fiction. Then I wrote. It was a normal day– except I didn’t workout nor did I do a cold plunge.

During metamorphosis, the caterpillar dissolves and destroys its own body until it becomes goo. Then all the goo gets rearranged into another insect called a butterfly. It breaks through the paper-thin material to become color and flight and light brushes of wings against your cheek.

This level of change can only happen in secret, hidden from the world, and coached by God . Only He knows the spots and patterns on your wings and where they’ll take you; only He knows the color they produce when the sun shines through the thin membrane of the wing to break your heart.

Low self-esteem and inferiority complexes are not the ingredients of a strong leader. If he or she suffers from either of these ailments, decision-making and the well-being of the constituents are compromised because the leader is always healing a wound, seeking comfort. So when people judge the sitting president as “incompetent” or being an “idiot”, I pause a bit. Listening to him speak in Maui, he attempts to make a connection and empathize with those who suffered the fires. I hear his story, loud and clear. Instead of comforting them, he wants people to feel sorry for him and to comfort him. A few months ago, when he made jokes about ice-cream before addressing the Nashville shooting, he wanted to be liked. He has a history of deficits that range from his stuttering and being picked on as a child, being the victim of inconsistent housing , being the son of a used-car salesman, and, worst of all, finding himself consistently at the bottom of his class.

Now he’s running the free world.

It’s frightening. He’s desirous for comfort, being liked, and being > than his competition. Any action agreeable to those feelings is permissible, so long as his wounds feel comfort.

What’s more frightening is that under certain circumstances, there’s a little Joe Biden in each of us. It just takes some badass childhood memory to belittle you to the point you seek comfort, just like him.

Reading some books feels like walking in the wilderness for 40 days and 40 nights. At least that’s the feeling I have after living through Kokoro by Natsume Soseki. Because the novel is written in the first person narrative, there are pages upon pages of internal dark monologue that get burned into you. Even the way you talk to yourself changes– for the worse. You feel like a coward, you hate yourself, and the other people around you can smell it on you. And it goes on for the length of the novel . But on Saturday morning, when you close the book for the final time, you thaw, right in front of your family. Then you smile at your wife, happy that someone in the world has the courage to love you, even if just for a short time, between K dramas.

Discovering what you’re uniquely positioned to do , based on strengths and talent, THEN going after it VS Passively accepting life and work– and letting life happen to you.

Isn’t that the basic conflict after all?

Whether it’s taking jobs to pay the bills or marrying someone because they happened to talk to you, many are focused only on satisfactory survival. That’s it.

Today, I visited the Parthenon in Paris. The tombs of Aime Cesaire and Curie brought me tears to my eyes, but overall I was overwhelmed with beauty and artistry. Everything made me weep. My kids even caught me crying.

To think that these incredible people will be remembered nationally and across the world for their contributions really put things in perspective for me. While there are many naysayers who believe that we are only on earth for a short time before becoming worm meat, I believe we should all work towards being buried in a place, such as the Parthenon or a proxy.

That, + heaven, is worth it.

In Ireland, I felt something close to a truly human experience– and I did so by just walking the streets for a few hours in Dublin and Limerick. First off, the number of small operator-run businesses is incredible. Of the stores and shops we visited, owners and managers were invested in our experience because they’re invested in their reputation as well as the reputation of their business. Of course, that’s a gross generalization, but it really felt that way. Ownership, humility and mastery in ones field or business has great advantages because the distance between the owner and lowest man or woman on the totem pole is merely inches.

However, more importantly, I am curious about the cosmetic surgical and SSRI habits of folks in Ireland. In America, almost 20% of adult women take some form of medication for depression or anxiety. As such, we are dealing with a version of a person that may not be entirely authentic. Can you imagine dating someone who is on the meds, then decides to discontinue after marriage? That would be trying and telling in terms of assessing the overall strength and authentic value of the relationship.

Who you date vs who you marry can be totally altered.

It’s wild.

While there’s a rise in using meds in Ireland, the people didn’t seem shiny and plasticly . I hope they don’t succumb to the internet social media glitz of surface perfection, like we have, because they seem to have something decent going on.

It would be strange to allow strangers into your home whenever they wanted to come over for a drink. They could be criminals, living in the same neighborhood as you and your family. Usually, you invite people over to your place only when you feel ready to, because you can have fun and it’s safe and they’re safe. They’ve been vetted . There was a process , and it clicked. That’s it. It’s human. Even at the cellular level– where the smallest animal cells have some semblance of border or a wall.

The tapestry of homes in the neighborhood, each with its own genetic sequence of holiday lights and or a total lack of decor. My house was one of the homes that was lacking. No lights. No red. No White. No Seasons Greetings. Just our home. The first time in years we haven’t decorated. But after walking and talking to our youngest in Ireland, we put up two wreaths , some lights and a half finished Christmas tree. She told us she was listening to Christmas music, which she does every season. When she asked if the house was decorated, we told her “no”, because we we’re traveling to Europe to pick her up. That’s when I got to work, thankful for the reminder and that she can be sentimental sometimes.

I witnessed a conversation in a school. A parent was angered that her child was threatened by a staff member. After being scolded for mooning the class, the student felt angry and embarrassed, so he left the room. He called the teacher a “heifer” and gave her the bird on his way out. The kid also mentioned calling his cousins, which the teacher perceived as a threat. She retaliated — said she had cousins, too AND she’s also friends with the soccer coach– all she needs to do is talk to him and the kid will get benched.

This threw him in a rage.

Soon his mother comes up.

The teacher lies about what was said and the mom keeps on talking about her son’s anger issues– a disease that gets blamed for more outbursts than seems possible. Mom then talks about how what her son did was wrong, but he also has those damn anger issues and only she or his brothers can keep him in check.

And yet she’s afraid that this teacher’s cousins are going to seek them out.

Reading a short story by Murakami, I smile when there’s a knock at the door. The unnamed protagonist opens it. Often, the person on the other side is a woman, whom he invites in and offers food. They have amazing conversations, something weird happens, then she leaves.

The part I like best is the “knocking on the door” part. People would never think of barging in on your private time these days. But I feel like it wasn’t too long ago when we did.

You might be passing through your buddy’s neighborhood, and decide to pop by for a quick beer.

Or you might be passing by your grandma’s house, and decide to stop by unannounced just to say you love her.

Whatever the cost, I wish the culture of knocking on doors would come back.