Let Go

There is a mindset, I've noticed, that affects people of a certain age. There is a reluctance to cut off connections to others. A reluctance to press delete, trash memories, or start over. There is a tendency to hold tight to the good things, however dainty they may be. A tendency to treasure the safety net, cling to what's already there, and settle. This is a mindset of fear. It's the easy road.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm there, too, along with the rest who've been affected. Other times, I wonder which is more difficult: holding tight or letting go. And I don't always know.

Certainly it's no simple thing to build something in life; it's much simpler to destroy it all. But the question is: why? Why am I continuing to build? Or why am I throwing it away? Is what I'm doing worth it to me? Could it be? Am I wasting my life away by doing this?

As if determining what's right for me comes down to asking the right questions. Or perhaps I figure that if I stay on a certain road long enough, then I'll forget that there were other turns, other options, and unanswered questions.

What I do know is that I don't want to live my life ignoring fears. I want to face them. And if what I'm doing is mostly out of fear for the alternatives, then it probably isn't right.

I want to hold on to the good things, of course. I just want those things to be worthwhile. I'll still be afraid, but it'll be the kind of fear that translates into courage, the kind that makes me proud. I won't be holding on because I'm afraid of something else, but because this is what I want.

And if that's not how it is, then I should just let go.

 

Unbecoming

This year ... this year, I hope for less. I hope to be less, to tear down whatever it is that I've become and perhaps, in time, rebuild. This year, I want for only the smallest and simplest of enjoyments. Anything more would be too much.

I fear that I've become someone who's too negative, and I don't want to be that person. I want to bring relief to friends and family. I'd rather be a source of happiness for those that I care for. I want to make a point of noticing the things that I love more often than the things that I don't. I want to enjoy the littlest of things as much as I possibly can.

This year, I hope for less. But I think, in the end, it may be more fulfilling.

 

When History Comes Around Again

During one of the darkest periods of my life, I was so down that -- no matter how I struggled to -- I could not remember what happiness was nor whether I'd ever felt it. But I had one thing going for me: I had work to drive me and to make me forget myself for many, many hours each day. Now I'm headed for a dark place again; this time, though, I have nothing to make me forget. Work doesn't drive me as it once did. If I have any goals, they're things I can accomplish from home; unfortunately, home is no place to be when you want to escape from yourself.

I'm trying not to fall into that cycle, but I feel history stalking me. I hear it whispering that it's time for a repeat. I try to stay one step ahead of the shadows, but only because it seems like I should. I've got no reasons to. No cares.

I feel like letting go; I feel like embracing the darkness. History may not be a welcome visitor, but at least it's a familiar one.

 

Getting Clear Away

I was in the mood for a long drive. Sometimes when I feel like getting away from myself, I hit the road and get away from home, instead. I chose to head south towards Oregon, and I ended up at Cannon Beach. I wasn't planning to stay, but once I was there I just wanted to find a place to park. The streets were too busy and the traffic too heavy. Every hotel I passed claimed to have no vacancies. I stopped at a place that looked nice and large. I figured that I had a better chance there, but they were also full. They told me that the closest vacancy was likely ten or twenty miles away, at least. And then, while I was standing there, the clerk received a call from a sister property down the block; there was a last minute cancellation, and I was "in luck". Even before I was handed the phone, I knew I would take the room. Of course the person on the other side of the line tried to sell me on the room -- a ground floor suite right on the beach, etc., etc. -- but I had already decided even before they told me what it would cost me, which was more than ten times what I would normally pay for a room. Though the cost gave me pause, I said to myself, "What the hell. I want a place to park."

After settling into my new room, I hopped into a courtesy shuttle and headed towards town. It was nearly dinner time, but I wasn't about to try making reservations anywhere. Instead, I tracked down a place that I'd heard made the best fish and chips anywhere in the world, a place called Ecola Seafood; they catch their fish daily. Admittedly, the fish and chips were very good. A nice and thin, crispy batter, and a homemade tartar sauce. Definitely worth trying, though I'm not yet convinced it was the best.

Then I walked around town, stopped in at a few shops and museums, rested at a beach lookout or two, and wished I had someone to share it all with. The shuttle driver had recommended I try a brewpub called Bill's Tavern, and I headed there next. I sat at the bar and enjoyed a pint of their home-brewed IPA. I also tried a sample of their blackberry beer. It was odd, yet light and refreshing.

Afterwards, a shuttle picked me up and brought me back to the hotel. I then went for a long walk along the beach; the water was freezing, but there's little that both sharpens and relaxes the mind so much as the cold sea along a quiet beach. The hotel was holding a wine tasting that night, but I'd brought my own bottle on the trip and I elected to taste what I had instead. I sat out on the patio, watched the ocean and read a book. When the sun neared the horizon, I went out to the sand and sat, watching it fall into the ocean while I nursed my glass of wine. When the sky darkened, I laid back and looked at how full of stars it was. I miss seeing a sky so packed with stars.

For the rest of the evening, I reclined in my room with a throw blanket over my lap, listening to eighties music and reading a book, all whilst the waves crashed against the nearby shore. The hotel claimed to make fresh chocolate chip cookies twenty-four hours a day, and I padded out to the lobby to verify it once or twice. Or thrice. Their claim was apparently true; that cookie jar kept filling up. And once while I was out there, complimentary cocktails were being served. Nightcaps. So I sat in the lounge and enjoyed one, a sweet whiskey that I can't recall the name of. Then I returned to my room, but not before snagging more freshly baked cookies.

In the morning, I ran two miles or so along the shoreline. Others were riding horses or playing in tide pools. There was a heavy fog, but I liked it. Sometimes it's better not to see too much; seeing my next step or two was enough.

After I checked out of the hotel, I drove north and visited my father. He was planting another tree when I arrived. We went out to lunch at a new Mexican restaurant in the small town where he lives, and then he showed me what he's done with his land since I last visited. I stayed with him for a few hours, talking about little things, and then I drove home. Before I left, though, he supplied me with too many veggies from his garden: a garbage bag full of swiss chard, a bag full of cucumbers, a bag full of green beans, and a bag full of beets. Unless I throw a party, I'm not sure I can finish eating all of it on my own. They are delicious, though.

All in all, I'm glad I took that spur of the moment road trip. It was good to get away. Even though I didn't truly get away from myself, I was at least able to gain some clarity. I was able to relax, and to be a bit carefree again. I needed that.


Kites and sea stacks at Cannon Beach

 

Getting It Right

Does it ever feel -- with all of your experiences -- that you've lived many lifetimes, but not yet the right one?

 

What Are You Being?

At the supermarket the other day, I overheard a conversation between a father and his little son. The boy sounded like he was whining about something.

"Are you being a bad boy?" the father asked.

"Um been hobby," it sounded like the boy said.

"Hm?" asked the father. The boy repeated himself, and the father asked for clarification. "You're being happy?"

"Ya. So hobby," whined the boy.

"That's good," said the father. "You be happy."

It was an odd exchange, I thought. It's an odd thing to say that you're being. I'd like to say that I'm being happy; instead, I just whine.

 

Black & White

Today I learned a new word: Manichean. It's defined as the tendency to see things in black or white. There are those who would use this word to describe me.

I'm told that things are either good or bad for me. Either on or off. That it's always all or nothing. That there's no negotiating or compromising with me. If I can't have everything just so, then I'll forgo it altogether.

While it's true that I have these tendencies, I wouldn't describe them in such simple terms. I see things in vivid colors, and not just two. When I feel a certain way, that feeling has weight. It has substance. It has characteristics and properties that allow it to do things to my soul.

A feeling can be fashioned into many different weapons. A feeling can also become a vessel that transports me to different levels of bliss. Is there an in-between? Certainly. The in-between is like the din of everyday life. There is no such thing as silence. My poles are like the difference between elevator music and joyful laughter. Like wanting to puke my guts out versus hungering desperately for something. The in-between isn't necessarily a place of indifference -- but it's not something to strive for, either. It's a place void of strong desire. If all I meant to be was carefree, then the in-between is where I would go.

And honestly, sometimes I think that might be the way to go. Why not live in the gray twilight? It's certainly easier than either wanting or rejecting wants. Maybe just being accepting is the path to true happiness.

But that -- to me -- is like not wanting anything. And what kind of way is that to live?

Yes ... okay, I see how this could be construed as a black and white view. Manichean: That's me.

 

Banking And Beer

Today I ate lunch at my favorite brewpub, a Mcmenamins location called Six Arms. It's been a long time since I've been there, which was evident from the change in beer selection. On tap was a new beer called "Bernanke's Dream", which was the third and final brew in a series called "The Big Bailout". The first two in the series were no longer available; I can't remember what they were called exactly, but they were named after Paulson and Geithner. It's too bad I missed out on trying them. The "Bernanke's Dream" was quite good. Malty and hoppy, it also had some seasonal spice flavors (i.e., nutmeg and cinnamon) and a fine finish. If this is the type of thing the banking crisis inspires, I might require more crises in the future. Yum.

 

To Be Complete

Everyone is broken. Each of us has been shattered by life in some way or another, crushed or wounded beyond repair. A part of me is comforted by the broken parts in others. Somehow it helps to know that I'm not the only one, and I guess looking for those broken parts in others has become automatic for me. Rarely do I come across exceptions, and it's difficult to trust that it's not there in some people.

There is one couple whose broken spots I still haven't located. I've known my boss and his wife for more than eight years, for example, and they still seem complete in a way that others are not. I've seen them stressed and angry and I've seen them bicker, but they work it all out. Their lives are what normal should be. They're more normal than normal -- they're beyond normal, super-normal, perhaps. They're both funny and popular and they always turn the things they say into the right things, even when they're not. Their lives seem touched by fortune and untouched by whatever it is that breaks the rest of us. They don't let the world bother them too much. I must be missing something, though, even after all this time. I mean, is it possible for anyone to pretend that well, and for that long?

Being broken isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's just that I sometimes find myself wishing I were whole. The scars aren't what make us incomplete; it's the broken parts, the gaps and poorly glued-back-together pieces that ruin us. To be whole, I would have had to withstand the crushing forces, to beat them or, at the least, not surrender to them. I don't want to be fragmented. I want the choices I face to be clear. I want my intentions to be focused. I don't want to waver or hesitate at the precipices inside my broken self.

See, to be whole isn't to have it easier; it's to have certainty about who you are. With certainty comes a kind of power and freedom: The kind of power that allows you to be deliberate without faking it, and the kind of freedom that protects you from all of the wondering and questioning about potentials.

I imagine how much more straightforward life would be if I were whole. And then I wish there were a way to repair myself.

 

Writing Stuff Down

Every now and then, I'm tempted to start a new journal, one that I can touch and feel and make marks in. I miss writing stuff down on paper, especially stuff that doesn't have to make sense to anyone else but me. I miss using a pen and hearing the scratchy sound that it produces on paper. There's something very comforting about it. But maybe this is a sign of old age, like someone missing the way it feels to write with a quill and a bottle of ink.

Mainly I miss getting stuff off my chest and having it seep into the paper, like blood. As much as I enjoy pounding on a keyboard, the act lacks seepage. No matter how hard I hit those keys, the feeling I put into it will never be more visible. Maybe word processors should be more like pianos; if they were touch sensitive, all of the letters could look different from each other and compositions could be more expressive; some words would have more flourish, some would look splattered onto the document. That's actually not a bad idea, but it would still be missing something.

That something could be the inherent adventure involved in avoiding paper cuts. It could be in how definite or permanent it feels to make an actual mark on something real, something that was once living, and in knowing that deletion isn't possible. It could be about the relationship with the notepad, having carried it everywhere and turned it this way and that during the writing process, having left some sweat on the paper and having been given some ink stains in return.

Whatever the reason, a journal kept on paper just seems more personal, and sometimes I think about starting one again. Maybe one day.

 

Noticing As They Go

A question that I often ask myself, and just as often fail to answer, is: What am I doing with my life? I recall that I never planned to live this way. If it was ever part of the plan, then it was supposed to be a small part, something to help get me to the place where I really wanted to be. Instead, I feel like I've fallen into the same trap that everyone falls into. I've become too comfortable with the rut that I'm in; you could even say that I'm fond of the rut.

And then I remember that this life is temporary, and it forces me to take a closer look at the rut I'm in. If I continue to cling to my current lifestyle, then the majority of my days will take the shape of the office that I sit in and the commute required for me to get there. My experiences will be mostly limited to whatever time I spend at the office desk, pounding out code fragments that are largely meaningless.

What if I were to say goodbye to this rut, though, and make drastic changes? What kinds of things would I do instead? Here are some scenarios that come to mind:

I would find myself a cheap house or cabin, a fixer-upper in a great location (on the beach, or beside a lake in a secluded spot in the mountains, etc.), something that I could buy with cash. I'd find myself some part-time work (manual labor or something creative, woodworking or farming or brewing beer) or work that I could do out of my own house. I'd write. Maybe my writing would become my work. I'd spend a lot of time outside, even if it was just reading in the hammock on my back porch. I'd swim. I'd boat, probably on something rickety and old. I'd keep a vegetable patch and maybe do some fishing. I'd mostly pretend that the rest of the world didn't exist, except for those times when I hopped in the car to take a road trip or to visit a local saloon or bookshop. Perhaps I'd occasionally teach a class at the community center, something about computers or literature. Sometimes, my road trips would have no definite end; I would just keep going from one small town to the next, stopping for a few days here and there whenever a place seemed particularly charming. Now and then, I'd drop in unexpectedly on friends and family.

Okay, honestly, I don't know if this dream scenario wouldn't end up being just another kind of rut.

I suppose the crux of the matter is that I don't want to be in a position to allow my days to slip by without my hardly noticing; I want to notice them going! I don't want to spend the majority of my life in service to something else unless it's something I care about intensely. I don't simply want to sustain my life from day to day; I want to be actively creating it! Every day.

So I guess the question is: Can I do this without making drastic changes?

 

Mixed Feelings

Half of the time, I wish I were loved by someone who was worth loving back.

The other half of the time, I don't feel that I'm worth loving.

As someone who is observant of the nuances of language, you might notice that my own self-worth is non-existent in both of the statements above. There's only a faint hope for someone else's worth. The first statement seems to imply some self-worth, but it doesn't. What it implies is a wish for a better world.

If I were to rephrase these statements, I might say something like this: I don't deserve what I have, and no one else does either. But maybe there's someone who would.

 

Waiting In Limbo

Being in limbo,
I want neither the problem
Nor the solution;
And so I wait for something else,
Perhaps for the moment that I forget
What the problem was at all.

 

I'd Rather Starve

Oftentimes, I wonder about the things that I settle for. Compromise is just a word for settling, right? I wonder why I accept things the way they are.

When I go out to eat and the food is hardly recognizable, I wonder why I don't go without it. When I cook a meal and fail to cook it well, I wonder why I go on eating it.

When I hang out with a friend and I'm let down by the way they've treated me, I wonder why I allow our relationship to pass as friendship. When I fail to be a good friend by own terms, I wonder why I allow anyone to go on associating with me.

When I conduct business with people who are unreliable and who are clearly unconcerned with my experience, I wonder why I continue giving them my business. When I rush through my own work as if I don't care, I wonder why anyone still does business with me.

When I read a book by someone who writes terribly, I wonder why I force myself to finish. When I write a story that doesn't even work for me, I wonder why I allow anyone to read it.

When I treat myself and the things I'm responsible for poorly, I wonder where my pride is. When I allow others to treat me poorly, I once again wonder where my pride is.

When I find myself wondering why I'm spending my time and my energy in the ways that I am, I know it's time to change something.

The truth is, I'm starving for some quality. And without a whole lot more quality, I'd rather starve. The fact that I go without it in so many ways already makes me wonder whether I have any pride left at all. There are many things that I should toss or let go. And other things need far more attention than I currently give them.

Some people think I'm too demanding. I think I'm not demanding enough. It's time for me to stop accepting things the way they are.

 

Everything I Expected And Less

To continue with the theme of my recent post about being sheltered from the world, here is a quote that I find amusing and relevant:

"I didn't want to leave that party. It was great."

"No, it wasn't. The music was too loud, the food was cold, the drinks were too few and the people many. It was everything I expected and less. I'm never going outside again unless I need to find a place to throw up."

Excerpt from Black Books