So Then Why Am I Blocked???

Okay, the runner stumbled, again, and it’s terribly frustrating. My goal for 2008 was to be more disciplined and consistent in the development of my craft (i.e. this blog). So what’s my excuse? I don’t have one. It’s not like I don’t have an abundance of time; an hour on the train each morning and evening, a lunch hour at work, and between 8:00 p.m. and 4:30 a.m. every night. (Who needs sleep?) It’s not like I don’t have the talent. If you need examples, just read my past nebulous musings. It’s not like I don’t have the topics. I can’t keep up with them all. I could sit in an isolated cabin for a month with last Tuesday’s edition of the Los Angeles Times and be able to generate a new post everyday. And we’re not even talking about the observational stuff. Of course, in an isolated cabin the observations would be limited to the hum of the Jacuzzi or the expressions on the squirrels’ faces watching me write in the nude. (Hey, if I’m going to be isolated, I’m going to be comfortable.) There are topics everywhere. It’s amazing what’s going on all around us. This coming year, voters may elect the first woman or African-American president. If Oprah Winfrey would go ahead and step out from behind that curtain, we could have done both simultaneously. I’m not partial on who’s president. My only objection is having a liberal in the White House, but it looks like that will happen even if the winner is the Republican.

Five people got shot in Illinois by a person working on his masters in social work. A child shot a child in Oxnard, because one of them was a homosexual and the other one couldn’t handle it. 143 millions pounds of beef has just been recalled because workers were kicking and electrocuting sick cows into the slaughterhouse (Quite frankly, you’d have to kick me to get me into a slaughterhouse, too.) and my kids’ school lunch room received a “B” from the health department. The good news I reported in a previous blog literally doubled (a friend is having twins) and the bad news metastasized. Good friends are moving away and budget cuts at work and at home are moving my way. I’m working at being a loving husband, a grounded father, and a repentant Christian. Believe me, I have a lot to write about.
I’ve got to make a pact. I considered developing a detailed system or establish an all-controlling structure with strict rules and operate with consequences for non-compliance. So what if this plan didn’t work with religion. What do we really know about Martin Luther, anyway? Maybe he was a whiner? Maybe when he didn’t get his way, he nailed lists on doors throughout the city. For all we know on the way to the cathedral, he nailed a 95 Thesis on the butchers doorpost on “Why people deserve fresh beef.” (or I guess, maybe if we had a Martin Luther today, we wouldn't have people kicking sick cows.) For all we know, he was on his way to the local bistro to nail “95 reasons why it’s wrong to grease the maitre'd’s palm for a better table” on their door. All I know is that my writing won’t thrive if left to my own devices. (For that matter, neither will my spiritual life.) And while “grace alone” is sincerely appreciated with respect to the content of what I write (and with my spiritual life), I need some “works” or I won’t have any work.

You know, that period of time when your wife is just starting labor? She isn’t exactly in it, but the pains are starting . . . . birth pangs. I never cared for that time. I wanted it to be over already. The dad just stands there, feeling responsible, kinda useless, just wanting it to be over. (I could make another beef reference about #!#s on a bull, but I won't.) I wanted it over. I wanted to see my baby; hold my baby and give little bunny kisses on the baby’s forehead. We've got definate birth pangs, getting stronger and stronger. . . Man, I’ve got a lot to write about. (I’ve got to make a pact.)

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Years ago, I purchased two CD’s of Christmas music. One was Kenny G’s first collection of Christmas songs and the second was by Mahalia Jackson (I know, eclectic). I liked Kenny and since I played the clarinet myself (before my lip gave out and I started making spitting sounds when I tried for the upper register), I decided to give him a try. I had heard the song, “I wonder as I wander.” (Vanessa Williams sings the song on YouTube, but you didn’t hear that from me.) The words were so hauntingly beautiful; I just had to own a copy. I had heard of Miss Jackson but had never actually heard her sing. Within the first week, I regretted both choices. Shortly after I made the purchase, I read an interview given by Mr. G, where he stated that because he wasn't a Christian and didn’t believe in any of this Christmas stuff, he had to approach the CD from a strictly musical perspective. (GASP!) At that moment, I decided I would only purchase Christmas music from artists who believe in the product. (Why not? I have the same philosophy when buying cars.) The next shock came when I put on Mahalia to help me get over Mr. “I’ll-blow-any-song-through-my-kazoo-for-a-buck.” G. Well, I got over Kenny. I got way over Kenny, past Christmas half way through Lent. I understand that Mahalia Jackson is a legend but when I hear a Christmas song I’m taking a shot at being in a good mood. Her deep baritone voice sounded like a 45 single of the lovely Vanessa Williams played at the speed for a 33 LP. (If you’re old enough, you’ll get the idea. If not, it was slow.) It was depressing. Silent Night was even worst. All may have been calm, but it certainly was not bright. I would love to here her sing, “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas.” Burl Ives was a baritone and he managed to keep it peppy. I didn’t know what to do. When I listened to Kenny G, I wanted to kill him. When I listened to Mahalia Jackson, I wanted to kill myself. It was at that moment that I made another decision. I decided I would only purchase Christmas music from people who believed in the product and did not make me feel suicidal. (I think that was a good call.)

Thanks to my boss and KOST 103.5, I’ve been listening to Christmas carols since the second week in November and I’ve realized something. I don’t like Christmas music. Don’t get me wrong. I’m the first one to join in a chorus of “Away in a Manger” and nothing brings me to tears faster than “O Holy Night” (Well, maybe Kenny tooting out “What a Friend I have in Jesus” or Mahalia singing “Santa Baby”) But listening to hour after hour of Wham singing “Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart” or No Doubt belting out “Oi to the World” does not bring to mind Mary giving birth in a stable. Two-thirds of Wilson Phillips (the Wilson part) singing “Hey, Santa!” and Rod Stewart trying to convince Dolly Parton into snuggling because “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” doesn’t help me reflect on how Jesus, my Savior did come for to die. (Actually, the visual image of Roddy succeeding makes my stomach queezy.) It makes me wonder, what is the intent of the holiday for those who do not consider it a holy day? The packages, the crowds, the baking, the lights and the tinsel; what does it all mean? Maybe Mahalia expressed it best? Are we wondering and wandering about clueless to all that God has done for us; not with a sense of hope and awe or even amazed puzzlement but with a baritone sense of emptiness. And that’s why I don’t like listening to this type of Christmas music. Because it would be like me giving seminars in how to fix plumbing, or swing a bat, or do a math problem (I can seriously go on.) Things about which I don’t know much (and I’m honestly not interested in learning).but if you give me a wrench or a bat or a pencil and paper I could give you a good impersonation. Eventually, I may even convince myself that I’m committed to something or doing something of meaning. At that point, God help your water pressure or your batting average or your math grade. I honestly hope I do not offend. I'm not judging sincerity. I'm just curious about motivation. To each his own. Let me know what you think. I'll be here. Kicking back, jamming to my latest CD, Kenny G’s "A Very Special Kwanzaa.”

With A Grateful Heart

"Thanksgiving Day is coming!”
Oh, Mr. Turkey said.
“How very careful I must be,
Or I will lose my head!”
The Pumpkin heard the turkey.
“How frightening too, Oh My!
They’ll mix me up with sugar and spice.
And I’ll be a pumpkin pie!”

While tragic to large fowls and squash, this song has always been one of the highlights of my Thanksgiving. As far back as I can remember, my mother sang this song every year. Funny thing, a child’s reality; the things you remember so vividly now seem to have taken place in a dream or an old television show. It’s as if my memories are stored in black and white. Only the present takes place in living color. I remember running around the yard with all of my cousins; too many to fit in the house let alone sit around one table. At dinner time, the adults sat in the kitchen. We were served on paper plates and ate outside resting our food and drinks on the hood of the car. As it got late, we plotted how one of us could go home with the other family and spend the night; keep the party going as long as possible. We weren’t concerned about cooking or dirty dishes or gluten or divorce. I remember my dad getting mad when we picked at the skin of the bird, and when I teased him for not being able to reach the pot in the back of the high cupboard. One year, my mom forgot to get punch, so she made a packet of Jell-O and told us to drink it quick. Mijo always made something new; poached pears one year that no one ate; rice pudding another I heard it tasted good (from him, of course) no one else remembers tasting it. Every year he complains we’re eating too early or too late or too fast or too slow. (Do you get my point, here?) One year, my dad put brandy in the yams and ruined them. (I’m still holding that grudge.) The year after he died it wasn’t the same but we went on, some of us cooking, mijo complaining, all of us singing the song.

Things are different now and the idea of picking one day to remember and give thanks seems absurd. Now, I’m in charge of the turkey. I’m avoiding the dishes. I’m concerned about the gluten and coping with the other things. In terms of stopping and being thankful, Thanksgiving is a useless holiday to me; rather redundant actually. I don’t need it. You see, I truly thank my God every day. I look at how He has blessed me with my family, my church, my friends, my home, my job (I can seriously keep going). I know how blessed I am. I don’t need to stop and think. I know who I am, where I’m from, where I deserve to be and where He has placed me and I am very thankful. I’ll take the day anyway because it gives me some time with the people I love dearly. This year we have a new baby and her daddy joining us for the first time. We’ll sing them the song. Maybe, we’ll go outside and eat on the hood of the car. Yes, things are different now.

The Allegory of the Fish keeper

A young girl was entrusted with the care of a beautiful fish that lived in a fragile glass bowl. She didn’t understand why she was chosen. She had no special talents to speak of. She was as ordinary as ordinary could be. Nonetheless, the fish was hers and she loved it dearly. Others thought she was crazy to be so devoted to the fish. “Why do you give so much?” they asked. “It doesn’t swim around. It just floats in one spot. It gives you nothing back. You can never hold it in your hand. It will always be in its own world; separated from you. Just feed it and be done.” The fragile bowl had to be protected also. If it were jostled, or if the water became impure, the fish would grow sickly and pale, and sink to the bottom of the bowl. The keeper had to act quickly to fix whatever was wrong. The keeper’s days were long and tiring. As she worked, the fish just floated unaware of the keeper’s dedication or of the dangers of the world or of the lakes and oceans where other fish swam. Every night she would carefully circle her arms around the fragile bowl and tell the fish, “I love you.” While it would have been nice to hear the fish reply, “I love you, too, dear keeper,” she realized this was asking more than the fish was capable. Still, she dreamt of releasing her fish into a stream or a river and letting it swim away to a large lake or ocean. She wanted her fish to see the world, to experience life, to find a mate; to love and to be loved.

One day, the keeper came across a village of people caring for fish much like hers; each as beautiful; each bowl as fragile. She noticed the keepers. Their arms were open, but their fists where clinched; she was not sure if they had just finished one battle or were preparing to fight another. Their eyes were hopeful, but their brows were furrowed; as if they were hoping and dreaming, calculating and planning all at the same time. They had smiles on their faces but their teeth were clinched with both joy and resolve. As she looked at the keepers, both men and women, she recognized herself. Her arms were indeed always open, surrounding her fish; protecting its bowl. She too, fought one battle after the next and her fists were clinched; ready to defend. Her eyes were filled with love as she looked at her fish, but her brow was furrowed from peering the distance preparing for the next challenge. She had joy in her smile, but her teeth remained clinched; determined to go on with a steely resolve. She suddenly felt weary. She knew if she sat down, she may not get up; if she cried, she may not stop. She was baring the weight of this single fragile bowl. It might as well have been the weight of the world. As she stood there, someone came into view; a keeper walking towards her but his bowl was empty. Then she spotted another walking with his fish towards the river. She stopped the man with the empty bowl. “Was that keeper really going to release her fish? Did you release yours? This can’t be.” He assured her it was true. “Some fish go free, others stay put,” he said. “Some will move about their bowls, others will always just float. But it’s not important that each fish swim out to sea. What matters is that each fish lives a life of purpose; a life filled with love. Don’t loose your focus, dear keeper. Remember, you were not chosen for this journey because of your ability to accomplish but for your capacity to love.”

Are We There Yet? (Sqeezing the Charmin - Part II)

…So where are we? Before we get going, I need everyone to make an effort. If this bores you, you can go here. The good thing about calling it a “world-wide web” is that there’s a bunch of other places you can be. I hope you stay. This one's important to me.

It turns out the 25¢ question isn’t whether or not we were brought to this place in life. The question that earns the quarter is,

“Who’s going to be doing the driving?”

I can sit and ponder how I got here or I can chart my course for the rest of the trip. (What can I say? Descartes philosophized about wax and the mind and the body, I use metaphors of driving and getting your jollies squeezing toilet paper.)

If it were up to me, I would be in show business. Of course, if I had waited to be discovered, I would be sitting in a warehouse where the Fiesta Four used to sit. One thing for which I am certain is that if life is a roadtrip, it’s a winding one. That frightens some people. You’ve got to be ready for the turns. The bends can bring new challenges or force you to change gears. If you don’t pay attention you can get banged up. If you don't keep your vision focused on the horizon, you can get sick. You’ve got to realize if you’re lost and be willing to make a change of direction. Some people prefer straight highways. But highways are long and boring. It’s tempting to just turn on cruise control and let it carry you. You can get hypnotized by the road and miss the trip all together. Have you ever spaced out on the freeway and when you rejoined reality you didn’t remember driving through certain areas. Maybe the part of the road you’re missing is college because you think you’re too old or too dumb to start (I was 33 and I couldn’t do math). Maybe you’re missing the chance of saying to someone, “I love you, too,” because you won’t humble yourself or make yourself vulnerable. I think in order to truly experience life, you’ve got to be the driver. I learned that late. That’s why I spent 4 years here. (I bet you thought the drive-in was the low point. That’s another blog for another time.)

And the road winds until the very end. My father-in-law is coming up on the last curve. A final stretch of road his fading mind and broken body won’t allow him to take alone. The end of his journey will be a curve in the middle of ours. I think of everything he’s done in his life and how he chose to handle the curves that life brought him; the choice to serve our country through two wars; to raise a small girl whose father died and whose mother drank; to be a man of honor and integrity. I see the roads I have traveled. Some I regret. Some that carried a toll. I see the roads people I love have taken or are taking; some they will regret or that carry a cost. Then suddenly in the middle of all of this, as I started to focus on the road and not the destination, someone I love made a choice I never expected; a choice that reminds me that no man’s destiny is sealed until the journey’s end. People can take control of the wheel, get out of the spin; change their course. Gun it.

Most importantly, I know that I’m not on this road alone. I’ve got someone with me every leg of my journey. And He’s not riding on my dash board; He’s riding in my heart.


If this is way to philosophical for you or if the picture I've painted isn't clear, go here. Then drive back and see me next week.