This is from a GREAT singer/songwriter named Ray Lamontagne from a song called How Come. Hit this title and then go listen to some of his stuff. Amazing!!!
Some of you know that my church is dismantling itself. I sat for a few minutes trying to think of a better word, but there isn't one. It's like someone hit the self-destruct button and whether they hear the countdown or not, they only have a few more moments in which they can turn it off. But nobody is going to. Why?
Because people love drama!
Now for some people the issue is an important one and I don't want to belittle either side's opinion, however I think the fact that there are sides at all shows how much they've already belittled themselves. And why?
People love drama!
We love it when our gun-toting conservative relative comes to the wine and cheese tasting party with a dead bear in his truck. We love when our gay Greenpeace t-shirted vegan friend asks to come along to Deercamp. The smile on your face following these two sentences is proof. We love that there are blue states and red states. We love that there are believers and non-believers, liberals and conservatives, progressives and traditionalists, and a whole host of multiple versions of all of the above. Why?
People love drama!
You may think this isn't true, that people don't crave tension and opposition. My only rebuttal would be to ask you if you've ever watched people interact before. In Wal-mart just today I saw a kid crying because his mom wouldn't buy him something at the register, a couple arguing over which marinade to get (hickory barbecue or mesquite), a couple guys trying to compromise on what beer to drink, and about fifteen magazine articles depicting drama amongst the beautiful people. I was there for maybe ten minutes.
People love drama!
In my own life I can see how I seek out confrontation and you can to. It isn't enough to just win an argument. We have to act like the stakes are extremely high, even when they are ridiculously meaningless. This is why phrases like 'who's side are you on?' exist.
Because people love drama!
Now I want to make something terribly clear. Tragedy is not drama. Drama can never be tragedy. December's Tsunami, Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, the earthquake in the Middle East and Asia, the war in Iraq, starving in Africa, corruption in politics (on both sides), floods in New England, even lesser things that are devastating like unemployment and child obesity, these are tragic. But scroll on down the news page or watch some painfully dull 24 minute local news and you'll hear about drama, everything from the cheesy self-interest fluff of local scrapbooking parties to the who cares enough to find it out latest Hollywood gossip. (Vince Vaughn was seen kissing Jennifer Anniston today!) How do I know that???
People love drama!
Did you ever watch thirty seconds of a show like Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, Inside Edition, or The Insider? Isn't it hard to stomach such schlock? I don't care that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are having a baby or that she's converting to Scientology and she's gonna have a medicine free silent birth! Tom Cruise is supposed to be driving cars or flying jets, or better yet wielding samurai swords, and shutting the hell up about medical advice (because that's what Dr. Phil is for), but people are asking him and people want to know what he thinks. For what reason?
Drama!
Let me rant...
Christians are overly dramatic too! (Of course you say, because they are still people!) Evangelical Christians sound more persecuted every day to hear them talk. Yet in the last five years they've chosen the President, ratified the cause for war, (nearly-and we'll see) gotten two conservative judges on the Supreme Court bench, made Republicans the majority in congress, convinced America that war medals are handed out like Burger King crowns, continued to push for more family friendly movies while making an extremely violent R-rated movie the number one movie of the year last year, and spent almost 3 trillion dollars in that time on Christian books, bumper stickers, throw pillows, and novelty items that reduce the Bible to at best 40 days of commitment and at worst a single prayer from an obscure Biblical character given a single verse of scripture. Evangelicals have created this world where they are still being crucified, even though they are Pilate. Why?
Drama!
Progressive Christians try to sound offended by the right's righteousness. Yet in the last five years have conceded their arguments on when war is justified, made their most rational spokespeople nutjobs like Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson, allowed cooky liberal pacifists to obscure legitimate concerns over the war, let quacks like Pat Robertson call for assassinations on a Bible show and get off with an apology, forgotten that justice doesn't mean equal, aligned themselves with secular entities with secular motivations, not challenged Evangelicals on Biblical interpretation-but have rather tried to out manuever them, and let an election be made into a religious folly of who God wanted to be President (like God decides such a small thing). Progressive Christians have made Evangelicals look righteous and right by being timid and too tolerant of people within their ranks who are neither Progressive nor Christian. Why?
D-R-A-M-A!
We love stacking the odds against ourselves. We love when we dig a hole and have to claw our way out. It's exhilerating! That's why we wait till April 14th to file taxes, the 31st to renew our license, the last minute to write our paper. Grownups, drama is why we talk at lunch about the new girl and how hungover she was when she got to work-it's why we fantasize about going out with her even though we're married. Drama is why we gossip at our Bridge game, tell stories at our golf game, and look over with curious eyes at the young man with the jeans and t-shirt on that just walked in late to the church.
People love drama!!!
Let me tell you this little story...if you like drama, you'll like this.
There was this man who thought himself righteous. He thought he had followed all the rules that one should live by and he was ready to see if these sacrifices made him ready to inherit the wisdom of God, and in doing so eternal life. He was also very rich, so when he heard of a wise teacher coming near, he loaded his entourage up and they sat out across the city to hear this wise teacher speak. When they arrived they listened to the teacher and then when he had finsihed the rich and righteous man stood and asked what he must do to inherit the wisdom of God and the gift of eternal life.
"Follow the rules of man" the teacher said.
"Which ones?" the rich man asked.
"All of them" said the teacher.
"I have," he replied "what must I still do?"
The teacher looked into the heavens and into the eyes of this rich man and said "Go and sell all your possessions, give the money to the poor, then you will have treasure in Heaven. Then, come follow me."
The rich man hung his head, for he had hoped for another answer. This he could not do. He went away, never to seek the teacher's advice again.
For those of you who haven't heard it, this is my retelling of the story in Matthew 19. Here's my point.
People love drama!
I love drama. And we get caught up in all these things that don't mean anything in the world beyond this one. It's okay that we have our tension, in fact when existing with people willing to love one another anyway tension can be quite powerful fuel. When it is a problem is when we become the things we believe at opposition with eachother. I am not finally anything but a child of God. You are not finally anything else either. We love drama, and dismantlings will happen, but at the end of this we must/need to be brothers and sisters still.
Because the second the drama becomes what people embrace, instead of eachother, God is missing and hard to find again.
Oct 20, 2005
Oct 18, 2005
She wishes it was different, she prays to God most every night. And though she swears it doesn't lsten-there's still a hope in her it might.
The title today comes from my favorite band on Earth, Dave Matthews Band, from a song called Grey Street of their Busted Stuff album. Click on the title to see the band's website. Since I'm sure I'll quote them numerous more times I'll try to find extra nuggets of interest to link to their titles from here on out.
One of the things I got to do last week as part of my visit to Pacific School of Religion was attend their Christian-Buddhism dialogue class. The class met at the Berkeley Buddhist Monastery and upon entering we were told to take our shoes off and ushered into the temple to chant with them. It was quite an experience. If you'd like to hear some Buddhist chanting check this website out. I couldn't figure out how to link it. What I really wanted was these chants playing while you read what I had written. I am P.T. Barnum!
http://www.buddhanet.net/audio-chant.htm
We sat on the floor on these tiny pillows filled with sand, while the head monk Heng Shure knelt before us facing a golden Buddha statue. He asked us to chant with him and taught us a little Chinese so that we would say the right words as we sang. The melody was simple and beautiful and we joined in unison. It was rather intimidating at first, Chinese language, new melody, new surroundings, new experiences all at once. After a couple of minutes I had gotten the hang of it, as had most of the class, and I closed my eyes and tried to take in the sound. The head monk was striking a small bell and an assistant clicked a rock with a wooden mallet to keep what was more a unifying encouragement than a beat or accompaniment.
A thought crept into the middle of my Chinese chanting. When was the last time I'd sat and sang a soft melody, closed my eyes, even took five seconds to gather myself? I've certainly prayed, but as a means to an end-for someone or for something. Here we were chanting the same phrase over and over for no other reason than to center ourselves. As I thought of how little I'd allowed myself this time I became increasingly calm for spending it now.
Around the room I had noticed golden statues, interesting wooden carvigs, colorful Chinese words and even more colorful glass windows depicting The Buddha and other spiritual leaders. None of this was so different than my faith, except the gold was usually on candles and offerings plates and just plating, not solid as I assumed these artifacts were. The presence of God was extremely different to me and the language would be a barrier to me on a regular basis, but as I sat there with my eyes closed, chanting in unison with those around me I could hear them singing. I could hear their breath enter and leave their body. I was at peace for one of the first times in my life.
The past week I've been trying to recreate that feeling. I spent some time in my church praying silently in a pew in the sanctuary. I spent some time in the Storytelling room propped up with pillows humming what I remembered of this song. I lit a cigar and laid down four nights ago and listened to a Dave Matthews band album in its entirety without singing or speaking trying to connect to this peace. I put in my CD of a Thunderstorm and tried to veg out Indian style on my couch.
None of these even came close.
Then today I was trying to find some CheckSmart place to pay my gas bill, wihtout much luck when I saw that the Little Ceasar's on the corner had a large Pepperoni Pizza for $5 and I realized I hadn't eaten yet today. I was driving, looking for this CheckSmart place, preparing to go eat some pizza and then clean my house when I noticed the sunset was beginning and the sky was a faint purple. It was beautiful. My mind hadn't been at rest for some time. I found the CheckSmart place, paid my bill and then backed my car into the corner of the parking lot, facng the now reddening indigo sky.
And there, in a stripmall praking lot with Little Caesar's pizza blowing through the air of my car I took in that image-purple, red, orange, and blue all at once in a corner of the universe glowing, and I closed my eyes.
Peace comes not from peaceful surroundings, not from inspiring melodies, therapeutic puffs on cheap cigars, quiet moments of meditation or prayer, or even faith in Nirvana or God. Peace comes from appreciating what it is that you've been given, a life to give voice to, a song to sing with it, and a God to praise however he comes to you. What I had connected with inside the Buddhist monastery I can connect to anywhere. It's the knwoledge that I can take stock of myself. I am my own worst critic-my own biggest fan. He needs a lot of my time. When I'm ignoring the time I've been given, when I am missing the beauty all around me I am not centered and dare I say not connected to God but to this world.
The gas that heats my water is of this world, the sun that sets in glowing light show with magnificence is God. The pillow I rest my legs upon is of this world, the air that escapes my chest in song is of God. The thoughts whirling inside are given to me by this world, the moment I take account of them and act as man of Truth and faith I am of God.
One of the things I got to do last week as part of my visit to Pacific School of Religion was attend their Christian-Buddhism dialogue class. The class met at the Berkeley Buddhist Monastery and upon entering we were told to take our shoes off and ushered into the temple to chant with them. It was quite an experience. If you'd like to hear some Buddhist chanting check this website out. I couldn't figure out how to link it. What I really wanted was these chants playing while you read what I had written. I am P.T. Barnum!
http://www.buddhanet.net/audio-chant.htm
We sat on the floor on these tiny pillows filled with sand, while the head monk Heng Shure knelt before us facing a golden Buddha statue. He asked us to chant with him and taught us a little Chinese so that we would say the right words as we sang. The melody was simple and beautiful and we joined in unison. It was rather intimidating at first, Chinese language, new melody, new surroundings, new experiences all at once. After a couple of minutes I had gotten the hang of it, as had most of the class, and I closed my eyes and tried to take in the sound. The head monk was striking a small bell and an assistant clicked a rock with a wooden mallet to keep what was more a unifying encouragement than a beat or accompaniment.
A thought crept into the middle of my Chinese chanting. When was the last time I'd sat and sang a soft melody, closed my eyes, even took five seconds to gather myself? I've certainly prayed, but as a means to an end-for someone or for something. Here we were chanting the same phrase over and over for no other reason than to center ourselves. As I thought of how little I'd allowed myself this time I became increasingly calm for spending it now.
Around the room I had noticed golden statues, interesting wooden carvigs, colorful Chinese words and even more colorful glass windows depicting The Buddha and other spiritual leaders. None of this was so different than my faith, except the gold was usually on candles and offerings plates and just plating, not solid as I assumed these artifacts were. The presence of God was extremely different to me and the language would be a barrier to me on a regular basis, but as I sat there with my eyes closed, chanting in unison with those around me I could hear them singing. I could hear their breath enter and leave their body. I was at peace for one of the first times in my life.
The past week I've been trying to recreate that feeling. I spent some time in my church praying silently in a pew in the sanctuary. I spent some time in the Storytelling room propped up with pillows humming what I remembered of this song. I lit a cigar and laid down four nights ago and listened to a Dave Matthews band album in its entirety without singing or speaking trying to connect to this peace. I put in my CD of a Thunderstorm and tried to veg out Indian style on my couch.
None of these even came close.
Then today I was trying to find some CheckSmart place to pay my gas bill, wihtout much luck when I saw that the Little Ceasar's on the corner had a large Pepperoni Pizza for $5 and I realized I hadn't eaten yet today. I was driving, looking for this CheckSmart place, preparing to go eat some pizza and then clean my house when I noticed the sunset was beginning and the sky was a faint purple. It was beautiful. My mind hadn't been at rest for some time. I found the CheckSmart place, paid my bill and then backed my car into the corner of the parking lot, facng the now reddening indigo sky.
And there, in a stripmall praking lot with Little Caesar's pizza blowing through the air of my car I took in that image-purple, red, orange, and blue all at once in a corner of the universe glowing, and I closed my eyes.
Peace comes not from peaceful surroundings, not from inspiring melodies, therapeutic puffs on cheap cigars, quiet moments of meditation or prayer, or even faith in Nirvana or God. Peace comes from appreciating what it is that you've been given, a life to give voice to, a song to sing with it, and a God to praise however he comes to you. What I had connected with inside the Buddhist monastery I can connect to anywhere. It's the knwoledge that I can take stock of myself. I am my own worst critic-my own biggest fan. He needs a lot of my time. When I'm ignoring the time I've been given, when I am missing the beauty all around me I am not centered and dare I say not connected to God but to this world.
The gas that heats my water is of this world, the sun that sets in glowing light show with magnificence is God. The pillow I rest my legs upon is of this world, the air that escapes my chest in song is of God. The thoughts whirling inside are given to me by this world, the moment I take account of them and act as man of Truth and faith I am of God.
Oct 17, 2005
No matter how much Peter loved her, what made the Pan refuse to grow was that the hook brings you back.
This title comes from Blues Travelers song Hook. A great song from a great band. Click on this title to get to their website. I always missed this literary reference before a friend of mine thought I stole it a few years ago when I said I had a Peter Pan complex.
There's this one stoplight north of Bluffton, Indiana on Highway 1 that I've never gotten passed without being stopped. Never. In its three year existence, not once. No matter what time of day it is it stops me. No matter how fast I'm driving or where I need to be it stops me. No matter how many other cars are on the road, even if there are none, it stops me, and I always stop at it. I've been stopped at this light in rainstorms, snowstorms, sunny days, mornings, nights, daybreak, sunset and the only time I can remember getting passed it was the day before it was hung up when it was a dark lightless yellow box. Every time I try to cross its path I am stopped, momentarily, for sometimes seconds and sometimes lifetimes depending upon my mood and my errand.
Tonight I am struggling with the notion of growing up/growing wise. It seems like two things happen simultaneously with age. We know more which teaches us we know very little and we forget the simple truths that took us down the paths we are on.
One writer put it this way:
"The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect, he becomes an adolescent; the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise" Alden Nowlan
I like that. Every time I think I've gotten to that point of life where I'm done doing stupid things and making poor choices (physically, spiritually, emotionally, and if Jace Thompson is involved legally) I prove that I have yet to make it to the place I think I'm headed. It's usually love that brings me to my stopping point, either my desire for it, inadequacy to give it, or my futile attempts to offer it to everyone. This can't be done. There are some people who have hurt me and no longer get the privilege of my love.
I think I've made my peace with this notion, that some of the people I have loved or would have loved have rejected me in some way or severed the bond I was offering them. What I can't make peace with are the people I have hurt. What I am not willing to accept is that there are any people who's love I deserve to lose. And there are more than I care or could remember. I'm afraid another got added to the list Saturday and more may follow as a result of that moment if I'm being honest with you or with me. I desired love more than I respected it for a few minutes too long.
I know that no one is perfect, I can forgive them, and as the bar has been set I am a grown-up. What I can not do is own up to how I have broken my own connections and lost certain privileges that had been offered to me. They are immeasurable losses if they are not repairable. Therefore I am not wise.
When I was younger I had two best friends, Keith Miller and Mike Neese. These guys were two of the eleven kids (not including my sister and I) my mom babysat at our house while I was growing up. One day I remeber Mike and I were standing in the front yard playing some game (which I don't remember) when I got mad at him for something and I punched him the nose, knocking him over and sending him rolling down the hill. When he stood up he had a bloody nose, I got in trouble, and we didn't speak the rest of the day.
The next day Mike and his little brother Scotty were two of the first kids to our house in the morning. He walked in my room where I was beginning a battle between He-Man and Skeletor. He grabbed Skeletor and held him up, mimicking his voice and saying 'I will defeat you He-man'. I smiled, lifted He-man and said, 'No I will defeat you!'
I was a dorky kid.
I am a dorky kid.
In thirty seconds we were over our fight, it hadn't mattered and didn't matter. I think I may have three friends in the world right now who would come to visit the day after I hurt them. That's a lot I guess given the circumstances. I haven't forged unconditional friendships with many people. Because I don't offer many people unconditional love.
I am not wise. And more times than I want to admit I am not good. I hurt people I love and care about and I do it because I am selfish and weak.
You do too.
How great it would be if we had the chance to be seven forever, playing with our friends and not worrying about feelings and broken promises and pain. Some of us had to grow up earlier than others and would go back in a heartbeat.
But we did grow up. We have grown up, and now we have two choices. We can stop-stop moving, stop trying, stop loving, stop growing, stop forgiving, stop walking down the path toward who we really are. Or we can keep going-seeking always to mend what can be mended, make peace with what cannot, and ultimately make peace with who we really are, at our best and worst.
Tonight, as soon as I publish this I have to drive home. I could avoid Highway 1 and miss getting stopped, there are other routes and different paths. I could choose to ignore the light, but it wouldn't make it green or right. I'm going to drive toward that light and if I have to stop, I'll stop, I'll smile at my luck and think about the next chance I get. I'll wait my few seconds or a lifetime depending upon where my thoughts are tonight. I'll keep going. Who knows, maybe tonight is my night.
To the ones I love I am sorry each time I fail to say it. If you have been asked to see this blog you are among them. To the ones I have hurt recently, anciently, spiriutally, emotionally I offer this humble confession-I am not always good. this will be no consolation. I will strive to be better. This is all any of us can do. I pray you all keep going. I pray you challenge me to do the same. I pray God has many more stops and starts for all of us.
There's this one stoplight north of Bluffton, Indiana on Highway 1 that I've never gotten passed without being stopped. Never. In its three year existence, not once. No matter what time of day it is it stops me. No matter how fast I'm driving or where I need to be it stops me. No matter how many other cars are on the road, even if there are none, it stops me, and I always stop at it. I've been stopped at this light in rainstorms, snowstorms, sunny days, mornings, nights, daybreak, sunset and the only time I can remember getting passed it was the day before it was hung up when it was a dark lightless yellow box. Every time I try to cross its path I am stopped, momentarily, for sometimes seconds and sometimes lifetimes depending upon my mood and my errand.
Tonight I am struggling with the notion of growing up/growing wise. It seems like two things happen simultaneously with age. We know more which teaches us we know very little and we forget the simple truths that took us down the paths we are on.
One writer put it this way:
"The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect, he becomes an adolescent; the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise" Alden Nowlan
I like that. Every time I think I've gotten to that point of life where I'm done doing stupid things and making poor choices (physically, spiritually, emotionally, and if Jace Thompson is involved legally) I prove that I have yet to make it to the place I think I'm headed. It's usually love that brings me to my stopping point, either my desire for it, inadequacy to give it, or my futile attempts to offer it to everyone. This can't be done. There are some people who have hurt me and no longer get the privilege of my love.
I think I've made my peace with this notion, that some of the people I have loved or would have loved have rejected me in some way or severed the bond I was offering them. What I can't make peace with are the people I have hurt. What I am not willing to accept is that there are any people who's love I deserve to lose. And there are more than I care or could remember. I'm afraid another got added to the list Saturday and more may follow as a result of that moment if I'm being honest with you or with me. I desired love more than I respected it for a few minutes too long.
I know that no one is perfect, I can forgive them, and as the bar has been set I am a grown-up. What I can not do is own up to how I have broken my own connections and lost certain privileges that had been offered to me. They are immeasurable losses if they are not repairable. Therefore I am not wise.
When I was younger I had two best friends, Keith Miller and Mike Neese. These guys were two of the eleven kids (not including my sister and I) my mom babysat at our house while I was growing up. One day I remeber Mike and I were standing in the front yard playing some game (which I don't remember) when I got mad at him for something and I punched him the nose, knocking him over and sending him rolling down the hill. When he stood up he had a bloody nose, I got in trouble, and we didn't speak the rest of the day.
The next day Mike and his little brother Scotty were two of the first kids to our house in the morning. He walked in my room where I was beginning a battle between He-Man and Skeletor. He grabbed Skeletor and held him up, mimicking his voice and saying 'I will defeat you He-man'. I smiled, lifted He-man and said, 'No I will defeat you!'
I was a dorky kid.
I am a dorky kid.
In thirty seconds we were over our fight, it hadn't mattered and didn't matter. I think I may have three friends in the world right now who would come to visit the day after I hurt them. That's a lot I guess given the circumstances. I haven't forged unconditional friendships with many people. Because I don't offer many people unconditional love.
I am not wise. And more times than I want to admit I am not good. I hurt people I love and care about and I do it because I am selfish and weak.
You do too.
How great it would be if we had the chance to be seven forever, playing with our friends and not worrying about feelings and broken promises and pain. Some of us had to grow up earlier than others and would go back in a heartbeat.
But we did grow up. We have grown up, and now we have two choices. We can stop-stop moving, stop trying, stop loving, stop growing, stop forgiving, stop walking down the path toward who we really are. Or we can keep going-seeking always to mend what can be mended, make peace with what cannot, and ultimately make peace with who we really are, at our best and worst.
Tonight, as soon as I publish this I have to drive home. I could avoid Highway 1 and miss getting stopped, there are other routes and different paths. I could choose to ignore the light, but it wouldn't make it green or right. I'm going to drive toward that light and if I have to stop, I'll stop, I'll smile at my luck and think about the next chance I get. I'll wait my few seconds or a lifetime depending upon where my thoughts are tonight. I'll keep going. Who knows, maybe tonight is my night.
To the ones I love I am sorry each time I fail to say it. If you have been asked to see this blog you are among them. To the ones I have hurt recently, anciently, spiriutally, emotionally I offer this humble confession-I am not always good. this will be no consolation. I will strive to be better. This is all any of us can do. I pray you all keep going. I pray you challenge me to do the same. I pray God has many more stops and starts for all of us.
Oct 16, 2005
Many times it happens too fast-you trade your passion for glory. Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past-you must fight just to keep them alive
TAKE THIS LINK! Click on the title. The title today comes from The Eye of The Tiger by Survivor, which always makes me think of two things-my dad (he coached basketball in the eighties and this was a 'theme' song of the Lady Tigers) and ofcourse Rocky. TAKE THIS LINK for a great commentary on the status of that franchise, what with the recent news Stalone is working on Rocky 6.
I was raised a Cincinnati Reds fan. It wasn't my choice, but for the first few years of my life it was my team. I remember my first Reds jacket, red with white trim and made of some material that repelled beer and nacho cheese. Although I was seven or so, so I'm certain that's not a feature I put to use. Maybe the cheese one.
Pete Rose was my favorite player. It was kind of a no brainer cheering for Pete Rose. I used to tell people he was my uncle. Come to find out later in life (I met him once) Pete Rose is kind of a no brainer himself. He's proven that I guess, but I was always hoping he'd be articulate and heroic. No. Hell of a baseball player though!
As in all things a boy grows up and decides he wants to make his own decisions about what to do, what to like, and also who to root for. As it turned out for me, right around this time, I also morphed from the skinny baseball-build of my ancient past, to the more linemanish, Buddha, beer retaining form you've all come to love me as. For this reason, and maybe this reason alone, I was drawn to Auburn baseball AND football player Frank Thomas. And so when he was drafted by the Chicago White Sox in 1988 I was instantly a White Sox fan. Frank Thomas has been my favorite player ever since and the only baseball card find I've retained interest in.
Some of you aware of it know that tonight, in fact just before I began to write this entry the White Sox clinched a spot in the 2005 World Series. I'm excited and feel my 17 years cheering for them as they stayed pretty much ten games out of the playoffs perpetually has not been in vain. Although Frank is hurt and hasn't played since he came back from his last injury, hit 12 home runs in twenty-something games and called it a season, I am still growing increasingly fond of the scrappy set of guys they've assembled and thankfully note that their management finally took my advice (that I've been dispensing since I was 13) and gotten a pitching staff.
But this entry is not about the White Sox. I'd like to always challenge myself as a communicator and you as a reader/responder to higher thoughts.
I want to talk about one of my closest relationships. Not boyfriend/girlfriend, wife/husband, partner/partner, hookup/one-night stand stuff, because except for limited instances I don't know anything about any of these. I remain the guy all women would like to marry someday when they're ready to stop looking for flashier alternatives with less predictable treatment. Although I'd like to say anyone who has dated me knows I am as irrationally male as the next guy and often blunt in an insentitive way, I'm just nicer about my boorishness and more articulate about my irrationality.
No I want to talk about one of those people God or fate or charmed coincidence gave me that makes life worth living. I want to talk about my father. He's a smart man and a talented man, but I never cared about either of those things. I appreciate it about him, but it isn't neccessary. All I ever wanted from him is what I've consistently recieved-a straight version of his perception and a truthful word from his heart. He's a rare find in this day and age.
We live in a world where millions of people tune in every day by radio and TV to hear ignorant people with over inflated egos preach their opinions as Truth, all the while their shows and programs are sponsored by prescription drugs, car manufacturers, alcohol distirbutors, insurance companies, investment banking firms, energy cooperatives, and boring movies that I'll never be convinced don't alter the message. We live in a world where the number one political talk-show host spews his own point of view and calls it objectivity, or worse common sense. We live in a world where the number one talk-show host is liked because of her down to earthness, even though she's a billionaire and spends her time either telling people how to live or rubberstamping couch-jumping celebrities with their own ignorant agendas. We choose a President based on which one we think is more like the common man! We give candidates two minutes to explain their policies about issues that will affect us for decades. We spend trillions of dollars a year on self-help books, diet programs, exercise equipment, and vitamins while the average family watches more TV, eats more fast food, spends less time with eachother, feels more stressed, and takes more medicine for depression and anxiety evey day.
We live in a world full of misinformation and fluff and BS. And somewhere in the thick of all that seems to me to be so jaded and backwards and misguided and insincere I have this memory of sitting in the new Chicago White Sox ball park, which real fans call New Comiskey and ignorant people call U.S. Cellular Field because even our buildings are advertisements. I'm in the twenty-somethingth row and I'm 20 and my dad is 45 and he dispenses this wisdom like its the last time we'll talk and he's practiced every line, but really its just a man being himself with no agenda except love and he opens his soul to his son, so that I may see his Truth.
On love-"I knew your mother was the one for me when I realized she was my best friend."
On kids-"Don't wait too long to have kids, bcause you'll want to be able to have days like this." (Sitting in a ball park as two grown men)
On work-"Find something that you love to do and don't settle for anything else."
On me-"Son, you are the most talented person I know. You can do anything."
There are good men and good women walking this Earth. Perhaps they have talk-shows and host no-spin zone debates, run for public office, or play professional baseball. But you'll never find out who the heroes are by watching or listening to a medium, because that isn't real communciation, not like writing to one another and definitely not like speaking to one another, because you are not a participant-you are an audience. At best you are the person they are catering to at worst a demographic. And shouting rhetoric-political or feelgood doesn't make an instance of soul to soul expression. A singer can bare his soul with the words and the notes he finds within himself. A writer can leave tracks to his heart with the ways he finds to speak through words. Actors/Comedians on a stage hear our laughs and see our sobs and it change stheir performance. Ministers I assure you look into the congregation for glimmers that their words are inspired. We can share our souls with one another but there has to be interaction not merely obsrvation.
This is a lesson I am still learning that I have some vivid memories reinforcing.
Here's my advice and you can save a bundle on self-help books.
Find good people. One. Ten. A family of them. You're family.
Make a family.
And spend some quality time with them. Find a place where you can both be comfortable and open your souls to each other. because life moves awful fast and moments when you share your Truth with someone else last forerver. Connect to old friends and make new ones out of people who motivate you to be a better person.
This isn't to say that my dad and I have some squeaky clean relationship of mentor/student, father/son, coach/player. We fight and he's a stubborn ass again and I'm a child again and the wisdom goes away from both of us. But you see I get to choose who I root for. And I'm rooting for him. And he's rooting for me. My soul knows that. The part of me that is forever knows that that long he's an ally.
I remember my first White Sox jacket. It was white with black trim and made of some material that repelled beer and nacho cheese. I was fourteen or so and depending upon how long I had it/could fit into it I spilt beer and nacho cheese on it. I'm not really much of a basbeball jacket guy. I don't wear one now. I can't imagine wearing one any time soon. Truth be told, if the White Sox stopped playing tommorrow I'd be the same guy. I'm aware that many things that we fill our lives with fade away. For now they're going to the World Series and my first phone call after the game was to dad. He's a White Sox fan now. It wasn't his choice, but life offers us all kinds of new alternatives when love is our agenda.
I was raised a Cincinnati Reds fan. It wasn't my choice, but for the first few years of my life it was my team. I remember my first Reds jacket, red with white trim and made of some material that repelled beer and nacho cheese. Although I was seven or so, so I'm certain that's not a feature I put to use. Maybe the cheese one.
Pete Rose was my favorite player. It was kind of a no brainer cheering for Pete Rose. I used to tell people he was my uncle. Come to find out later in life (I met him once) Pete Rose is kind of a no brainer himself. He's proven that I guess, but I was always hoping he'd be articulate and heroic. No. Hell of a baseball player though!
As in all things a boy grows up and decides he wants to make his own decisions about what to do, what to like, and also who to root for. As it turned out for me, right around this time, I also morphed from the skinny baseball-build of my ancient past, to the more linemanish, Buddha, beer retaining form you've all come to love me as. For this reason, and maybe this reason alone, I was drawn to Auburn baseball AND football player Frank Thomas. And so when he was drafted by the Chicago White Sox in 1988 I was instantly a White Sox fan. Frank Thomas has been my favorite player ever since and the only baseball card find I've retained interest in.
Some of you aware of it know that tonight, in fact just before I began to write this entry the White Sox clinched a spot in the 2005 World Series. I'm excited and feel my 17 years cheering for them as they stayed pretty much ten games out of the playoffs perpetually has not been in vain. Although Frank is hurt and hasn't played since he came back from his last injury, hit 12 home runs in twenty-something games and called it a season, I am still growing increasingly fond of the scrappy set of guys they've assembled and thankfully note that their management finally took my advice (that I've been dispensing since I was 13) and gotten a pitching staff.
But this entry is not about the White Sox. I'd like to always challenge myself as a communicator and you as a reader/responder to higher thoughts.
I want to talk about one of my closest relationships. Not boyfriend/girlfriend, wife/husband, partner/partner, hookup/one-night stand stuff, because except for limited instances I don't know anything about any of these. I remain the guy all women would like to marry someday when they're ready to stop looking for flashier alternatives with less predictable treatment. Although I'd like to say anyone who has dated me knows I am as irrationally male as the next guy and often blunt in an insentitive way, I'm just nicer about my boorishness and more articulate about my irrationality.
No I want to talk about one of those people God or fate or charmed coincidence gave me that makes life worth living. I want to talk about my father. He's a smart man and a talented man, but I never cared about either of those things. I appreciate it about him, but it isn't neccessary. All I ever wanted from him is what I've consistently recieved-a straight version of his perception and a truthful word from his heart. He's a rare find in this day and age.
We live in a world where millions of people tune in every day by radio and TV to hear ignorant people with over inflated egos preach their opinions as Truth, all the while their shows and programs are sponsored by prescription drugs, car manufacturers, alcohol distirbutors, insurance companies, investment banking firms, energy cooperatives, and boring movies that I'll never be convinced don't alter the message. We live in a world where the number one political talk-show host spews his own point of view and calls it objectivity, or worse common sense. We live in a world where the number one talk-show host is liked because of her down to earthness, even though she's a billionaire and spends her time either telling people how to live or rubberstamping couch-jumping celebrities with their own ignorant agendas. We choose a President based on which one we think is more like the common man! We give candidates two minutes to explain their policies about issues that will affect us for decades. We spend trillions of dollars a year on self-help books, diet programs, exercise equipment, and vitamins while the average family watches more TV, eats more fast food, spends less time with eachother, feels more stressed, and takes more medicine for depression and anxiety evey day.
We live in a world full of misinformation and fluff and BS. And somewhere in the thick of all that seems to me to be so jaded and backwards and misguided and insincere I have this memory of sitting in the new Chicago White Sox ball park, which real fans call New Comiskey and ignorant people call U.S. Cellular Field because even our buildings are advertisements. I'm in the twenty-somethingth row and I'm 20 and my dad is 45 and he dispenses this wisdom like its the last time we'll talk and he's practiced every line, but really its just a man being himself with no agenda except love and he opens his soul to his son, so that I may see his Truth.
On love-"I knew your mother was the one for me when I realized she was my best friend."
On kids-"Don't wait too long to have kids, bcause you'll want to be able to have days like this." (Sitting in a ball park as two grown men)
On work-"Find something that you love to do and don't settle for anything else."
On me-"Son, you are the most talented person I know. You can do anything."
There are good men and good women walking this Earth. Perhaps they have talk-shows and host no-spin zone debates, run for public office, or play professional baseball. But you'll never find out who the heroes are by watching or listening to a medium, because that isn't real communciation, not like writing to one another and definitely not like speaking to one another, because you are not a participant-you are an audience. At best you are the person they are catering to at worst a demographic. And shouting rhetoric-political or feelgood doesn't make an instance of soul to soul expression. A singer can bare his soul with the words and the notes he finds within himself. A writer can leave tracks to his heart with the ways he finds to speak through words. Actors/Comedians on a stage hear our laughs and see our sobs and it change stheir performance. Ministers I assure you look into the congregation for glimmers that their words are inspired. We can share our souls with one another but there has to be interaction not merely obsrvation.
This is a lesson I am still learning that I have some vivid memories reinforcing.
Here's my advice and you can save a bundle on self-help books.
Find good people. One. Ten. A family of them. You're family.
Make a family.
And spend some quality time with them. Find a place where you can both be comfortable and open your souls to each other. because life moves awful fast and moments when you share your Truth with someone else last forerver. Connect to old friends and make new ones out of people who motivate you to be a better person.
This isn't to say that my dad and I have some squeaky clean relationship of mentor/student, father/son, coach/player. We fight and he's a stubborn ass again and I'm a child again and the wisdom goes away from both of us. But you see I get to choose who I root for. And I'm rooting for him. And he's rooting for me. My soul knows that. The part of me that is forever knows that that long he's an ally.
I remember my first White Sox jacket. It was white with black trim and made of some material that repelled beer and nacho cheese. I was fourteen or so and depending upon how long I had it/could fit into it I spilt beer and nacho cheese on it. I'm not really much of a basbeball jacket guy. I don't wear one now. I can't imagine wearing one any time soon. Truth be told, if the White Sox stopped playing tommorrow I'd be the same guy. I'm aware that many things that we fill our lives with fade away. For now they're going to the World Series and my first phone call after the game was to dad. He's a White Sox fan now. It wasn't his choice, but life offers us all kinds of new alternatives when love is our agenda.
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