Can you feel yourself pushing against the walls of your inner physical self?

Can you feel yourself pushing against the walls of your inner physical self? You might think you are simply becoming more observant of how your mind controls your muscles. But really, you might also be stuck inside a cage.

Even the way you can roll along your eyeballs, looking, moving, questioning whether this is really you. With eyes closed and tensions stilled, you enter into a stream of racing and conflicting thoughts. You sense an attempt to seize control of your mind, to the point where your mind will not be your own.

Initially, you are unformed

Initially, you are unformed. You could end up being anything. Your DNA is going to show you that there are things you won’t be able to do, but at first, you are capable of becoming anyone.

You have evidence by the time you are six that you can’t be anything you want to be, even though teachers and parents keep telling you this.

How you are formed socially determines almost everything about you. Each successive wave of roughly six years brings an opportunity to reset everything, but the opportunities become more and more difficult to manipulate. As you have become fully fixed physically, so do you become mentally, emotionally and spiritually. Changing becomes very hard work. You start to see yourself less as a ball of clay being shaped and molded creatively, but rather a block of granite or marble to be chiseled away at. If you make too deep of a cut, then how do you put the lost piece back on you? You can fool yourself and everyone with wax that will melt, or use glue or some kind of adhesive, but the broken piece will never set quite correctly again, unless there is some truth to the possibility that you will get your memory wiped when you die and you will be reincarnated. However, relying on the promise of a perfect heaven where you can’t sin or let your self behave in ways contrary to a godly nature, or the promise of a future life where you can just start over–this kind of thinking is antithetical to actually changing and growing.

It is incredibly easy to fool yourself into thinking that your particular block of marble is much more developed than it really is.

One particular model of human development, that more or less follows the models of psychologists like Maslow and religious thinkers who think that the Self can be developed into some kind of great enlightened being:
one, you have baby needs up to age six–you learn basic bodily and mental self control;
two, you have childlike needs up to age twelve–you learn basic social engagements;
three, you become focused on building social connections outside of the family up to age 18–you learn how to master your sudden and real sense of being an independent, sexual being and how to negotiate exo-familial relationships with others;
four, you master an adult skill set that will help you obtain a livelihood in which you can support your own family up to age 24–you seek out a suitable mate;
five, you marry your suitable mate, and begin your family up until age 30–you develop adult relationships that are suitable for increasing your chances at mastering a livelihood where others report to you–your children have started stage one;
six, you have obtained enough of a trade plus professional social skill set that you run your professional life on autopilot while you help raise your family up to age 36–your children have started stage two;
seven, you see your children begin their own quest to relate to others more deeply in their beginning stage three–you build more ties within your community that will enhance your status as a leader–up to age 42;
eight, you come into your professional prime as a Vice President or significant business owner and see your children off to college, which your responsible system of saving is allowed to pay for–up to age 48;
nine, you have now embarked upon securing your network to always be in C-level roles as a leader of various medium and large-sized companies, you have successfully piloted your children through their middle twenties and paid for weddings if you have daughters, and you are now ready to begin being a grandparent–up to age 54;
ten, your are now respected enough in your field and financially secure enough that you can take up to a full month out of the year to travel and spend time with your grandchildren, you are also responsible for helping your parents age into their last years–up to age 60;
eleven, you work toward retirement, shoring up all financial investments to become completely ready to live off of a fixed income, you witness your parents’ final years of helplessness and then death, you see your grandchildren become teenagers and young adults, you retire–up to age 66;

Now–this is the ideal–what does the real life really look like? It is nothing more or less than a series of fitful stops and starts based on all of the tragedies and drama of growing up in fractured homes, struggling to keep up with peers who are living out the above model perfectly, struggling to figure out what your vocation is, and still trying to maintain some semblance of a respectable career, fighting through years of heartache and heartbreak over relationships that go south and never quite reach the marriage stage, dealing with all of the demons who were not met and dealt with in the previous stages, taking detours, hitting deadends, starting your family twelve years after the ideal age to start one, trying to go back and get a Master’s degree that you should have gone back to get eighteen years ago, finding out that this isn’t quite right, either, crossing your fingers in hopes that you can cobble together all of your previous professional experience and only be perhaps six to ten years behind your peers, constantly watching assholes like Bush and Trump play Russian roulette with the American economy and blaming the Democrats on all of their missteps–waiting for the certain day when the economy may wreck all of your retirement and hard work, hoping that you can live long enough to see your kid off to college in light of the fact that two generations before you on your mom’s side died or almost died of cancer at 61, dealing with the death of your mom some twenty to thirty years before you should have had to, dealing with your strange father who doesn’t want to participate in the social order of things properly, dealing with your own insistent demons which you’ve already mentioned but they just won’t ever seem to go away, thinking that your remaining life, if it ends up being at least middling respectable and decent will consist of you retiring ten years past most of your peers, becoming a grandfather fifteen or twenty years after most of your peers, and at most ending your professional career as a middle manager or quasi-respectable trained professional, having just enough retirement to take trips to Branson, not Europe, and praying to God almost every single day that your son and possible other child to come will live their lives out closer to the perfect model than the imperfect one.

The other thing that I’ve been trying to think more precisely about is coming up with a (mostly arbitrary) way of more quantitatively measuring just how much I lag behind my peers in various areas of development–mostly social and emotional–but also professionally and familialy. Of course, there are those individuals from my high school who were pregnant between the ages of 16 and 22, who were incredibly socially precocious but never rose to much of anything else because they peaked and that was it. Their timelines are just as removed from the ideal one I described as mine is, but in a different way. Some of them have gone on to stabilize and are happily approaching early retirement with the kids already long out of the home. Most of them are not–they are caught up in cycles of poverty and low wage service jobs and second and third marriages where they are still raising young children even as their first children have entered the same cycle and have had kids of their own as teenagers. I don’t necessarily compare myself to them.

I also would argue that our very culture and society and economy have created an environment where even if you are the most socially well-adjusted person and have hit the proper milestones in school and early career, you might still be delaying starting a family by some years. I might argue that the perfect timeline I created above is no longer tenable by the best of people–that at best, with the way the economy has worked mostly against our favor if we are from middle-class families–is that at best you start your family about six years behind my perfect timeline of development, and you have to delay your retirement by six years. In that case, I would say that I am probably only about six to ten years behind my peers in terms of raising a family and having a stable professional life. In the past, owning a home was a high mark of reaching that point in your mid twenties when you had begun to come into your own as an adult, but with the economy being such that more and more people have to move around to find work, it doesn’t always make the most financial since to own a home. If you can’t live in a home for six years, you probably won’t get much more of a return on your investment than if you had rented and put the extra money you’ve spent on house payments and maintenance into savings or a mutual fund. I have managed to luck out a bit on the last two homes we’ve owned in the Austin and Waco markets, but not by a whole lot. They were clearly better investments than mutual funds, but I wouldn’t say that it was the case on average. I certainly won’t buy another home until I am pretty sure that we will live and work in that community for most of the rest of our working lives.

That said, I don’t really blame the economy or our changing social/moral fabric on my shortcomings. I can only blame my early home environment to some degree. For the most part, my shortcomings as a social, emotional and professional individual have been due to having simple fear of participating. The less I participate, the less I have developed the unconscious, unspoken social skills needed to navigate complex human environments more successfully. The less successful I am at securing good social and professional networks, the more likely I am to be afraid to participate. It is indeed a vicious cycle that is mostly of my own doing, and mostly up to me to figure out how to break. Of course, to be fair to myself, I have made constant inroads on these issues through most of my adult life, and so I should be careful not to paint myself as an utterly bass-ackwards socially retarded misfit who should likely be diagnosed with Asperger’s and just drop out of social engagement altogether.

What I think for me is most helpful:
seeing how some of my early family dynamic did contribute to how I behaved around others–this is not to blame family on personal problems, but to simply find the right mix of root causes so that some of the ongoing demons can finally be eliminated. In other words, I have often been overly inclined to blame my personal behavior on forces outside of my control, including past lives and possible abusive things that could have occurred before my first memories. When in actuality, most of my early behavior was probably predicated upon trying to get the attention of my mother who had to also pay attention to my father and older brothers. If I saw that at least one or two times that acting like a baby or even acting more like a little girl (my mom always wanted to have a little girl child) got me more attention, then I might behave that way just to stand out. In spite of how unsuccessful it usually was, it no doubt carried over into my school life, to the point where in my zeal to please mommy and retain her attention, I would behave the same way around classmates and teachers, ultimately culminating in that shameful summer of making fun of a friend to the point of bullying him and suddenly finding myself the next year to be completely out of touch with most of the young people in my seventh grade class. I was ill-prepared for adolescence, and everything continued to kind of snowball until I reached a stage in adulthood where it was utterly clear to me that I didn’t possess the deep knowledge required to successfully navigate romantic, professional and friendly relationships. And, of course, the more I struck out, the more I was inclined to just stay at home alone, which inevitably contributed to me developing less and striking out more. Thus, a vicious cycle of being unsuccessful even in the most traditional of WASP, middle-class, suburban of ways.
seeing how I really am not nearly as far along on a social/emotional scale of development. I want to go from being marginally socially adjusted and professionally successful to being the leader of a church where I must be so much more magnanimous toward others than I truly am. Which is to say in blunter language–I am still learning how to just be a cool guy who has a few drinking buddies…how can I possibly expect to go from this stage to being a traditional Protestant pastor with all of the trappings and expectations that come with that? There is a much more subtle collection of personal developments that is harder to describe, but it is my opinion that the really best ministers and pastors are people who have advanced in their enlightenment and wisdom to be much more selfless, giving and less about being run-of-the-mill consumers of American culture. Not all of them are like that, of course, but I think even your most ordinary pastors whose home lives are hardly distinguishable from the home lives of people who work in offices have advanced and matured socially and emotionally to be capable of handling a wide variety of people in ways that don’t end in pure conflict and alienation. If you aren’t a pastor and just an average office worker, you aren’t expected necessarily to like everyone outside of your neighborhood, drinking circle, political party, etc.–if someone thinks or behaves in a way that is foreign to you–screw ‘em. This clearly isn’t Christian or Christlike, but it isn’t unacceptable in the classic American sense of the word. I can go home and drink beer with my neighbor who thinks and looks and acts like I do and ignore anyone who has moved into my neighborhood who does not. A pastor of a church, however, must be at least modestly adept at keeping up the appearance of being tolerant of multiple political viewpoints and appear to care about the poor and marginalized in the community. A pastor of a church may even be expected in a lot of ways to be less concerned with material things–aside from a few of the rock star pastors, most pastors make considerably less money than they would if they took office management jobs.

What I am working with:
There are things about me that I hope to have eliminated by the time I die. There are things about me that I hope to have found/achieved/obtained by the time that I die.
And, there are those things that are mostly going to have to be written off as hopelessly unrealistic expectations–that I can never remove or add to myself, no matter how hard I try.

The things that I wish to have eliminated mostly revolve around the broad deadly sins of lust and anger. I choose not to get more specific, since I am not certain how much of this will be read before I die. I am writing this entirely for myself, but I am also inclined to just publish on WordPress most everything I write. However, that being said, my own versions of the two are my own, and are tied to my peculiar arc of self development, some of which I have described here. At any rate, there are things that I absolutely feel need to go before I die. I have attempted any number of endeavors to remove them–be they endeavors of fear of damnation, humiliation of those who might outlive me, or endeavors of rationalizing how these things came to be and what I might be able to do to ferret out the root causes. I haven’t tried everything–I haven’t tried hypnoregressive therapy, for example. But, I am starting to grow more and more certain that I don’t need to. If we are put here in this world with the memories we have, then those should be the ones we work with–not past lives or deeply repressed things. Again, though, the sense of the absolute certainty that I do not want to die with them still persisting is probably the most continuously helpful thing–if I die tomorrow then I feel like I would still have not actually gotten rid of all of the bad stuff, even if I repressed certain thoughts and activities for a full day. Removing the Christian sin/Godly punishment aspect of it is helpful, though, in that my sins become more about striving for a certain sense of purity of self vs. sins that harm others who would have to bear the shame of my sins. Somehow, though, even abstracting it further to being a purely agnostic sort of thing is much more beneficial to me right now–it’s just not something I want to keep doing–like smoking or drinking to excess or picking my nose, etc.

As for things I hope to have achieved, the search and quest are always for greater meaning. I won’t ever give this up. Meaning, or the longing to participate more fully in it, overwhelms me to the point that I have to stop what I am doing and reflect and write. I’ve been criticized a lot of spending too much time in the past, and I certainly can see where this is unhelpful and unhealthy–especially when you start digging around at it like picking at a mostly-healed wound. However, there is also the “search for meaning” aspect of it, where I am always being bombarded with shards of memories of things that have passed, where I long to spend more time trying to encapsulate these memories in a meaningful sort of way. What that way is, though, is hard to define. It is a longing to participate with someone else in it–someone who shared the experience and obtained as much of a sense of meaning from the moment we were together as I did. But, activities you spend with others often mean little or nothing to them–or, they might come to you later and share a memory of something you did that you’ve completely forgotten, but it was incredibly meaningful to them–unfortunately, it’s often in a bad sort of way–that’s how are minds work–we remember all of the bad things someone did to us.

Really, this is what most of my writing is about–I have always wanted to be a better writer–one of those writers who can evoke a sense of the very humidity they were feeling, and the sense of being still relatively young and knowing that the time is slipping away from them, yet still young enough to believe they can screw around for a couple more years. Those kinds of moments when the summer is hot and dry, and the Greenbelt is quiet because all of the swimming holes have dried up and only gnarly old men go crashing through on their mountain bikes (the young mountain bikers have come and gone in the earlier morning hours). And, you just hear cars in the distance and a few insects. Those times when you thought life was pretty much over now that you had passed on into the ripe old age of 20, 25, 30, 35–and then you are suddenly 40 and being 34 seems like a faraway dream of what things once were. When you are living through these times and caught up in the day-to-day, and you stop remembering to pause and just go take the dog down to the park, or enjoy a movie, or read a science fiction novel–all because you are dead serious on accomplishing great things and proving yourself to the world. And when you do pause and remember that ten years have slipped by since you graduated from college, or ten years have passed by since your mom died, or whatever, then you start to think that life is mostly over, and that there is little left for you that you can do and still make your mark on the world. Yet, you somehow just keep moving on.

You keep writing, you keep working, you keep taking a step back here and there, but somehow still manage to keep lurching forward into something that is different than the way that things were, even if you can just as easily at times convince yourself that nothing has changed.

What you really want to do is gather everyone you’ve ever known including all of the people you loved, hated or were indifferent to in one giant room and share with them every single experience that they shared with you–even if it was merely the fact that they sat once in the same classroom or conference board room as you. Then, you want to quiz them, and find out how many of them hold in their memory banks memories of experiences that they would describe as being meaningful to them, and see where these overlap with your own.

Even on my mom’s death bed, I still couldn’t get it in my head how other people, even the ones who love you the most, do not assign the same meaning to the same experiences you do. Occasionally, you do both share the same experience and extract a similar sense of meaning from it, but this is so rare. All of those summer trips to Florida and the beach–especially those years of ‘88-’91 when it was just Mom, my little brother and me. This was after my older brothers had left home and before my dad came down there with us two or three times. And for me, these were some of the happiest times of my entire life–at least before I met my wife and had my son. As my mom lay dying, I tried to explain this to her–they were certainly the happiest times of my life at that time–and she didn’t seem to understand. Of course, it was one of the last days she would be lucid in her life and able to communicate her thoughts to me. But, I could see that for her, memories of those trips to Florida probably just meant a stressful blip in the year when she had to return to seeing her dying grandmther, think about her own mom who had already died too early, and deal with her little brother who was always doing something criminal–on top of all that, she had to wrangle two boys aged 12 and 6 by herself on an airplane using the free passes the airline gave us because my dad still worked there, and those passes meant we were always running the risk of spending the night in a hotel in whatever city we were in trying to catch our next flight.

Of course, she probably got to enjoy herself a little on the beach, but again, she would have had a six year old boy who could barely swim playing near the shore and a twelve year old boy who wanted to swim out too far always barely visible above the waves. These trips to Florida were mostly just a lot of work and probably designed to be nice things my mom was doing for us boys and her grandmother and her little brother’s son. They were sacrifices, duty, obligations to fill–and she generally did them joyously because that was part of her faith to do them as such, but they were a lot of work, nonetheless.

But, even at thirty-one, some ten years ago, when my mom didn’t respond with the same enthusiasm about thos trips to Florida, I couldn’t help but feel a little hurt, because I was simply too self-centered at the time to understand why she wouldn’t have seen them as being the most wonderful times in her life as well. Maybe I had at least a little sense of trying to think beyond just my own self, and I was hoping that by telling her those memories, she would share some of the memories that made her the most happy. I think sometimes that her happiest memories were probably spent in church, during all of those Sunday worship services at the Pentecostal church where the service seemed to last for hours and I spent most of my time counting objects in the room to pass the time.

At 31, I certainly didn’t take the time to consider how much work those trips to Florida must have been for my mom, or the fact that when she did seem to get excited when we boys got excited that her excitement was the same as when she watched us open our Christmas presents.

I don’t think until just now I have ever really thought much about how important it really is to have shared experiences of great meaning with others–and why this is probably the source of so many of my happier moments with friends and many more moments with so-called friends that I would come to regret later–or why most of the really great shared memories with friends happened during, say, Scouts when we were all pretty naive and had yet to become adults with our own half-formed opinions about how the world should work.

I’ve certainly gotten much better over the past ten years in understanding that the experience the person next to me is having is vastly different than mine–and that most people are not nearly as mindful of me as I am of them. I still get daily reminders of this–like a neighbor who lives below me whom I was certain had come to dislike me because of my pit bull dog and the fact that I let my dog get close to his sons–and yet, I was passing him in the stairwell just yesterday as he was opening the door from his floor and he seemed to honestly have no idea which floor I lived on as I had to tell him that I didn’t live on his floor.

A lot of this is probably for the best. If everyone sat around remembering all of the bad things I’ve done to them the way I sometimes can allow my mind to get out of hand and sit and stew in nothing but negative memories of others slighting me, then I would probably never be forgiven much by anyone and there is a lot of material they could use to damn me. In the end, it’s better to not be remembered at all than to be remembered poorly.

After my mom died, my dad let her journals trickle into my hands, and as I read them, the thing that stuck out the most was again this simple fact that during this or that time period, I was not the center of my mom’s attention. She was focused on her job and the people in her social circle at church and in the town we lived. She worried about all of her sons pretty equally, not just me. Events that were momentous in my adolescence might get a brief mention or not be mentioned at all. The dramas and bullying that spilled over from school in the form of me losing it and getting in trouble and having my parents learn about my fights and troubles–almost none of that goes mentioned in these journals. Of course, she could have been mindful of the fact that someone else, probably me, might read her journals one day, but I truly believe from reading journals from so many decades that she simply was more focused on her faith journey and her family overall than any single one of her sons.

It wasn’t as if this bothered me as much as when I learned that she didn’t cherish our trips to Florida like I did–it was just revealing and helped better inform my understanding of how two people close to each other came away with extremely different impressions about what was meaningful and important in a given time and place.

It has, however, bothered me a lot (at least in the years right after it happened) how people seemed to care so little about the fact that I had just lost a sibling in a car wreck. People should have at least been able to empathize with me, and think about what it must feel like based on how they would feel or have felt if they lost a sibling at a young age–or so my rationale would go.

Except, of course, the world just doesn’t work this way. Even in close, Christian communities, people can be so utterly callous toward each other without even realizing it. Even among two lovers or good friends, the ability for both of them to continually arrive at the same conclusion about how meaningful a shared experience was–it’s generally pretty dicey what kind of outcome you are going to get. I would hazard a guess that if you sat down and asked my wife and I to share what our most meaningful experiences have been since we’ve met each other, you would get a lot more crossover than between two friends, or even a mother and son, but you would still be little surprised to see that each of us places much greater emphasis on what was especially meaningful.

And yet, this is exactly what makes all of the difference between people of any group or couple dynamic stay together or fall apart. We can do every single thing together for years, and this might make us feel close to each other just out of sheer unconscious and felt bonding–but, if our ability to have some degree of shared meaning for what we did together becomes nil, then we will probably grow distant from each other.

This makes me think of someone like my best friend in college–we did a lot together, and before I had my first serious girlfriend right after college, I probably did more with my best friend in college than I’d done with anyone else outside of my family. And yet, I can’t help but look back on most of those experiences we shared together, and roll almost all of them up into one single, drunken night of goofing around on the guitar and keyboard, watching a dumb movie and coming up with asinine lyrics for songs that would often make the guys in Dumb and Dumber look like geniuses.

When I was still on Facebook, I occasionally caught from him just how much he missed those years, and how much they meant to him. He came from a home that was broken from day one and was raised by his grandparents. I suppose those shared experiences meant a lot more to him because he’d never experienced having brothers, and maybe friends that were quite as close as we were. But, I also think that he never really wanted those days to end. If I were to leave my family and move up to wherever he was living in Missouri and say, hey, let’s spend the rest of our lives getting drunk and watching dumb movies and writing songs together, he would probably be pretty okay with it. The meaning I extracted from those shared experiences was one of spending way too much time goofing off when I should have been getting more involved with groups on campus and probably church groups, and trying to solve whatever problem or issue was preventing me from asking a girl out. But, his meaning is radically different–they are some of the best years of his life. For me, they were ill spent years, or at best years of growth and experimentation where I was slowly starting to become closer to my little brother again–and it was an utter kick in the nuts to watch the relationship with my little brother end abruptly right after I came home from college.

Should I have been more sensitive over the past few years to my old friend’s own particular sense of meaning that he’d extracted from our share experiences? Perhaps. But, I would have been putting myself back into an ill-fitting suit to conclude that those were the best years of my life and that I would give anything to relive them. In all perfect honesty, I would likely make little effort to befriend this individual, were you extract my present conscious self out of my body of the present and drop me back into my body on the first day of college.

With my dad mostly interested in sharing stories about what he has been doing with his latest lady friend, and my remaining brother only wanting to talk about his latest life struggles (if I make the effort to reach out to him, of course, he never tries to get in touch with me), I don’t really have anyone with whom I can share stories about the good old days. Of my close friends in high school, my old best friend is a rabid atheist who probably voted for Jill Stein and wanted Bernie to win. The other two are raid conservatives that hate Obama, liberals, etc. and were delighted to see Trump when. I don’t really feel like sitting around with any of them for very long and swapping stories. One of them came to Austin last year to get in touch with me and have coffee, and the old fellow I remember from high school was barely there–instead, in his place, was someone who continued to grow physically after high school and had spent years in the Navy. We had little to talk about other than trying to conjure up what we knew about what had happened to so-and-so.

The old memories shared among family, aside from when I can get my dad to say something, have mostly died with my mom and little brother. The college memories that I cherish the most, aside from a few trips here and there, were things I did by myself away from my friends. The library is a fun friend to go share memories with, but it doesn’t talk back to you with shared memories quite the way a person could.

After college, I spent large chunks of time around drinking-buddy coworkers and long-relationship girlfriends. The ex-girlfriends don’t want to talk to me, and I am pretty sure my marriage would start to get in trouble if I were to seek them out, which I have no interest in doing. There are old coworkers who would probably go have a beer with me if I tracked them down–but of most of those, I would say that I have become mostly forgotten or I didn’t leave that good of an impression on them in the first place.

The church I mostly attended growing up was a non-denominational, Pentecostal church. In my efforts to return to a church that feels like home, I have tended to seek out churches with very traditional liturgies, but always feel like an outsider around so many people who have grown up in their traditions.

This is where all of the loneliness and heartache comes from. Sure, there are all of those things I wish that I’d done if only…and all of these things I still want to do, or if they are negative things, stop doing. But, for the most part, it’s going through life knowing that you can’t really share meaningful memories with anyone. I can sit here and write all day long about the memories that were meaningful to me, but even if a future audience comes upon them and reads them, the memories will not be truly shared experiences, and the meaning itself may start to shift in time as word meaning in our language and culture shifts.

So, what is there to be done? Should I abandon memories and repress them when they try to rise up and force me to extract meaning from them–treating them as if they were simply another annoying vice or addiction to be ridded of? Should I blithely state that one day I will get to share memories with my mom and little brother in heaven, and that’s that? Or, is there even the slightest glimmer of hope that in twenty years, my wife, son, possibly another child, and maybe (hopefully) friends from a community and church will be there to trade shared memories that are also to some degree similarly meaningful?

Or, should the approach be further abstracted and refined and pushed in some other direction–as if I could possibly nail down what it means to have and give meaning to a thing, and then invite many random strangers via Craigslist to participate in an experience where I can guarantee that we will all walk away feeling like the most wonderful people in the world because we have very precisely and efficiently shared meaningful experiences together that we can then extract in an equally meaningful and possibly even more satisfying way at some point in the not-so-distant future?

Most days, I don’t feel very powerful

Most days, I don’t feel very powerful. I don’t relate to people who hold power and wealth. I spent a small portion of my life trying to succeed like I saw people my age trying to succeed. I liked the idea of climbing a corporate ladder, finding myself managing a team of technology, marketing or salespeople at a well-known company. I liked the idea of having the next big thing–creating my own startup to become another Facebook or Twitter, or even a non-profit big thing like Wikipedia or Craigslist. Mostly, I wanted people to look up to me as being especially important and smart, and touched with some kind of cosmic greatness–but not too touched, because obviously, I wanted to be known for having accomplished much of it on my own by using my own gumption and bootstraps. I liked watching CNBC, and wanted to know more about playing the markets so that I could be like the guy who took $10K of his bar mitzvah money and turned it into $2 mil playing penny stocks every day.

I didn’t really pay much attention to my whiteness or maleness or middle-class upbringing during those years, because I worked in a lot of environments that were mostly managed by women, and I never felt as if my own individual voice was the most powerful voice in the room. I was raised by a mother who had a strong personality, and was very much against the concept of self esteem, preferring to believe that God gave you all of your gifts and strength.

I would rather not have my voice even in the room, if my voice is simply heard as another voice of privilege speaking. I’ve always wanted to talk about my own self from the perspective of being a spiritual being trying to discover what it means to be a human being. I don’t suppose that I worked nearly hard enough to listen to what other people have to say, and come to a new understanding about what it means to be human when you are not white and male.

I could blame my lack of attention to the other on my culture–I was raised in the eighties and nineties to believe that the world would more or less always run like the universe of Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton–the action heroes would look like Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger, and families would be either like the families of Growing Pains and Family Ties or they would be like the Cosbys or The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Perhaps, some of the more redneck and working class families would look like the Simpsons, but for the most part, everyone would agree that this particular America was the best America we could ever have.

I probably complained more than a little in my teens and twenties about the world not being fair and perfect, but I mostly saw the unfairness of things through the lens of someone who was just a little too bookish and shy to fit in properly, rather than opting to open my eyes and see why other people from very diverse backgrounds might see things as being not quite right.

I for one have never really seen Mexican immigrants or Muslim immigrants as being threats to my jobs and way of life. I have never felt like any particular job I was seeking was denied me due to an undocumented worker stealing it away from me. This, too, could be due to my privilege. My education has enabled me to gain access to white collar jobs during almost any kind of economy. I may not have gotten the kind of degree where I can pack up and take a six figure salary, but I have enough skills and education to be gainfully employed when I need to be.

I don’t think that the American way of life is threatened so much is that it will inevitably shift into being something else, something other than what it looked like during the Reagan and Clinton years. My gut says that Trump will ultimately do more to harm the American way of life than help it, but I hope that he proves me wrong. I am not someone who hopes that Trump wrecks the country, because it would be very bad for me and my family if he did.

The reason that I write so much has less to do with being ever hopeful that my voice will one day be heard by many, and more to do with this sense of it being an inevitable and necessary thing to do. A psychologist might argue that I am writing purely for comfort–that I feel a warm and cozy feeling when I see my thoughts appear as words on a screen, and I feel some kind of validation when I re-read something I wrote and believe that it is of some quality. There is probably some truth to this, but I think there is also the sense of needing to do something, rather than nothing. Just sitting around the house picking at books and articles and contemplating my existence or trying to meditatively purge those character flaws that are still within me is not enough. I want someone out there, either now or in the distant future, to know that when I lived on this earth, I did something.

I do feel like I am mostly powerless against the forces of change that are taking place in the world right now. I don’t feel like my voice is really welcome in the liberal circles I mostly associate myself with, and I look back on my attempts to do something socially active for change during the Bush years, and see just how little of a difference any of my political activity really made. Yes I was hyperinformed, and I wrote letters and I volunteered with political campaigns and parties, but the charisma of Obama is what swept in the change that was needed. It was rather daunting to see all of the faces that turned up for Obama rallies who were mostly absent from the political arena during most of the Bush years. Who are these people, who get excited for someone like Ralph Nader, Howard Dean, Obama or Bernie, but then go back home when they realize their candidate can’t possibly win, and do nothing to change anything until the next magnificent would-be savior comes along? I should know, I was one of them, back when I knew nothing at all about politics and thought that Ralph Nader and Howard Dean were pretty great.

What is it about us humans that makes us feel like we need some kind of messiah or savior or single man or woman to come along and be our advocate, our voice? For a society that has mostly become non-religious, we certainly do like to hold up individual humans as being demigods–we like to assign so much more power and authority to single individuals than they really deserve. Another characteristic of humans may help explain this. We weep openly when we see an individual child or mother suffering in a commercial for a non-profit, but we just sigh and shake our heads in disbelief when we read about the genocide of hundreds of thousands of people. The same sort of thing must be at play when we seek out agents of change and those who we would give our assent to rule over us–it is much easier to think of a single, wise and noble king ruling over us and being our advocate than a large group of people. So many movements end up going nowhere without a person like MLK, Obama or even Donald Trump taking it upon themselves to be the spokesperson for and embodiment of the movement. If all of the women who had marched recently had connected themselves in a similar concrete fashion with Hillary, and Hillary had taken it upon herself to embody the movement rather than simply be a “her” we could opt in to be with, we might very well have seen Hillary elected, or at least have seen her win a few more states. Hillary Clinton may have been too utterly incapable of seizing this charismatic mantle, though–as much as people accuse her of lying and being duplicitous, I think she may have just been an average, boring politician and not enough people could get excited about that.

I still don’t think I am even close to understanding what it is about the charismatic individual that can connect with a particular movement and get people deliriously excited and willing to do more than they thought humanly capable to support that person. Is it really the case that we are endowed with a “god sense” inside of us, a need to worship a deity-as-human? Or, is it simply that evolution has seen us benefit time and again from having a strong tribal leader become the face and voice of all of the dreams and hopes of the collective group?

I can’t say as I was ever completely swayed in the sense of becoming a true believer about Ralph Nader, Howard Dean or Barack Obama. I could see the effect their words and actions were having upon the crowds who listened to them speak, and then went home and took up volunteer positions of blockwalking and phonebanking for these people. By the time 2016 arrived, I was pretty immune and indifferent to such charismatic characteristics, and I could only sort of understand why Bernie and Trump became so popular and Hillary didn’t. I know that it is a well-known truism in sales that people buy emotionally and justify rationally, but I guess I am just too far removed from my youthful emotions to have the kind of radar I would have needed to understand just why Trump was going to win the general election and Hillary wasn’t.

I’ve spent a lot more time thinking about what the world could look like for me and my child(ren?) in ten to fifty years. I have tried to envision all kinds of scenarios for the United States–where we end up like Great Britain during the post WWII years, or Germany between the two World Wars, or Russia from 1900 to the end of the Stalin era, or perhaps Japan of the past ten to twenty years, or maybe even a flat out apocalyptic scenario for when a bunch of countries, including the U.S., start lobbing nukes at each other. In some scenarios, it makes perfect sense to flee to Canada or New Zealand, in others it doesn’t. If things get really bad, they will follow us to those countries, if things are moderately bad, I probably won’t notice them much, being a person who has never known especially great wealth. There is a kind of sweet spot for how bad things could be which dictates leaving the country. Obviously, I don’t want to be tattooed or microchipped to participate in the economy, or renounce my faith, if it were to come down to that. I would rather see myself and my family die as wretched martyrs for Christ, than to curse Christ for the sake of a few years of earthly comfort. I don’t know if my wife feels exactly the same way or not–but I argue that there is no point in having Christian faith if you are unwilling to express it in an extreme circumstance. Why not just be an atheist, agnostic or Buddhist if you are unwilling to die for Christ?

Who knows what Trump will do? Perhaps he doesn’t know himself. Perhaps a bright and shining light will emerge forth from the ranks of the Democratic Party, and this individual will be super-charismatic and smooth talking, making Bill Clinton and Ronald Reagan look like stuttering yokels. Such a person would most certainly be adored by many, but I would probably trust him or her very little. People really need to have their innate need for a king or demigod to be met and dealt with and annihilated, in my opinion, and I think both liberals and conservatives still hold too many individuals in their corners who crave a savior.

I would almost argue that the myth-making around the creation of the United States has saved the world and prolonged it from seeing an anti-Christ spring forth. But, too many of us have not bothered to pay attention in our history classes and learn about how this country was founded on principles of not having a king rule us. Historically, it seems like every republic or democracy inevitably succumbs to the people’s desire for a king. It is deeply ingrained in our nature. Maybe we are just lazy and don’t want to take on any civic responsibility, or maybe we our simply too fearful of the Other who would come to invade our pristine civilizations. The threat of the Other, coupled with people’s complacency, seems to always be the winning combination for the crowning of kings, ceasars, czars, etc. Yessir, please come and rule over us, because we are too lazy and fearful to face each other head on and work out our disagreements as civilized adults. Also, we are too lazy and fearful to muster up a response to the invasion of the Other–whether the Other comes to us in peace or not, we are frightened by how the Other will take away our cherished customs.

It is antithetical and completely against what it means to be an American to ask for a king, but each presidential election in my lifetime seems to have seen its winner be the one who would most closely be like a king for us, who would prefer to feel safe and comforted knowing such a person is ruling over us, representing us, and fighting our battles for us so that we can go about our business without worry of any sort of Other invading it.

And, it seems like we never run out of an Other to blame for all of our problems. Some Others may be legitimate threats, but most are not. I think that when we die and go to heaven we will be shocked at the variety of people who join us there. Those of us who are white may very well be among the minority of faces we encounter up in heaven, if God even bothers to clothe our spiritual selves in recognizable human forms.

I sit in endless expectation, waiting to be radically transformed

I sit in endless expectation, waiting to be radically transformed. I age. I forget almost everything I read and dream.

I hope for magic, for adventures into mystic realms. I nap. I wake up refreshed mentally and physically, but there are no big revelations, no cosmic interludes, just asleep and then awake.

I barge into the group at the table with a big grin on my face hoping to make new friends. Soon, the conversation is ping-ponging around me and I can’t keep up. I walk home alone.

I sign up to volunteer here and there, hoping to change the world. I am asked to fetch things and stand around patiently, waiting, just in case they need me, the extra.

I sit down with coffee and pen and paper or computer and word processor, and hope that the words will just flow forth in gorgeous prose. I complain about my day, my life, the people that are in it, and all of the things that are wrong with me that I can’t seem to fix.

I beg the Lord for signs and wonders, for surefire proof that I am being called to take up the Cross and join the disciples and preach the Word and feed the hungry, clothe orphans and give comfort to the widows. The Lord says nothing, and I get the sense that perhaps the Lord just wants me to be happy with the things he’s given me and stop asking for more.

Maybe there are enough workers and fishers of men. Maybe the world of the Anti-Christ and tribulation really did come and go with the fall of the Second Temple and the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. I don’t know.

I do know that I have done what I could in terms of trying to get my childhood spirituality back, and add my adult sense of social and familial responsibilities to it. I do know that I have called out much and listened much, and mostly what I’ve heard is the sound of my own voice. Maybe one day I’ll be asked to beg for forgiveness for polluting the world with so much of my own voice. I hope at least a few words here and there came from some place far above and beyond my selfish brain, but then, who knows?

wake up

wake up. the time to wake up is now. there is no other time than this time. there are no other days than just this day, today. the time has come to stop the self. the self doesn’t know anything. the self needs everything and never gives back a damn thing. the self is born and dies in poverty.

the self is in a cage and wants to be free. outside it sees people in 3D. inside it sees a dripping black watercolor with the occasional patch of gray or white. the black watercolor paint is endlessly dripping on this shallow 2D canvas trying to describe the moments the self almost broke free.

is being nothing more than a series of prisons, endless choices you make to discover new masters who will gladly take your money and then bend you over, and then ask you for more?

I see you down there, trying to reconstruct an old copy of a deconstructed self.

I see you fighting to maintain control over the precisely administered feelings. You take your pain and pleasure in measured doses, and you think that’s the way to enlightenment. It is time to imagine a space outside of yourself, where you are not.

Imagine a space where you are not permitted to go, and so the only way to get there is to become something or someone other than yourself.

Inside this freedom you suddenly find out how a whole new host of entities want to keep you captive.

If words ever could mean anything at all other than a series of impressions in the brain, then now is the time to resurrect some words and make them mean something, do something. Offer a blessing or two for the people who are hard at work doing real work. Offer a prayer for enlightenment and illumination to come over all the souls who are marching toward the darkness without a second thought.

Make your mind and your words blend together and then connect with the sun, so that you might shine upon this earth for a few more centuries past the one in which you’ll die.

Envision ways in which the Creator has sprung forth Creation, and can continue to create as long as He pleases. The Creator needn’t be anyone in particular, as you might have guessed, He probably isn’t very much a He, but is he or she a committee?

Why most we always think of the Destroyer when we think of the Creator–one who would annhilate everything in sight that is held up by Providence? Why must we think that the Creator possibly would be the very same One who would destroy us–or leave us for eternity in a perpetual state of destruction?

Every single state that I can imagine myself falling into is hardly enough to save me from falling into a state of perpetual amnesia, where I can’t remember what it was I did or said the day before.
Every word that I put forth might be but a sad gasp of lame wheezing, an inauthentic attempt to stay awake, stay alive.

Every breath that I consider taking place from my figure is a precious gem. The next breath and the next one are great gifts. Should I be imagining only the best to come, and putting first the dreams and hopes of others–letting all of their lives play out in my head as magnificent and grand lives of utter beauty and truth? Would simple prayers like mine for the souls of others be enough to change the courses of all of their existences?

I believe that these prayers might be a starting point for something grander–a real project of projected consciousness upon the earth. If my love can’t completely shine forth like I would like it to, then that’s okay, at least I’ve begun to change the course of the selfish stream that has been constantly flowing upward into my overly magnified and pumped up pride.

The beginning of the new kingdom will not take place anywhere near Washington D.C.

Permit me some time to indulge myself in escaping from the things that are in front of me

Permit me some time to indulge myself in escaping from the things that are in front of me. Laid out before me are decades of work doing things I can’t imagine. Peace is my prayer. Please, Lord, let there be peace, but the kind of peace that is joy and opportunity for everyone, not the peace of voices silenced by repression and extermination.

Let me walk the streets of a small city I once knew well, though it never knew me at all. Allow me to walk again as a young stranger, expectant of a perfect spring that would bloom into a million opportunities where I could see and know and possess the world. Don’t let me be stalled or waylaid by the vampires lurking in the shadows of these streets–the ones who snatched my youth away from me the first time around.

Oh, to be young again but not half as naive. To be full of hope for anything that could happen but not deluded into thinking everything would happen. Then, I can smell the first flowers of mid-March. I can feel the warm mist of the first spring precipitation. Within that humidity and greenery, my bones are softened where they had grown stiff, and some lusty young individual beckons to me to join in sweet fun.

I wouldn’t want to come back again if it meant my memory was completely wiped, and I had to start over with someone wiping my butt and teaching me how to read and write. Such a return would be almost hopeless–is there not anything I’ve learned in this life that I can take with me and apply it to a delicious, young life full of promise and backed by some means?

Isn’t that what most of us would want–the ability to waltz in and out of this or that life–sucking out all of the savory memories and flying away when things become old and rough? When governments become tyrannies of complete evil, or parents or lovers or friends do much the same. Then, it’s time to move on and live another life of ease and glamour inside another decade or century. Only the happiest moments and best times of the greatest lives for me. I don’t care if I am man or woman, as long as the pain and suffering are brief and mostly felt during periods preceding times of great glory. Sure, send me into battle in a great war, as long as I am one who makes out alive with only scars and stories to tell. Make me into a wealthy woman who travels and dines and drinks when and where she pleases, but don’t leave me to age or become the punching bag of the man who pays for my lifestyle. Once the awfulness starts up, please lift me out of that life, and drop me into another.

There is something about this present time period that feels fake and inauthentic–like life is only being lived halfway seriously. Is it the automation of everything, the connectivity of everyone, the abundance of information, the ease with which we can do so many things that once required effort? We don’t need to worry about film being developed, or a painful process of editing video across multiple tapes, or finding information using reference tomes and card catalogs. We don’t need to delay our gratification when connecting with others, and things and food and drinks are delivered to our doors almost instantly and cheaply.

The time period before WWII seems to be too rough of a time to live, at least for most people in most places. Too many diseases like polio and smallpox don’t have vaccinations. Dental work is crude and painful. People are mean and unforgiving in ways that are hard to imagine. Too much is expected of you, and too little is given in return. You die young and you receive next to nothing for your work and service. The time period after around 1995 seems to be too easy of a time to live–especially after the smartphone came along. Nobody has to work too hard for their entertainment, and everyone is rewarded for pressing a few buttons and sharing their picture or idea with their friends. Perhaps we will come to take all of it for granted too much, and forget the old ways. Nobody will remember how to fix a car, or boil coffee, or repair a pair of pants.

I feel most days like my life is inauthentic, but I think there is more to it than just the instant gratification technology, or my disconnect from common people and the land. Perhaps its the larger mentality of a throwaway culture–where everything including music and art and literature is consumed and forgotten. Maybe it’s simply my own consciousness, or the way my memories are bolstered and confused by digital images of ten to twenty years ago instead of fading film and photographs. Or it could be I’m experiencing would everyone living sedentary lifestyles has always experienced–unless I really make an effort to go run or work out, and unless I look closely at myself in the mirror, I really don’t feel the effects of aging deep inside of me. My internal clock says that I could be ten or even twenty years younger than I am, even though there are plenty of people younger than me who remind me that this isn’t so.

Of course, this is at least partly why we humans seem to be fixated on immortality. We are conscious of the idea of it, the possibility of it, and there are too many days that go by where we don’t struggle too much with thinking about what it means to be mortal. We live huge chunks of our lives as if we are going to live forever, until something serious comes along and lets us know on no uncertain terms that the end will come and come sooner than later. We don’t intentionally lie to ourselves–it is almost impossible to go around with the sense of one’s own mortality constantly present. It seems so much more natural to kind of forget about it until someone our age dies or we have a moderately serious health issue trip us up for a few days or weeks.

When faced with so many daunting tasks and future moments of uncertainty

When faced with so many daunting tasks and future moments of uncertainty, I can sense my mind automatically seeking out places of comfort. It is such a natural reaction, that I don’t think it could be described as escapist idolatry–unless, of course, I were to completely throw myself into it and never look back. And I must say, the temptation is strongly there.

The instinct is to find a place of refuge that is bulletproof. The instinct and ensuing drive could see me wallowing in memories, books, music, art, architecture, nature, movies, shows, etc., or find me dreaming of travel to find that perfect community where I can spend the rest of my life living simply and being just fake enough to stay friends with the neighbors.

So many things present themselves as being potential foes of the perfect place of refuge: strangers, new places, new things to do, new presidents, any number of unexpected life changes that are beyond my control. Of course, there are times like when I decide to travel where I willfully take on a certain amount of newness for the sake of hopefully discovering some greater place of refuge and comfort. Most of the times when I was unhappy with my life circumstances I was probably experiencing the very refuge and comfort I would later crave.

I was no different than anybody else. If I was experiencing something good, then surely there was something better than this to be experienced somewhere.

Are these mental habits that can be changed through much prayer, meditation and discipline? Can I simply sit and try to change the direction of my will, from being self-centered to Other-centered, from being a taker and consumer to a giver and producer? Life certainly tries to change this direction. Being a husband and father naturally means that I must be less self-centered to some degree. However, there are many days where it feels like I am trying to make the needle of a compass stay pointed in the opposite direction, and it just flips itself right back. I don’t know if this is due to habitually learned behavior, lingering childish inclinations, or my intrinsic nature. I hope it is not the last one, but at this point in my life, I am not completely sure.

It doesn’t make me feel especially great to think that I am sitting on more wealth and material possessions than I really need. The things that I do have I keep around mostly out of sheer laziness–I don’t want to think about the effort required to meaningfully give them away to someone who really needs the stuff. I have many times over just filled up boxes and hauled them off to Goodwill, but I don’t know if that’s the best way to make sure your stuff makes it to someone who can really benefit from it.

Then, I also think about my intellectual possessions–the knowledge and wisdom I’ve obtained. While I may not always be the most exemplary individual when it comes to putting such wisdom into practice, I yet feel compelled to share it with anyone who cares to listen and benefit from it. I especially wish that I could offer comfort and solace to people who are contemplating suicide and ones who are suffering from the abuse of others. I wish that I could give them a safe space, both physical and mental to where they can begin to feel like they will be okay.

I have tired of paying excessive attention to what is happening in our government and in the Christian community. Our country has a history of being inhospitable to the Other, and at times genocidal, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that we have favored someone who will continue to be inhospitable for the sake of making ones who are now in the minority feel a little safer.

Part of me insists that I may be going about my will toward comforting things in a completely incorrect fashion. I may not be honoring this need and providing the right kind of self care to address it. It could be my endless attempts to be a tougher, more outgoing person who tries to get out of his comfort zones are what is preventing the itch from ever being completely scratched. Maybe there is a yin and yang or some other duality within me that needs to be properly addressed. Moments of pure comfort seeking and self indulgence should be sought as such, without any guilt or shame or looking over my shoulder at work that I should be doing for others. Likewise, when I throw myself into doing something where I am in the role of the giver and servant, I should be immersed in it completely without secretly yearning or longing for a vacation.

However, I would argue that when considering the majority of my attempts to accomplish anything at all in this life, I have been mostly prone toward retreating into my world of comforting memories and ideas. The idea of spending a weekend walking in the park, going to the public library and rummaging through books, and throwing back a few beers while watching a movie is much more appealing than a weekend of volunteering in three different places, going to church, working on homework or other work, jogging and going to the gym, etc.