Okay, so I admire him as a writer. And his books are touching in a personal, meaningful way, without being overly preachy. So there are life lessons aplenty to be learned from his books, ones that could really help provide clarity and priority to those of us who are a little lost.
I accept and freely admit all these things.
Time to vent. I finished "For One More Day," his life-after-death view of a man's goal of suicide and how he was saved. Mitch, if I see ever see you in public I'm gonna throw you a beating. Frickin rip my heart out, why don't you? You bum.
If you ever want to be more appreciative for your parent(s), read this book. You'll regret every injustice you've ever done your mom and/or think of your dad as Superman.
Unless, of course, you're parental relationships were actually worse than his, in which case, God bless you.
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
8 long months...
Since I've last posted...
Cinder's put on 30 pounds and has become a truly good dog. I know he's lucky to have left the pound, but we're just as luck to have him.
My wife became pregnant, and 3 months later no longer was. I've been boycotting this subject. I don't feel ready now either. I suppose the good news is that I'm not officially Cronus, as was looking like the case for a while there. So I got that going for me.
I have a Godson. He's a happy, healthy, huge baby. Just a blessing on us, and we're so lucky to get to share him. I'm chalking him and Cin up as the two good things from 09. There are others (other friends had kids as well), but those are the two I see a lot.
I now have a beard. Chinstrap and goatee. Surprisingly decent since it's my first foray into facial hair.
Life continues to treat me better than I have any right to expect or even hope for.
Cinder's put on 30 pounds and has become a truly good dog. I know he's lucky to have left the pound, but we're just as luck to have him.
My wife became pregnant, and 3 months later no longer was. I've been boycotting this subject. I don't feel ready now either. I suppose the good news is that I'm not officially Cronus, as was looking like the case for a while there. So I got that going for me.
I have a Godson. He's a happy, healthy, huge baby. Just a blessing on us, and we're so lucky to get to share him. I'm chalking him and Cin up as the two good things from 09. There are others (other friends had kids as well), but those are the two I see a lot.
I now have a beard. Chinstrap and goatee. Surprisingly decent since it's my first foray into facial hair.
Life continues to treat me better than I have any right to expect or even hope for.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Don't call it a comeback
Cinder is not an aggressive dog. I have never seen him pick a fight with any animal, unless you count the birds and rabbits he chases around the backyard. Thankfully, he hasn’t managed to successfully catch any of them. Yet.
My dog, though, is far from perfect. While Cinder is never the instigator, he is always ready to play finisher. He approaches other dog encounters from a very guarded stance, ready to respond to any threat, real or perceived. This is unacceptable dog behavior, especially when the dog is 130 and growing. I was beginning to worry his development toward “good dog” status had completely stalled. This weekend, however, he made huge progress.
First, on a walk on Saturday, he avoided a fight outright. Coming around a bend, two ladies were enjoying the beautiful day, sitting in lawn chairs with their small dogs, probably 25 and 40 pounds apiece, sitting near them, off leash. Upon seeing Cinder, both women grabbed their dogs by the collars, just to avoid a clash of the dogs. They both managed to grab the collars, but the little one slipped his and made straight for Cinder and I. Of course, I’m fearing the worst.
With the little mutt, fur on end, bristling at my giant, Cin lunged forward…to sniff his rear. Sniffing Cinder back, naturally afraid, he gave a growl. The moment I feared came…and passed. Instead of responding in kind, Cinder sat back on his haunches, head tilted sideways, yellow eyes inquisitive. When the owner reached the little guy, he was cautiously sniffing Cin. It was a complete and total success for dog greetings and Cinder development alike.
The next win came Sunday. My yard backs up to a rocky, incredibly steep hill that reaches toward a neighbors metal rail back fence. Cin likes to sit atop this hill and look over our yard and neighborhood. Our neighbor on top is a sweet, little old lady with a sweet, little old golden retriever. As neither dog spends much time in their respective backyards, they had never met until yesterday.
Digging at the base of the hill, I had a perfect view of the proceedings. Cinder, standing next to their fence, spotted the old girl and froze, eyes locked on her, his stance ready. Looking at him, she paused, seemingly at the edge of the invisible barrier of his presence, then almost melted through it. It was if she crossed under and around the planes of his emotion, and approached him completely without fear or unease. His head and shoulders softened, almost imperceptibly, and he was instantly disarmed. There they stood, gently sniffing each other, until her owner called her in.
As I went back to digging, Cinder stared after her. Clearly confused at the impact she had, and at her lack of trepidation, he watched, almost longingly, as she walked away. Just when I start to worry that he’s no longer developing, I get a reminder that he’s just a puppy, and that yes, he’s coming along nicely.
Two complete victories for Cinder in less than 24 hours, and once again I am hopeful. Don’t call it a comeback.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
The easy job
My job is awesome. Sure the petroleum scene can be high-stress, the hours can be long, and working till seven every night can be limiting, but I’m grateful for it. It’s interesting, virtually never dull, and, most importantly, where I work, no babies die.
My wife’s job is not so wonderful. Rather it is quite dreadful. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather shovel human refuse or process Soylent Green than hang around in her nursing unit for a living. I’ve long said that I couldn’t handle her work for a half hour. Last Saturday I got first hand proof of just how true that is, when I joined her to attend the funeral of one of her patients, a little guy who fought like a tiger but didn’t make the 20 day mark.
Now I’m not stupid. I knew full well going into it that a funeral for a baby was going to be terrible in every way. I prepared myself for boundless depression. Unfortunately my focus was on the macro view of the situation, where, as in life, it was the little details that made all the difference. I was okay pulling up to a funeral home, seeing the dozens of friends and relatives of the unlucky couple, gathered under the cloudy gray sky, passing along sincere condolences. I could handle the Biblical readings and candle lightings, classic funeral hallmarks that were as surprising as passing on third and long. I was not ready, however, to hear the baby’s two year-old “big sister” calling his name during the slide show of him.
That’s the kind of thing that kills you. My wife, of course, was destroyed by it, as were most of the attendees. She had cared for this baby, she’d spent hours with him, trying to keep him alive. I didn’t know single person in the room other than my wife, but even my eyes brimmed. By the end of the PowerPoint, I had pulled off the one-teardrop-down-cheek movie cliché. Maybe 40 minutes in, and I had already technically cried for a complete stranger.
Unbelievably, that wasn’t the toughest part of the afternoon, as that bar was placed pretty darn high later. It wasn’t even set when the baby’s dad thanked people, including my wife, by name, for all they did for his forever resting son. Nor was it when he then thanked his baby son for what he had done to bring so many together, both that day and beyond. (Side note, go ahead and chalk up “burying my 17 day-old son” right above “beating up Fedor” and “outrunning Usain Bolt” on the list of things I know I could never be man enough to handle) No, the most devastating moment of the afternoon and of 09 thus far was watching the parents throw dirt on their baby’s briefcase-sized casket.
I know few people have seen less of the infinite skies of tragedy than I have, but I’m willing to bet a mother’s wails for her baby compete with any of the worst sounds ever heard. It was the song of abject despair, the soundtrack for rock bottom. As we released the baby blue balloons, several never made it past the tall evergreens around the cemetery. Not all hopes make it. Not all dreams come true.
But some do. Driven by the wind, blowing from the East for the maybe the second time in my recollection, the remaining multitude idled far less than balloons tend to. Soaring into the sky, they reached up into the first azure break in the clouds in two full days, inexplicably directly in front of the sun, blue towards blue, light towards light, and hope towards hope.
There was none of that “one teardrop” fortitude this time around.
My wife’s job is not so wonderful. Rather it is quite dreadful. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather shovel human refuse or process Soylent Green than hang around in her nursing unit for a living. I’ve long said that I couldn’t handle her work for a half hour. Last Saturday I got first hand proof of just how true that is, when I joined her to attend the funeral of one of her patients, a little guy who fought like a tiger but didn’t make the 20 day mark.
Now I’m not stupid. I knew full well going into it that a funeral for a baby was going to be terrible in every way. I prepared myself for boundless depression. Unfortunately my focus was on the macro view of the situation, where, as in life, it was the little details that made all the difference. I was okay pulling up to a funeral home, seeing the dozens of friends and relatives of the unlucky couple, gathered under the cloudy gray sky, passing along sincere condolences. I could handle the Biblical readings and candle lightings, classic funeral hallmarks that were as surprising as passing on third and long. I was not ready, however, to hear the baby’s two year-old “big sister” calling his name during the slide show of him.
That’s the kind of thing that kills you. My wife, of course, was destroyed by it, as were most of the attendees. She had cared for this baby, she’d spent hours with him, trying to keep him alive. I didn’t know single person in the room other than my wife, but even my eyes brimmed. By the end of the PowerPoint, I had pulled off the one-teardrop-down-cheek movie cliché. Maybe 40 minutes in, and I had already technically cried for a complete stranger.
Unbelievably, that wasn’t the toughest part of the afternoon, as that bar was placed pretty darn high later. It wasn’t even set when the baby’s dad thanked people, including my wife, by name, for all they did for his forever resting son. Nor was it when he then thanked his baby son for what he had done to bring so many together, both that day and beyond. (Side note, go ahead and chalk up “burying my 17 day-old son” right above “beating up Fedor” and “outrunning Usain Bolt” on the list of things I know I could never be man enough to handle) No, the most devastating moment of the afternoon and of 09 thus far was watching the parents throw dirt on their baby’s briefcase-sized casket.
I know few people have seen less of the infinite skies of tragedy than I have, but I’m willing to bet a mother’s wails for her baby compete with any of the worst sounds ever heard. It was the song of abject despair, the soundtrack for rock bottom. As we released the baby blue balloons, several never made it past the tall evergreens around the cemetery. Not all hopes make it. Not all dreams come true.
But some do. Driven by the wind, blowing from the East for the maybe the second time in my recollection, the remaining multitude idled far less than balloons tend to. Soaring into the sky, they reached up into the first azure break in the clouds in two full days, inexplicably directly in front of the sun, blue towards blue, light towards light, and hope towards hope.
There was none of that “one teardrop” fortitude this time around.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Beautiful Day
First, some back story. Shortly after my first post on this blog, we learned my dog Parker had lymphoma. The weeks since then have been tough, to say the least. From chemo to his weight loss, incontinence, and exhaustion, I really haven't felt like writing about it, so I didn't.
But throughout the process, there has been hope. The swollen lymph nodes in his neck that originally got me to take him to the vet immediately shrank back down. His white blood cell count has remained high enough that we have been able to pursue chemotherapy in a fully aggressive manner. For a while he just didn't know he needed to go bathroom, but that, too, has passed.
About the only issue left has been his exhaustion. From a dog that would sprint up and down hills non-stop for an hour to one who couldn't match my walking pace, it has been devastating to witness his weakening. He was still happy, but he just couldn't do what he loves to do. No matter how loving he was, and how happy I thought he still was, I couldn't help but question if I was making him suffer for selfish reasons.
Today, Parker struck back. With a week and a half since his most recent chemo appointment, Parker has gotten stronger and stronger, more and more like his old self. Taking him up into the hills for a bathroom stroll this morning, he was his old self. After over a month of only walking, we had running. He was jumping over bushes, traversing hillsides and sending birds flying from every bush and tree. Instead of me slowing down my walk so he could keep up, it was me jogging and yelling for him stay in my line of sight.
So maybe he still didn't have 100% of his explosive power back, maybe not even 80. And the hike only lasted about 20 minutes, instead of our old hour long treks. I don't care. Because for the first time in over a month I had my dog back, and I got to see that making him fight the cancer was the right choice, with absolute evidence. He's been hanging tough the entire time, and we've done everything possible to keep him strong and healthy and, finally, I saw the tide turn. Yes, today is a beautiful day.
But throughout the process, there has been hope. The swollen lymph nodes in his neck that originally got me to take him to the vet immediately shrank back down. His white blood cell count has remained high enough that we have been able to pursue chemotherapy in a fully aggressive manner. For a while he just didn't know he needed to go bathroom, but that, too, has passed.
About the only issue left has been his exhaustion. From a dog that would sprint up and down hills non-stop for an hour to one who couldn't match my walking pace, it has been devastating to witness his weakening. He was still happy, but he just couldn't do what he loves to do. No matter how loving he was, and how happy I thought he still was, I couldn't help but question if I was making him suffer for selfish reasons.
Today, Parker struck back. With a week and a half since his most recent chemo appointment, Parker has gotten stronger and stronger, more and more like his old self. Taking him up into the hills for a bathroom stroll this morning, he was his old self. After over a month of only walking, we had running. He was jumping over bushes, traversing hillsides and sending birds flying from every bush and tree. Instead of me slowing down my walk so he could keep up, it was me jogging and yelling for him stay in my line of sight.
So maybe he still didn't have 100% of his explosive power back, maybe not even 80. And the hike only lasted about 20 minutes, instead of our old hour long treks. I don't care. Because for the first time in over a month I had my dog back, and I got to see that making him fight the cancer was the right choice, with absolute evidence. He's been hanging tough the entire time, and we've done everything possible to keep him strong and healthy and, finally, I saw the tide turn. Yes, today is a beautiful day.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The Blue Remains
(Please note, this is the full version of the story I wrote for my local "alternative newspaper." They were kind enough to allow me to edit my own piece down to column length)
Nevada sports fans have been a little spoiled in recent years. Members of the Reno/Sparks community have looked forward to the end of winter every year as the spring equinox brought with it an invitation to the NCAA Tournament.
But the success of our men’s basketball team became about more than a game of hoops. For the few hours spent watching our team take the court, there were countless more treasuring the sense of community they brought us. Pride in their accomplishments, and hoping for just one more win, gave each and every one of us something in common with all our neighbors.
Even those who aren’t sports fans found themselves swept up in the tide. Posters in windows, banners streaming from cars, even the Reno skyline bathing the city in the reflections of the casinos’ Wolf Pack spotlights. Everywhere you looked, you saw blue. It was so much bigger than basketball, bigger than players, coaches or fans. It was about us, a group greater and happier as a sum of our parts than we could ever be alone. It taught us to celebrate and rejoice as one.
This year, however, there is no light. With no invitation to the Big Dance, the banners will remain in closets. With no trip to the NIT, no blue-and-gray flags will unfurl. And after the heartbreaking loss to Houston, our little strip shined its customary neon rainbow, leaving the blue glow in storage and memory until bowl season.
Yet, wherever you go in our community, the blue remains. As you drive across town, flashes of it catch your eye. Anywhere you walk, pieces of sky snap in the wind. Perhaps it is fitting, in this year we have no triumph to unify us, that we have ribbons to remind us of the ties of community.
This winter we learned how to hurt and to mourn as one. A community daughter was taken, by a coward in the night, and we all felt the hollow carved by her absence. If any silver lining can be found on the dark cloud of our tragedy, it is a reminder of how tight we really are, or really can be. Thousands volunteered time. Hundred of thousands of dollars were raised. The entire community reached forth with a unified effort to find the missing simply because she was one of our own. We failed, and we wept as one.
The weight of this tragedy sits upon all of us. Our hearts were collectively broken and our hopes universally crushed. While we can’t forget what makes us so, perhaps Brianna Denison’s sad fate will make us all a little more careful with our lives and a little less careful with our love, a small memorial, certainly, but perhaps one fitting for who we lost.
Having had our community hurt in such a way, it’s all too easy to forget how we celebrated together every March for the last four years, but it’s vital that we remember. Not because of a few games, but because of how we felt and how we responded. Whether the devastating shock of a murder or the comparatively small joys of a game, we responded together, and that is worth something.
Under the eclipse of this tragedy it is clear; there is no light. But at least the blue remains.
Nevada sports fans have been a little spoiled in recent years. Members of the Reno/Sparks community have looked forward to the end of winter every year as the spring equinox brought with it an invitation to the NCAA Tournament.
But the success of our men’s basketball team became about more than a game of hoops. For the few hours spent watching our team take the court, there were countless more treasuring the sense of community they brought us. Pride in their accomplishments, and hoping for just one more win, gave each and every one of us something in common with all our neighbors.
Even those who aren’t sports fans found themselves swept up in the tide. Posters in windows, banners streaming from cars, even the Reno skyline bathing the city in the reflections of the casinos’ Wolf Pack spotlights. Everywhere you looked, you saw blue. It was so much bigger than basketball, bigger than players, coaches or fans. It was about us, a group greater and happier as a sum of our parts than we could ever be alone. It taught us to celebrate and rejoice as one.
This year, however, there is no light. With no invitation to the Big Dance, the banners will remain in closets. With no trip to the NIT, no blue-and-gray flags will unfurl. And after the heartbreaking loss to Houston, our little strip shined its customary neon rainbow, leaving the blue glow in storage and memory until bowl season.
Yet, wherever you go in our community, the blue remains. As you drive across town, flashes of it catch your eye. Anywhere you walk, pieces of sky snap in the wind. Perhaps it is fitting, in this year we have no triumph to unify us, that we have ribbons to remind us of the ties of community.
This winter we learned how to hurt and to mourn as one. A community daughter was taken, by a coward in the night, and we all felt the hollow carved by her absence. If any silver lining can be found on the dark cloud of our tragedy, it is a reminder of how tight we really are, or really can be. Thousands volunteered time. Hundred of thousands of dollars were raised. The entire community reached forth with a unified effort to find the missing simply because she was one of our own. We failed, and we wept as one.
The weight of this tragedy sits upon all of us. Our hearts were collectively broken and our hopes universally crushed. While we can’t forget what makes us so, perhaps Brianna Denison’s sad fate will make us all a little more careful with our lives and a little less careful with our love, a small memorial, certainly, but perhaps one fitting for who we lost.
Having had our community hurt in such a way, it’s all too easy to forget how we celebrated together every March for the last four years, but it’s vital that we remember. Not because of a few games, but because of how we felt and how we responded. Whether the devastating shock of a murder or the comparatively small joys of a game, we responded together, and that is worth something.
Under the eclipse of this tragedy it is clear; there is no light. But at least the blue remains.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Easter Vigil
Last night I got literally everything out of a church service I could ever hope to receive. I think this mass more or less marked the end of my church-hopping ways. I have finally found a spiritual home.
My priest spoke about opening our doors, and how blessed and loved each of us are. It sounds simple enough, but I don't usually get exactly what I am looking for in a service, but he hit the nail on the head. A lot of us see our weaknesses, individual and communal, and start to doubt our futures, mortal and otherwise. But I left church feeling more uplifted and hopeful than I have been in as long as I can remember.
Here are some snippets from his sermon, pasted together as best as I can recall, though undoubtedly lacking the eloquence and fire with which Father Tony delivered them.
Back in 19XX (don't recall year) Pope John-Paul II was giving a televised sermon, and his message was to open the doors of ourselves and of the Church. And as John-Paul shuffled over to the doors, as he could barely move at the time, he went to push them open and struggled against them. There was a Bishop on the other side of the door who was going to pull it open for the Pope, kinda of making it look like the door finished opening alone. But the camera was a little too slow, and we saw the bishop helping open the door.
And this was perfect, because we can't open the doors alone. And God will help you the second you begin. What more could give you to convince you that you're worthy? He gave up his Son to save you. Who are you to doubt that you are loved? Who are you to doubt that you are saved? God gave his Son to the most painful death possible for your redemption! He let He Himself made flesh die for you! Who are you to doubt Him and what He did? There is literally nothing you could do to make you unworthy. Just open your doors and accept him.
"But I'm liberal, I'm conservative, I doubt." Open the doors.
"But I'm on drugs, I'm gay, I'm an immigrant." Open the doors!
"I'm weak, I'm a sinner, a criminal." OPEN THE DOORS
I don't know what else God could possibly do to convince you that you're worthy. If you asked someone to sacrifice themselves for you, and they did it, how can you doubt? What more can He do?
I know I butchered that bad boy pretty horrifically, but hopefully you get the gist. It was nice to see something so, well, hopeful. I can be a bit of a cynic, and it was nice to get a wake-up call like that.
My priest spoke about opening our doors, and how blessed and loved each of us are. It sounds simple enough, but I don't usually get exactly what I am looking for in a service, but he hit the nail on the head. A lot of us see our weaknesses, individual and communal, and start to doubt our futures, mortal and otherwise. But I left church feeling more uplifted and hopeful than I have been in as long as I can remember.
Here are some snippets from his sermon, pasted together as best as I can recall, though undoubtedly lacking the eloquence and fire with which Father Tony delivered them.
Back in 19XX (don't recall year) Pope John-Paul II was giving a televised sermon, and his message was to open the doors of ourselves and of the Church. And as John-Paul shuffled over to the doors, as he could barely move at the time, he went to push them open and struggled against them. There was a Bishop on the other side of the door who was going to pull it open for the Pope, kinda of making it look like the door finished opening alone. But the camera was a little too slow, and we saw the bishop helping open the door.
And this was perfect, because we can't open the doors alone. And God will help you the second you begin. What more could give you to convince you that you're worthy? He gave up his Son to save you. Who are you to doubt that you are loved? Who are you to doubt that you are saved? God gave his Son to the most painful death possible for your redemption! He let He Himself made flesh die for you! Who are you to doubt Him and what He did? There is literally nothing you could do to make you unworthy. Just open your doors and accept him.
"But I'm liberal, I'm conservative, I doubt." Open the doors.
"But I'm on drugs, I'm gay, I'm an immigrant." Open the doors!
"I'm weak, I'm a sinner, a criminal." OPEN THE DOORS
I don't know what else God could possibly do to convince you that you're worthy. If you asked someone to sacrifice themselves for you, and they did it, how can you doubt? What more can He do?
I know I butchered that bad boy pretty horrifically, but hopefully you get the gist. It was nice to see something so, well, hopeful. I can be a bit of a cynic, and it was nice to get a wake-up call like that.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Unconditional Love
It's quite a concept. To love with absolutely no reservations or limitations. I am not sure humans are capable of it. I don't have kids yet, so I know I am missing some key information, but I'm just not sure it is possible for our species. I love my wife, but there are things either of us can do that would more or less force the other to terminate the marriage. God willing neither of us ever will ever do any them, and I don't believe we will, but these actions are conceivable from a scientific what-is-possible perspective.
I don't think that qualifies as unconditional love. I truly love her, as she does me, but their are conditions to our relationship. Such is not the case with our dog.
My dog unconditionally loves my wife. He loves me, and I love him, but he will just gaze into my Beloved's eyes for literally hours. He falls asleep as near to her as he can possibly get. He loves to collapse with his head on her shredded, dancers feet at every opportunity. She adores him, and loves him as much as one can love a non-human, but even if she didn't, I think he would live for her. She could abuse him in the most horrible ways imaginable, but I think he would keep coming back to her. There is simply no end to his love for my wife.
Given my jaded perspective of human nature, it gives me hope to see that kind of love. Hope for us as a whole. As if the mere fact that love like that can exist means that maybe, just maybe, we can make it in this cutthroat world without literally cutting each others throats. I'm usually pretty realistic, but it nice to know there are some things that are absolutely perfect, literally without flaw. Such is that kind of love. I'm glad it is possible.
I don't think that qualifies as unconditional love. I truly love her, as she does me, but their are conditions to our relationship. Such is not the case with our dog.
My dog unconditionally loves my wife. He loves me, and I love him, but he will just gaze into my Beloved's eyes for literally hours. He falls asleep as near to her as he can possibly get. He loves to collapse with his head on her shredded, dancers feet at every opportunity. She adores him, and loves him as much as one can love a non-human, but even if she didn't, I think he would live for her. She could abuse him in the most horrible ways imaginable, but I think he would keep coming back to her. There is simply no end to his love for my wife.
Given my jaded perspective of human nature, it gives me hope to see that kind of love. Hope for us as a whole. As if the mere fact that love like that can exist means that maybe, just maybe, we can make it in this cutthroat world without literally cutting each others throats. I'm usually pretty realistic, but it nice to know there are some things that are absolutely perfect, literally without flaw. Such is that kind of love. I'm glad it is possible.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)