There is a movie on Netflix, that has sent my mind into a frenzy. About Time is an amazing captivating story playing on the inner desires that most of us have: to go back in time, even if for a moment. This movie doesn’t spend the storyline dancing around the Butterfly Effect. Changing some particular thing can have compounding impacts into unexpected and undesired other events. In comparison, this storyline would be much closer to the movie, Sliding Doors, and focuses on the meanings of the things that do happen. Sure, it wouldn’t be a time travel show if the super-powered persons did not alter anything making accidental changes, but the roots in this plot are that of love. But, like the Butterfly Effect reference, when events were changed in this story, other things were impacted.
Regardless, the fact remains, my brain went wild! So much so, that in the end, several tears escaped my eyes and trailed down my face. The movie touched on the importance of memories. We see the actor start off making small changes to the timeline, such as fixing a play for a playwright friend by ensuring an actor remembered his lines, to interfering with his future partner’s date plans so he gets a chance. The story also shows, through trial and error, the impacts of small changes, but like I mentioned, that is not a focal point. Instead, it explores a world of opportunity for memory exploration. Going back in time for a second look. Replaying ping pong with loved ones. Walking down the beach again as a child. Enjoying moments – before the timeline is closed and loved ones are lost.
It makes me think about history, my history. IF I was blessed with the gift of traveling back in time… If time was a plane that we could wander in and out of – what would I desire to do? Would I be able to restrain myself from altering things? Am I confident enough in myself now, that the risk of altering some details would be worth the second look? Seeing myself in a variety of states and seeing other people… what would I do? What do you think you would do? If you could go back in time, what period would you revisit? Would you change a friendship in childhood… in young adulthood? Would you experiment with suspicions or small details to see what made you, you? Almost reverse engineering yourself. Fascinating.
The thoughts fall in line with the series that I have started, dear younger self. So it seems the heavy lifting that I am asking you to pontificate upon, I have been doing awhile. The movie explored thoughts that I have whizzed by while searching in the muck to remember this and that. The second-guessing that I have now… I think about my reactions, then, now. I was new to the thoughts at the time. Frustration, hurt, happiness, were all first experiences for me. And although they may have occurred multiple times I was looking at my life through a singular view. A view of a child, teen or young adult limited in worldly exposure. So, for example, looking back now I have multiple generational views. A holistic view that sees the choreography that led me to now. Sitting here, writing the words… I remember key things, but combat childlike perception with adult logic. That filter makes me think about the synchronicity that was necessary for now. The shaping of me.
So, when you have some time on your hands and have some creative brain energy to expend, or perhaps just relax and take at face value, grab a glass of hot tea and snack. Put on Netflix, select About Time, and chill. Enjoy.
It was out of necessity that I discovered the value of an AirBnB. The idea can seem strange at first, but with careful observation, planning, and selection it can be more amazing than your average hotel. When Q and I first met, I was living with a friend. Life was a bit chaotic and I didn’t have much privacy. She was in a similar situation. Granted we were together for a little bit of time before spending the night was ‘a thing.’ The first couple of times, we ended up staying in a hotel and exploring surrounding cities. And while the option to use a pool, hot tub, or gym is always appealing, it seems boring, now, in comparison. I enjoy it so much that I have even thought about hosting an AirBnB. I think it would be an interesting way to meet people, hear new stories as well as a small side income. The weird phase is all gone apparently and replaced by convenience, adventure, and discovery. Hah.
I was thinking about the importance of time together this past weekend. For our anniversary we had intended to do something. In the beginning, once we knew the relationship was serious, we set a goal of doing something for the one year mark. I desperately wanted to take a cruise, but the financial situation was just not going to allow something like that to happen. So we agreed to hold out for another chance, someday. Unfortunately, we cannot count on some…day… happening. Life tends to get busy and schedules seem to always change. Time is a scarcity when you need it for some reason. Or perhaps it’s the priority we should be focused on. Regardless, Q and I have started a set of mini-vacations with each other. It started, as I referenced earlier, but has been something that we continued as we continue growing our relationship.
The Red Book.
There are a couple of things like that, for us. Right after we first started dating, I purchased a red journal from Walmart. Being extremely corny and cheesy I was going to start a diary for our relationship. Well, that was the intent at first. When I sat down to write in it for the first time, we were already several weeks into the relationship; a lot had happened in a short amount of time. Thinking about what we had already accomplished, a diary didn’t quite make sense now. The excitement and wonder of our first dates had already been recorded in our personal writings. Not to mention, we really were pretty upfront with each other and how we felt. There were not many things, if any, that would be in this “diary” that we would not have discussed via text, phone or in person. I also realized how many neat things we had done, together, in a relatively short amount of time. So we started a new thing. A relationship+ book, if you will… Something that we both could write in and reflect upon, and something that would tell a story. We named the book, The Red Book (original I know), and placed a picture of Dinah, the cat that prowls our local used book store, The Dusty Bookshelf. The book has become a journal of our “adventures.”
The journal goes with us everywhere we go together. We have over a year in the journal now. And it grew a bit more this weekend when we took a quick trip to a small city in the middle of KS. It ended up being a last-minute treat from Q, for us, to celebrate Valentine’s Day as well as our anniversary. While there, I journaled in The Red Book, and reflected on the last year. The trip there was full of colorful discussion about life – death – relationships – music and so on. And my realization over the weekend was this: The value of the time we spend together, on purpose, taking micro-adventures, has made our life together exciting, spontaneous at times, and full of joy for each other.
We had planned for a cruise once which we have not been able to see it through. Yet, not doing that did not stop us from doing something together. We have found value in the simple. And AirBnB’s have helped us with that. With the flexibility to find a place to stay for a significantly lower cost in just about any city that you can think of, we have opened our world for adventure. Some trips have been planned in advance and some have happened spontaneously. The magic is the discovery. By doing this, we explore new places and are not limited as to what we can do. Each place has a unique set of features as well as its own idiosyncrasies. And with the experience we now have, we have a developed knack for screening what would suit our tastes and what would just be plain weird. And we have done weird.
The weekend was great for so many reasons. Who would think a small house, in the middle of a simple, antique, downtown neighborhood in Junction City, KS would be the home of the 2nd best Valentine’s Day, in my opinion, for a couple of out-of-towners? The house was hard to find since the main house faced another street and had a different address. Somewhere along the way, this “apartment” was given its own address. Arriving at the house we climbed up a narrow staircase to the “mother-in-law” suite. The large incline, combined with the deep and shallow stairs made an interesting icy climb with overnight baggage in hand. The door, traditional, swung open to a studio living arrangement with a decent amount of floor space. We strolled in, sat down our bags, and scoped the place out. After checking the essential things (fridge, kitchen, bathroom, bed) we made our way to the bed and adjusted the mattress to a comfortable reclining position. We made our selves comfy and proceeded to listen to music while taking a small catnap.
We ended the evening by dining out at the local Italian restaurant, swinging by Aldi for some desserts, and watching two episodes of The Witcher. Our conversations carried us to the late-night hours and I finished with our Red Book entry before sipping the last of my tea from our nightly routine. The next morning we awoke to a sun-filled room, cool from the night’s temperatures, and coffee brewed in the machine pre-set the night before. We stirred around and got our bearings then sat on the bed with the promise of conversations to be had. We joked, the night before, that we should discuss religion, and we got that opportunity in the morning with an in-depth view of spirituality, life, and death. We sipped on water and coffee, and shortly before check out, we packed up our bags. Near noon, we got back into the car and drove the 90 mins back home. Stepping out of the car we concluded our trip and another adventure in the book.
These micro-adventures are a great chance to do something small and seemingly insignificant, but enduring, I feel. It’s a chance to bond as well as explore in a small way. The trip was planned only a couple weekends before and all together, we spent about $100 for the room, the dinner, the dessert plus the gas to drive. There is something special about being somewhere else, with someone, looking around the room and not seeing dishes needing to be done. The trash is not begging to be taken out, nor is vacuuming our responsibility. Being just far enough away that we cannot drop back in, in a moment’s notice, adds to the getaway feeling.
Consider this today… There are 52 weekends in a year. You could have even more potential time off if you count holidays and vacation time. (Or sick time *wink wink* you sly dogs.) Consider being spontaneous (or controlled spontaneity if you need to plan a week or two in advance). Sit down with the person that you care about – and plan a day or two to getaway. It’s an investment, even if small. Explore a new place and have conversations that you would not sit down to have No, things are not always rosy. We are human. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that and that would be pretending, leading to what I call, the Facebook Life. But the thing different for me, for us, is that we take time for one another. We make time. The budget doesn’t stop us. The schedules of two business professionals don’t stop us. And the return on investment has led to more than an amazing year.
Here is to your journey. Your adventure. And as always, warm wishes. – joe.
With some unimaginable news, my life was forecasted for me. Not in steps to take or how to take them as I could still blindly navigate that. It was the time that was finite. It already is, really – it always feels shorter than expected – but now it was being tracked. I could feel my breaths heavy like a weight was placed on my chest. Each exhale felt easier and the strain to inhale seemed increasingly harder. Maybe it was the weight of reality or the dreams being siphoned from me. Looking back, I did navigate the grief cycle… in my own hurried way. There was just no time to savor or expand on each thought. To feel. To let it sink in. I had to marinate in reality while pressing on with whatever I had left. But I dare say, it was quite the ride. My main regret being only that I had not viewed all of life with this lens.
The first days were lost to me. People say reality is hard. Or cold. Yet, it is hard to explain something that you do not yet posses. Empathy is necessary but often an exercise not truly realized. Immediate things came to mind. My children. My partner, Q. Thoughts of having to work – or not… And what was the real purpose of work? Money had lost its value but the rest of the planet still desired it. Like a pickpocket to a cadaver, the world continued on… without remorse. My thoughts were exhaustingly scattered. I had to start writing things down; I had to make lists. It was hard to make a Gantt chart for life when the culmination of the project would never be fully realized or appreciated by you. The thing about a legacy, apparently, is you don’t really get to see it.
I was frozen in my apartment. My hygiene was in a bad way. The life forces that I had in the just prior were pummeled out of me with a barrage of what if’s, I can’ts, and I need to’s. The lack of time to see or feel any hope destroyed motivation. Even when we are down and having a bad day – there is a hidden hope that we take for granted. But there were still things to be done and the administrative ones were the easiest to conquer. And while it took much longer than it could have, it probably took as much time as it should have. Then, one day, realizing that five months, two weeks and some-odd-hours were left, I got dressed (the first time since finding out). It was the highlight for over a week really. Putting on an entire outfit that was clean, and looked halfway decent, had been seemingly too difficult. After all, what does it matter in the big picture?
Time marched on. It is funny to note the things we do daily – see daily – and realize we may never see that again. The way the ink bleeds on the written page, like a kind of Rorschach image from a pen left too long. The slightly gold egg whites crisping in the butter. The smell of breakfast, any time of day, is comforting… The birds dancing in the window sill. Each calling to one another as if telling the world where they are, what they are doing. Robotic like movements as they twitch to watch the world around them… They do not care for these worries I am having. Life just is and each day must press on. Why don’t we?
Stopped along a highway, Buena Vista, CO
I needed to collect my thoughts, so I decided to get away. I had been meaning to visit Colorado for a while and that was as good of a time as any. Probably the best time, considering. My partner did not have the kids the weekend after the news so an impromptu trip was embarked on. Buena Vista, CO – a small town outside of Denver. The home of my first God-realization. In high school, I went on a Young Life summer camp trip. My first and only real camp experience. We would gather in circles at the end of the night and bare our souls. I confessed my sin, my confusion, and prayed. I could recall laying on a camping bag, under the stars, in the mountains, the shimmering white dots in the crisp night’s sky. I found myself then. And I needed to do that again. This time, there was urgency my teenage self could not have imagined, but cutting ties with the present, I needed prayer. Thought. Organization.
We spent four days there. Four days where reading was more purposeful. I spent the majority of my alone time reflecting on Job. Anytime in life that I have been doubtful, felt things were unfair, I have meditated on the words, rereading each page. Seeing new gems each time. This study was no different. Not being able to sleep much, my mind constantly turning over on itself, I marinated in the word. Reflection was heavy. I am sure I followed the normal phases of the grief process. Memories. Feelings that opportunities were taken away.
At first, many nights went this way. Internal rants and a feeling of being misplaced. The trip was short as were the days but the nights seemed long. The words were bold on black and white by the hotel moonlight. The desk was used more than the bed and other amenities combined. Clarity came in midnight hours. Q and I enjoyed the nights together. We had late talks, as our meals settled and the attempted normalcy of our landing routines continued. Anchors and sails, the highlight reel to roads traveled.
I wrote even more letters. While still thinking clearly, not overcome with medication, I wanted to acknowledge people and the love I had for them. The letters were drafted over the months leading up to the final days. A final greeting – hug – remembrance for friends and family. Each with instructions to be sent when I pass. I also assigned caretakers for my social accounts. That is a real thing, I guess. I didn’t plan on those accounts remaining active, but for the family to collect the photos that I have put together over a lifetime of Facebook-ing. It was hard to determine what needs to be said or said again. What did I need to say in my last words, even if they were watermarked by tears? Happy tears. Sad tears. The blue lines and black ink trailed deep thoughts and stopped with new thoughts. Stay positive – thoughts to myself. I am sure the notes would have been better at the end, having worked through a grieving cycle, but the words would surely escape me.
I was able to step out of my comfort zone. Almost, as if, an out of body experience. Dancing in stores and singing in the car to that song… that song came much easier. There wasn’t a need to look around and be aware of my audience. What will they say? No, they didn’t matter. Ram Dass was right. The soul doesn’t need to cling to things; the ego is separate from the soul and has different outlooks. I just let myself try to be… So, the singing felt natural. After getting back from CO, the Avett Bros. were in town and it was a great chance to exploit my singing abilities.
Avett Bros. Concert
The concert was freeing. The songs were even more fantastic than my memory propped them up to be. We were able to be close which made all of the difference. Kickdrums thumping and vibrating through our bodies. The crowd singing along – almost as loud as the speaker at the amphitheater. It was another priceless moment. Forgetting everything and just being is freeing. We stayed until the last song, and the encore, and found a row of chairs after it was well over. No rush. The lights came back on and the stagehands started disassembling the sets. Like ants on candy when it starts to rain – the crowd fled. But not us. We talked louder than we needed to – a result of having our hearing altered from the seats that we had. Singing together, our favorite songs in unison. The night had to end. We drove silently, listening to the Avett Bros. channel on Amazon Music driving back home. Each stripe in the highway seemed significant.
The days seemed to have more treasure than before and the sands of time drawn into the cracks like filling. Necessary but not needed. To get my affairs in order, I felt like I notarized, signed, and sent out forests of paper. Each tree proclaiming some important thing that needed to be said. Who gets what, what goes where, when this and when that… It seemed so pointless now and surreal. The papers never seemed to end… and I kept coming back to them. Reality faded in and out. The autopilot would kick in and I would then worry if it was fair. What was fair, would haunt me… A life divided into possessions for the taking. It took some time but I managed to work through the list.
While I was still able to move about and had the energy to enjoy it, I took a couple of weeks to visit all of my kids. In these moments I had major regrets about the non-traditional life I had adopted. Never-the-less, I needed and got, some solid time with my kids.
The winters are long and cold there, and the weather was cold. I did not share the exact nature of my trip – it was not the time or place to paint a grim story for them. News like this dampens any mood and I wanted to enjoy them. Their true form. The silly stories, imaginary adventures. The smell of their hair. Twinkles in eyes and childlike smiles. Aged a bit with time and lesson. I took it all in. I savored every smell. Every giggle. We spent the week seeing a movie, walking the mall, seeing their schools. I watched my daughter start in a basketball game, witnessed an intense video game brawl as each of us attempted to show up the other and walked away with drawings, snapshots, and memories.
The week went quickly. I had to end a few outings early – the meds overtook me and the numbness zapped my senses. An obvious sign that things do progress and I was working through my allotted time. Sometimes, guesses are wrong; sometimes people live years beyond, sometimes they’re taken quickly, but this prognosis felt spot on. There were moments that I escaped and forgot my reality. Playing with my kids. Hearing their little life stories. Until the pains set in. We spent the week seeing a movie, walking the mall, seeing their schools. Finally, it was my last day with them and I suffered it out. My feet were heavy and arms ached. My neck stiffened but not too much for a hug. I kissed foreheads and I love yous were shared. And I lied to them. See you soon. The trip prepared me for the final stretches. At least enough love to get to the destination.
I made it back home. Well, it was no longer home since I would be moving soon. It is funny how it felt foreign all of a sudden. I remember planning a life there. I guess, in a way, I did have that life. I drove by my mother’s house, but I did not have a conversation in me. I parked a block away and just watched for a short time. I replayed conversations that I remembered. She tried so hard to be a part of my life, but I did not have it in me. Ever… so it would seem. Psychological scars restricted my movement and reaching out was never something I could do. In my mind it was different. A different path in my “Choose Your Own Adventure”. I would reread the novel and make a few different choices if that was a possibility. Taking a mental image I repeated the process near my dad’s.
2001 Christmas Trip Home: Grandpa and Me
He still lived at the property I grew up on. The house was rebuilt but the yard remained the same. The fields to the right and behind. The train tracks only hundreds of feet away. I remember waking up to the horns as the train roared over the tiny bridge over a creek. The flag he put up when I joined the NAVY. He was so proud of it when he put it up. I remember the letters in boot camp and tears when I finally felt accomplished. The snotty noses, the wailing, the ear splitting yelling, the holes in the wall… they seemed irrelevant when I read those letters. Sitting in my car, I refocused my thoughts on fishing trips. The early mornings on the water, a light fog floating above the water. The cool air and warm spring water made magic at the end of the pole. The pink sky and orange horizon identified the perfect time to cast. We didn’t talk much as to not scare the fish – but we didn’t need to. A man and his young son found comfort in actions not words. The splash, plop and bending poles said everything we needed to. The reminiscing abruptly ended with the thought: I would never get to take my kids again. My grandkids would learn to fish from someone else. I simmered in the thoughts for a while. It was time to drive away.
Grandma and Grandpa’s graves were cleared off. Others loved them too. The stones were not as shiny as when I last spent time, really spent time, hovering over them so long ago. The weather was cloudy that day. It was the onset of a storm. Layers of cumulus clouds floated in the sky. Solid dark grey in the background and a lighter layer floating quickly by. Like stuffing in a worn quilt, they seemed to protrude and escape as if they did not belong and were hurried along to their real destination. It wouldn’t rain that day, but by the looks, it should have. We talked for a while and my words filled the air. I shared all of the adventures. The triumphs. The hard lessons that they probably already knew. How the kids looked when I saw them last. How proud they would be of them.
I reminded Grandma and Grandpa that they did get to experience the one wish they’d had while I was growing up: to meet all of my kids. It is a shame that they could not see them now. I told them that I missed their smiles. Laughs. Sarcasm. You know, the funny thing about sorrow and death seems to be, that it is fleeting when it is not the big idea anymore. When it is not the climactic dramatic thing happening to someone else. For once, there was an appreciation. Maybe that is what getting older feels like. I can only imagine that. I said goodbye and that I hope we get to cross paths again. I picked the last leaves off the headstones and got into the car. It was becoming my time now.
The next week, when I was slightly more rested, I dug out the boxes which held my entire life in photos. From the time I left my condo with only three bags, through several water incidents, the survived and found a way back to me. The boxes contained stills of time. The only family heirlooms that I had left, passed on from family to family. I took them once and scanned each one. As I worked on a family tree, I uploaded all of the artifacts. My desire as the last gatekeeper was to let the records live on. Perhaps one of my children will acquire the curiosity one day. The records will be there. Waiting. Until then, the photos are sorted and boxed according to family. I placed the journals with lineage and facts with them and sealed the boxes in plastic bags with tiny crystals to absorb moisture. You know, the kind that looks like fancy candy for children. The will had instructions as to where to get them and what the sets mean. The last place that I’ll see them is the security deposit boxes at the bank. I rented several boxes and paid for rent for several years. In each box, photos, journals and a digital drive with everything backed up. I sealed doors, signed out and said goodbye.
It is fitting that the last movie I watched was called About Time. Being idle, I snuggled under the warm blankets. The coldness was set aside and Q folded into me like a matched puzzle piece. Tears came as I watched a young man learn he has the ability to go back into time. At first, it was to change things. Set things right for himself and for others. All, in this story, were full of good intentions. The young man jumped back several times, here and there. Once, he went back to just appreciate the things overlooked. He saw his favorite moments with his dad. He watched the kids run and play. Their hair bobbing as they ran and the giggles, oh the giggles. I found myself desiring that ability. Those times I was too busy; the work that had to be done. The consequences of the paths that I chose, set aside for a retake. Just for a moment. To see what I did not, one more time. Like him, I think things did happen just as they needed to and there is no changing that. The life that was supposed to be, is going to be, and that lack of control is something I have come to terms with. Especially with abrupt realities. The movie was fitting and drew in a flood of remembrance. I drifted off in her arms that night. Content and full of peace.
Breathing is harder these days. Shallow breaths and cold limbs. It is often a workout to perform routine and menial tasks. I truly understand what Grandma and Grandpa felt now. Tired with only a few hours awake. Sore muscles and the strain was shifting sides of the bed. The intensity of it all correlates to the time that I have left. In standard Joe form, I get the things just as they were said to be. I was not the lucky one – that had the miracle cure, nor was I robbed of the days predicted left. Like Goldilocks, it was just right. And that is a true statement in more ways than guessed breaths left to take. It did in fact, all work out.
The days roll together and this will be my final entry. The final thoughts that I assemble in paragraph form. I wanted so many things in this lifetime. I was busy chasing the things in front of me and did not see the things beside me. Now I turn and see those behind me, and just wish they were aside… The blessings were all around though. The giggles will still be had, and new stories will come about all the time. Get-togethers will contain phrases like “remember when…” I have been a blessed man and it took six months to find that which was already there. These thoughts are nothing new but are the result of slowing down long enough to appreciate them.
It is like eating, I imagine. The purpose at face value is to nourish your body; the real values are from the dinner table conversations. The great news to share and exciting accomplishments. Hard discussions and important decisions have their place too. The real values also include savoring the sensations of what you were actually doing. The buttery potato with small chunks and little grits of salt. The crunch of the breading on a deep-fried tenderloin as the juices slide over your lips. The recipe which they came from, Grandma’s, and the cooking with others to make it. It will also be passed on when others try to recreate all of it. The value is in all of the storylines that intersect, each moment, for that particular moment. And as Buddhistic views point out, these things… silly and insignificant or bold and triumphant, really are not good or bad. They are things and it is how we see them that matters. It is how we endure, and savor, and share and learn… Too many futures and many pasts. I love you all. ~Me.
The End.
For anyone that is now confused… This was imaginary for me: fictional. I am blessed to go on, today. I wanted to think now, about then… how it would be, looking back and evaluating what I would have done. I needed to immerse myself, with what I know, into the feelings. Like an actor preparing for a role, this was me stepping into a character. I have known several people in circumstances where similar instances did actually happen. Some fell to health ailments and old age. Some to just old age. Others from some ailment that pirated life like a thief in the night. Some so abrupt; here one day – gone the next. This was me, writing about a potential reality. The chance that it could happen. The likelihood that it could happen. I did not want to make a list of 100 items like it was some greatest hits album. I wanted to immerse myself into a reality – and think through what that would mean, to me. I wanted to imagine it as my new reality, even for a moment. The point is this: If you had only a certain amount of time to live – what would you do with it? With the scary, unnatural, realities of cancer or perhaps some new rare disease always around us – the odds are not as far fetched as we would like to hope. And with little planning, grandiose is less likely. Not the bucket wish list with broad strokes painting all the glamour you see in the movies.
Most likely, time would be issued to you, and the noun here would be fading away. You would likely grow weaker, and abilities would wane. Sentences like this come at a cost. More than just days, but a reason there are fewer of them? It is as if when death comes early and is not sudden, it needs to catch the vessel up to that moment. The mind and the body deteriorate rapidly to cross the finish line together. When your day proclaims itself, you have to be in a certain way to cross the river. So what would you really do? Imagine this for some time. While it sounds fanciful to list this grand bucket list – with less health and only a short time – is scaling Mt. Everest, really an option? With only a certain time left – what would care to invest in? Or even be able to? What messages would you send out into the world?
Now that you and I have those listed. You, mentally or with you there… Me, above… What is stopping us from doing those things? There is only one thing that Joel Osteen says that I agree with, “Your best life now…” Let’s make a plan – and do it.
Before I start I need to make a blanket statement disclaimer. This is going to be a series. Some of the letters will be positive and uplifting. Some will not. The views in these posts are mine alone. The perspective is that of an adult, healing, looking back through the eyes of a child. Things changed as I grew up, and the relationships have either been repaired, are being repaired, or are estranged. While I filter some of my thoughts (slightly) for various reasons: respect, privacy, desire to not deal with the backlash of truth… I am going to still be transparent which will convey the message that I want to share. These stories are mine. My memories. #SorryNotSorry
Dear Younger Self,
You will always hate the smell of Brach’s Cinnamon Hard Candies. The taste will repulse you. If someone places one in their mouth or a similar artificial cinnamon smell contaminates the air, you will always have a physiological response. On Halloween every year, you will pick the cinnamon disks out of the treat bags and place them directly in the trash. Even the orange and black candies that no one wants will remain, but cinnamon candies will be sorted out. You will feel they are tainted – they cannot even be shared. This will lessen as you get older. After awhile, the feeling of saliva sprinkling your face while being screamed at and the throbbing on your head and face will only replay when you try to think about it. You will always hate that smell, but not always feel the same way.
Try to memorize the details of being a kid. As much as your mind can, savor the times you feel good. Happy. You will hear people telling you, “You were forced to grow up too early.” You will end up not remembering many happy memories; some fishing trips, some holiday meals at Grandma’s. There are more and someday it will be a struggle to find them. It will be hard, I know, but try to lock away a few gems. Try to get the details to vividly show in your memories. Hold onto your afternoons with Grandma and weaving in and out of the trees on the four-wheeler. The cold air that makes your cheeks tingle. The smell of bark, dirt, and leaves. The paths through the woods and that sense of accomplishment when you make a new path; breaking it in is such a blast! You will forget the times that you got on the four-wheeler to disappear; to getaway. Those moments that you needed… alone.
Remember the joy of sorting your baseball and football cards. You will always appreciate collecting – coins, cards… it is a valuable investment of your time. You will always wonder why paying your mother in baseball cards, as a bribe to get ungrounded, was a real thing. You may struggle to remember how it actually started. When did that become a ‘thing?’ You’ll get suspicious groundings that will not make sense when you get older and piece-by-piece your collection will dwindle. You will hate that you gave her your entire collection so you could take a small vacation to Six Flags with a friend. It will be irrelevant by the time you sit down to write a “dear self” letter (and you will have fond memories of that theme-park weekend), but if we could alter that choice… that would be nice. Hold on to some of the cards, so you can pass them along to your kids someday.
You will always wonder if your balding is a result of being tossed into a wall or two. The hair pulled during the tussle or the handle to pick you up. The holes in the walls will be patched, but will be obvious if you look carefully. You won’t live in that house for much longer, and you will never get a broken bone or other serious injury. Don’t let yourself think that speaking up is just going to make problems for everyone. You are not responsible for her crying. For his roid-rage. No matter how many times you are blamed or labeled the problem – you are just a child. The fights will end; the physical damage will heal. I wish I could tell you that the emotional damage would – but I am not going to lie to you. The numbness will take over at some point. That feeling will be labeled “survival” later in your life. The emotional work will go on for years and years. Like layers of paint, you will one day peel them back to look at each one of them. You will make a path and your instincts will take action for you. Shutting down certain thoughts or feelings to just make it. And you will… make it.
Speaking up will be good for everyone, in the end. Until then, hold on tight, and imagine the weekends in the woods. Bruising goes away. You will not ever convince them to acknowledge what happened – a lifetime of denial for all involved, so it would seem. But, pay attention here, Joe: it’s not your fault. You may be a typical kid, challenging and disagreeable at times, but they should be able to navigate that. You will never play your parents against each other. You will get the good grades and think of others first. You will have compassion for people. Compassion for life. While the standards may not be attainable or even consistent, you will find ways to navigate… Grandma and Grandpa will be a major pillar for you. Embrace that. You are not responsible for the conflict that will come between those families. The pain mom and dad will make, or have made, create all of this. You will later remember them. They had to be hurting too. You will wonder why and wish that was not so. Also, I remember you vowing “I will not do this to my kids.” You will do well to remember this. It will cause a lot of self-doubt, for many years, but you will find your way through it.
Yes, Joe, it is unfair, and not just by your standards. You will feel the affirmation and empathy when anyone pries these stories out of you. I say “pries” – because you will go through a period where you bury all of this deep within you. It will grow. Fester. Like a painful abscess that threatens to overtake you. At times, you will need some help. No, it won’t be easy and incredible amounts of shame will surround you. The mind is a funny thing, but that shouldn’t be a concern right now. When you are offered your first drink, in high school, say no thanks. It will only start something you will have to finish. Delay that as long as possible.
It will be a hard path to find the future you that gets it and is ok with talking about all of it. Dad will disappear and though he will be just minutes away at times, he will never contact you. In fact, he won’t even meet three of your kids. The one time that you reach out in hard times, his only concern will be about inheritance money. Mom will also disappear for a while. She has a very rough life, much of which will continue to be a mystery to you. Someday she will be constantly trying to be involved or to talk to you. She will change and so will you. When you’re ready, there will be a relationship there.
Lastly, younger self, you are loved. People love you. It is obvious in photos, looking back. It is obvious in stories from others that you love back. Every positive thought will seem to stem from Grandma’s & Grandpa’s evenings and afternoons. The fact that you will not remember being hugged one time by your mom or dad, will always be curious to you. You will over-analyze it. It was your fault, their fault, the sadness of abandonment, anger and so on. You will walk through a sort of grieving cycle, many times. Then, one day, you will be married and have children. They will turn out amazingly. It will end up being non-traditional, but you will make it work. Relationships end sometimes. And your lifelong desire, to be loved, will happen, one day, much later. You will make it.
More letters will come. Today, I am going to spend time searching for the joys that we can remember, and write the moments down. Savor those joys – our memories are critical to us and I want to remember the good that did happen.
I enjoy writing. My confidence is improving and the edits are slightly less brutal with a lot of recent studying and practice. This study, this practice, has led me to create this blog space so that I could cover a variety of topics. Sometimes I need to process. These entries allow me to get the jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings deep within my mind out into the world. Give them life. This process allows me the ability to methodically (as you would process any draft) reorganize, add and omit, and hear or see what was hiding. Putting it out there also allows me to say, “I am not afraid,” in some instances. Get out of my closet! (I had a mental image of kicking some clutter out of a closet and a deep bellowing voice down a hallway.) I think we each have some way of dealing with it; from singing, to writing, to making elaborate paintings or sketches.
Sometimes, however, I do get frustrated. Hey, I am being honest. While I do this for me, it is nice to see a post read – even better, liked – and even better yet, shared. The feeling, I think, is a sense of affirmation. A digital “I get you,” or perhaps, “wow.” But… there is always a but. But… I find it interesting what gets looked at and what doesn’t. I am aware that there are a lot of competing factors such as Facebook algorithms, the time of day combined with other’s desires to read, countless other people sharing works and then combinations of all of those for each person. Once in a while, I think of the things I took time to craft which only got a handful of views. And yet, in my timeline, there are countless memes of a lady and a cat eating at a table with some sarcastic caption. And that gets shared, over and over, hundreds of times (if not much more). I still don’t know what that d@m* cat is from.
I am not going to write about kitties or puppies, pick hot topics like abortion, gender fluidity, or same-sex marriage, just to get attention, clicks, or traffic. If I visit TikTok, (guilty pleasure) I seem to come across one of only a few categories that are trending (someone’s rights, cosplay, a recipe, or storytime, which now has a trend of “like for part 10…”). Maybe that is the missing piece – I need to dress in a costume and take a pic of myself. Then, take that segment and diving into a gillion parts. I mean, if one of those topics comes up in my writing, it is because I have a legit thought on the topic. Yes the frustration, for me, is real. Once in a while, I would like to have that trending content. I would like to make a point that is well-assembled, insightful, inspiring, or causes a shift in someone’s mind. The topic might be life, love, or perhaps the pursuit of happiness. A working mom or dad. A normal person who works a normal job. Not some gruesome headline, shocking picture, or something unkind written for the sake of a bold (and narrow) point. Something unkind written for only for the clicks.
Some of the topics that I write about are difficult. The year turnaround was the hardest thing that I had written to date. Only followed by grief zones. “The year” also had the most views of all time, for my thus far short-lived blog, and the most views in one day. This leads to the conclusion that people want a shock. They like nitty-gritty and life-wrenching stories. Awe-factor. There is a reason that Dr. Pimple Popper has 3.7mm followers. There’s a reason that people rubber-neck when driving by a wreck or horrific scene. Even after a glimpse or shutter, we look again. The Roman Colosseum played on these animalistic desires with great success. So, this makes me think about what my message is. My desire to write and the purpose of the material that I publish. My identity in writing.
I do this because I like it. I enjoy using words to paint mental pictures and perhaps, if I am lucky, making someone’s day. I write in hopes of fulfilling a life-long dream: to be published. It may be as a reward, or sense of accomplishment, but never-the-less, it’s a real desire. I don’t have false ambitions of being rich from it. I don’t expect people to line up for my autograph. I do hope that every so often, someone reading my work finds a eureka within themselves. A person saying to themself, “Wow, I can…” and feel inspired. I imagine a frown curling so slightly to a smile. Someone out there, somewhere, has a better day because of my writing. That is my dream. Thank you for imagining with me. What is your dream? Comment below if you so desire. I would love to share in the moment. Your moment.
Carcassonne and Ticket to Ride came covers, from Epic
Free games are hard to come by. Sure, there are games on your phone which have “in-app purchases” but fall short when you realize that the non-lite version is actually the only way you will enjoy the game. A lot of the time, the user is also facing either crumby development or the D-strand games; not the games that are first on the popular list or even the games heading the “next page.” Often the games are the ones you find after scrolling through countless others (or if you are like me accidentally clicking “jump to last page” option.) Oops. So, scratch the first thought… good free games… are hard to come by. So finding Carcassonneor Ticket to Ride, for free, shocked me a little bit. You can click the link in the titles, or visit here.
Since it is with a major company, Epic, the home to Fortnite, they allow you to create a library of games. If you do not have time this weekend, or perhaps it does not interest you right now, you should go to Epic and download the games for later. Simply visit the site, find the title, and select get. The games are on sale until February 13th. After that time has passed the games are only $9.99 each. While that is not a bad price, free, does have a much better ring to it. In either case, once you “get it” you will have the game to come back to over and over again.
I decided that a quick post on Friday for a freebie was worth it. It is, after all, A Place for Everything. Right? Download this game and pour a hot cup of tea. Relax. Enjoy yourself this weekend. Heck, break out a board game! Make it a family night. Make that picture-perfect day. Make a memory. Just enjoy yourself. You do you boo.
I hate advertisements in my mail. Time to teach them a lesson.
Snail-mail-spam is the worst. I mean with email we have built-in filters. Why can’t I opt-out of snail mail? Or that magical report spam option on my email client. Clicking “junk” is a fairly easy step to let the server bots know “yeah, I do not want this.” Then the magical spiders will remember… next time. Odds are that a very large portion of your spam in email is already filtered for you. I don’t pay much attention to my spam box unless I am expecting something and it isn’t showing. Y’know, like the password reset I requested for the ga-zillionth time since I could not remember the 10 characters with 1 special, 1 upper, no words, never a user variation, and cannot be rememberable requirements. And oh yeah, while you agreed to stay logged in, the app decided to ask you again one day. [Enter your password to resume]. Oh, and of course, keychain (or the other handicap tools I need) decided it wasn’t going to save that one. You know what I mean.
The volume of mail in America has drastically changed in recent years. Lots of things going on there. (I will defer to my USPS carrier friends for the details.) From my perspective mail volume has decreased since I was a child. Or perhaps it hasn’t. Maybe it is just proportioned differently in my adult mind. Sort of like when you walk through your elementary school for the first time after leaving a decade ago. The ceilings almost in arms reach and the halls feel about as wide as your own home’s paths. Yet, I don’t think that is what’s happening here. Email has changed a lot of the messaging techniques that we use. From surveys to business reply mail, most can be sent via a computer or server. And while the US is not as active in metering the internet like some other countries, the public doesn’t have many reasons to choose snail vs. email. Aside from internet provider costs, which you would have regardless if you wanted the net, email it is free. It is also a hell of a lot easier to track, send, receive, etc.
Mail today though, has lost its meaning. The letters cease and the mailbox is filled with items that not many people really want. Spam. That excitement of opening the mailbox and thinking you were thought of… Well, you were… but… bill, coupons, coupons, bill, and a letter!?!?! No wait, it’s a business reply letter. And a whoosh flows through you as the instant joy is sucked out of you. It is time to do something different. It is time to take back the mailbox. Gameface on. What-to-do? Like anything we set out to do, we need a plan. A well documented or easily studied and learned set of tasks to complete the job. In this case, we are going to send a message back to the sender. Literally. We are going to let them know that we dislike receiving crap in the mail.
The Plan.
Step 1 – Sort all of your mail into piles with the main categories as personal mail, bills, business reply advertisements (contain a no postage needed reply option) and coupons or ads and other spam mail. So four piles.
Step 2 – Open all forms of advertisements or mail labeled by you as spam.
Step 3 – Pull out all “no postage necessary” envelopes that you received. (Or get into your saved collection of the “no postage…”). NPN for short.
Step 4 – Carefully open a NPN envelop.
Step 5 – Stuff all other junk mail into the envelope.
Step 6 – Once full, seal the envelope carefully. Tape the seals if you need to. We don’t want to lose any of the goodness or damage our golden ticket.
Step 7 – Prepare the mail to be sent. Properly store any leftover NPN envelopes.
Step 8 – Mail the letter(s). Sit back and smile.
Simple task really. If we all did this, we would double the costs of that business’s spam marketing budget. Please share if you agree! Let’s get the message out to everyone. The first 100 shares will automatically… get my thanks. I had several serious entries in a row. I wanted to be a little more lighthearted today. But, on a serious note… I really do this with my spam mail.
Glad you stopped by today to read this. Sincerely, thank you for being you.
The buzzing of the alarms. Well, one of them. “Get up.” Followed by me, “just a few more…” I have several alarms actually. So this routine could be construed as insanity by Einstein. Each alarm evokes the same knee jerk response. Sort of an auto-pilot at it’s finest. I have heard a few times, from people who know much more about minds, including mine, that we develop patterns that allow us to perform functions without conscious effort. Apparently, the brain is always adapting. It is always trying to be more efficient via routines. I am sure that is where the fight or flight self-preservation comes from. Sometimes the alarm going off feels like that (definitely fight)… Maybe the self-learning routine is why I pull into the parking lot at work and wonder, “How did I get here?” Perhaps it is the fact that I have not consumed the bitter-hot-liquid that contains the nectar of life? I mean, I start the day off with coffee that I pick up at my local Circle K at the corner of my street and road to work.
Before I sweep you away with my romantic affections for coffee, which is quite the swooning tale, I have to exclaim my lackluster enthusiasm for becoming vertical. Back to the alarms… I am surprised that I have never had a noise complaint. I mean, they aren’t subwoofers, but I cannot tally how many times even my iPhone has given up trying. “F#*@ him… he can wake his own @$$ up.” When you hit snooze so many times and out of sequence so it is virtually a beeping loop, even Siri gets confused. “Hey, wake- oh another alarm… wake- and another…” It is like the device overloads and stops. I am that guy. I mean, I do manage to get up, obviously, but getting an early start is highly unlikely. A couple nights ago, I actually set my alarm for 5 am. A moment of “I can do this,” stirred inside of me. “Hey Google, ‘bedtime routine’…” with a question back “What time would you like me to set your alarm?” Confidently, I said, “5 am.” Set. She is so courteous, that Google assistant, “Have a good night… JOE.” She over enunciates my name in a recorded greeting sort of way. The routine. Awareness is starting.
The next morning I woke up well before 5 am with intense abdominal pain. I had to pee. Damn getting older – I never had this problem when I was younger. I always pretended to ignore my elders when they commented on aging. I was sure that I was different. Like a fine wine… meh… like aged cheese (that’s better). Alas, it snuck in. Like a pranking young child, #giggles. I digress… I was alert before 5. So what does an alert person that wanted to get up early the night before do? “Hey Google, cancel my alarm.” Then I proceeded to sleep a glorious hour more. Which, when I stirred again to the barrage of beeps, meeps, errrtzz, and terrible default cellular music, I followed my tradition. It’s a trained response, right? Right.
Get to the point, Joe. Self-talk. According to Psychology Today, Self-talk is “an inner voice that provides a running monologue on [our] lives throughout the day and into the night. This inner voice, combining conscious thoughts with unconscious beliefs and biases, is an effective way for the brain to interpret and process daily experiences.” The article continues explaining that while it can be positive, humans are prone to negative conversations, which do not really reflect reality. McFly – are you in there? (That was a Back to the Future reference, for those that have not been blessed with such rich cinematic experiences. I am getting old. Slowly, but surely, the graying is happening – for the survivors, that is – the rest jumped ship some time ago. Ah – an excellent example of self-talk.)
So back to our story, I am somewhere between grabbing my nectar of the gods and arriving at the parking lot for my work. The self-talk starts early. Little things. Sometimes it is a voice wanting to turn around and head back home. “I can’t do today…” Like trying to pull away from a magnet, the drag drawing you in. On easier days, the fantasies of pillows and a memory foam mattress send seducing vibes. I am never lured back in – only because I refuse to give up – but the voice remains as I pull out onto the main road and drive the distance to work. My Bose headphones rest in my ears with an audiobook playing. Narration fades in and out while thoughts develop and trees pass outside the car window. Positive thoughts tend to be present during the audiobook. Affirmations to the self-help narration. I do that… I can do that… They are momentary and not substantial enough or direct enough to offset the negative. Yet this activity creates a desire to feel something different.
I made a list. Walking through it after talking to my partner. She suggested that I get it out there. Write them down on paper – “name them.” Let the ink bleed for me. Controlled strokes that carve mental facades into reality. Black and white. I knew that I had self-talk and I avoided them if at all possible. Stuffing them away like that extra shirt you are convinced will fit into the suitcase before a trip. Voices of doubt and failure and struggle. A vicious cycle of no, don’t, can’t, and never. The topics vary too. I am balding. I am now middle-aged. I should make more money. Am I talented at what I do? I make too many grammatical errors to write, and who would read it? I won’t be published even if I get to that point. It’s too hard. The person I was before the year turnaround is who I am – I will never escape that. I cannot change. I will fail again. I am not needed in my family. I should be in less debt at my age. I am not attractive anymore. Who will want this “mess?” I will never get ahead. Why don’t I get the break others I know have? I don’t deserve it. And so on… I can honestly say that I have never answered nor felt a “yes” to the mental health questions at a doctor visit: “Do you imagine hurting yourself?” Or “Do think you are better off dead?” Still, the thoughts that I do have are oppressive and painful.
The negative self-talk or self-deprecating thoughts lurk. Striking with stabbing daggers from a hidden assassin waiting for the opportunity. The thoughts are like street lights boldly shining on a small concrete radius. The alleys, corroborating culprits, on paths that do not lead anywhere. Working through the thoughts seems to be a multi-step process similar to the stages of grieving. “I don’t have negative self-talk.” “I cannot do anything right!” “It all makes sense based on…” [Sulking] I cannot escape my own self while crawling deep within me. However, recently, I have had a realization and acceptance of my thoughts. I am coming to believe that they do not define me. The routine that my brain has followed for so long is being interrupted. Stopped by an activist inside my own head, picket sign and all: “I will not take this any longer.”
There are so many books on psychology, on the self, and on self-talk specifically. I have read many of them (through my Bose headphones on my auto-pilot commute to and from work). And I have drawn a line in the sand. We have learned behaviors and subsequent motions, and they are not things we are able to whisk away. We cannot sweep these out the door or put them in a closet. Like an elephant in the room called into focus, we must study it to resolve it. It won’t leave until we understand it. Perhaps journaling is helpful for you as it was for me. But I am learning that it requires action. Focus. Attention paid to the details and listening to voices. It is normal to have self-talk. It is normal to doubt. I am learning that we need to hear what the voice is trying to tell us and I am also learning that what the voice is saying. But it is not a certain reality. Self-awareness will allow us realize the emptiness in the story. Stories, that’s all they are. Just a slanted bias in a fictitious story.
Take a moment to find the topic(s) that bother you or weigh on you. The thoughts that you try to skee-dattle along when they appear or lock in that mental closet. Maybe only consider one topic if you feel unready. (And not being ready is fine too.) Write the stories or one-liners down. What messages is your self-talk sending? Do they have a pattern that can be grouped? A central theme? Stare at the list. Now consider the opposite of the idea (these messages). Which messages does the evidence support? Have grace and empathy for yourself. Don’t patronize yourself – these are real feelings and emotions. Reframe it. What would you tell someone else? None of this is easy and I would be lying if I said that I am cured. Frankly, I do not think there is a cure, or at least not one that I have found yet (I’ll support the Kickstarter for that). The thoughts stem from something – and like the elephant in the room, in all of its awkwardness, we must address it. I have found the ability to like myself over the past year. I believe that I can do things and that I am worth time, energy and effort.
Turn on the lights in your dark streets. Blast lumens down the alleyways you’ve been ignoring. Call the assassin out. You have this, damn it! Now go f@#*ing rock it.
