Ground to stand on

There is no “magic bullet,” no words booming down from the mounting thunderheads, no magical mystical blazing letters scrawled by an ethereal whorl on the nearby wall, no “you’ve just won…!” letter showing up in the mailbox that spells everything out in clear detail.

Nothing at all. Nothing to set the yellow line that should be walked through this maze of oblique walls and shadows they call Life.

The act of creation is insane.

Lots of ideas in my head, lots of potential projects, less focus, much less time. What to work on? What direction and shape should it take? And where to find the time to do it, to have the sanity and energy to push forward until the goal is reached?

Archimedes wasn’t smoking the cheap dope when he reportedly said something to the effect of, “Show me where to stand, and I shall move the world.”

Even if moving the world is an exaggeration in light of our flimsy and often impotent mortality, the intention is still noble and heartfelt – I don’t care about the results, just give me something *specific* to chase and I can bring all my skills and talents and love and leverage to bear on it.

There are the quintessential explorers (of which I am one), who by nature believe that truth exists outside themselves and thus spend their energy searching the world for clues and (if lucky) answers.

We coexist with both the decisives and the artisans, those who look for truth internally and thus create it for themselves in the desire to take action – the first by imposing their answers on life’s questions, the second by imposing their will on the substance of the world.

Finding the truth within, based on one’s personal preferences, feels like little more than vicarious wish-fulfillment. And I have no idea what I should be wishing for, or if what I wish for is something worth pursuing.

I hate how ineffectual this feels, yet I hate the discomfort of trying to make decisions in a void. Having to simply pick a direction is literally like falling into an abyss, my head spinning; maintaining that direction, even more difficult and frightening.

Why did God make the world the way He did? How did He choose from all the countless possibilities, the infinitude of contrasting details? Why are some things and others not? How did he decide to place the limitations He did upon his own creation, excluding others?
How do I accept what I am – a discoverer and explorer – yet still accomplish anything of value beyond mere perception?

How can I move if I cannot even find the ground beneath my feet?

Slave to the Schedule

The business of being alive is difficult… being truly alive, doubly so.

Of course by being truly alive I mean being something beyond a biological processor of oxygen and countless nutrients. At a certain age in adulthood, we bind ourselves to our work or family, fall into an efficient routine, and suddenly life is planned out for us – programmed, as it were, as if we were just machines built exclusively to perform an essential function for society.

Terry Schiavo might have lived a life of which few were envious, but it was a life not as different from ours as we’d like to pretend – just more obvious and honest.

While I originally chose the forces (i.e., wife, kids, job, community) that would act upon me as a free-willed adult, my schedule is now largely determined by others, leaving me to sleep-walk through the whole thing if I so desire.

On weekdays, I get up at 7am, wake the kids and prepare their breakfast while my younger son does his vest treatments, shower, get dressed, hop in my car (invariably late) and drive the fifteen minutes to work – catching Mike Evans’s daily blurb on celebrity and entertainment news if I’m lucky enough to be en route when he comes on. (Ooooh, high point of day.)

At work, I login, check e-mail, read the news, get my coffee, then accomplish whatever tasks have been assigned me by my boss.

Somewhere around noon, I eat my lunch at my desk and either write or read news on the ‘net. Then it’s back to work.

Exhausted, I leave at 5pm and drive the fifteen minutes home. Some nights, my wife kisses me and leaves for her part-time job. I make sure the kids are starting their homework and practicing their instruments. Brendan does another vest treatment for 30 minutes. Sometimes showers get thrown in there; sometimes chores need to be done and clothes need to be put away.

And that’s not mentioning throwing soccer practice or church youth or worship team or ballet lessons into the mix – more obligations to fulfill.

I make and serve dinner, then tuck the kids into bed. It is now 9pm. If I’m lucky, I managed to squeeze in a bike ride or computer game right after I arrived home (although even those pastimes become “part of the routine” – feeling like an essential breath amid the suffocation of the daily schedule). But usually if I do, I schlunk out on something else I should be doing.

Nine PM. Now I can do whatever I want (actually, only if there are not dishes to wash or a room to straighten up or clothes to put away or trash to take out) but every hour I stay up past 11pm is one hour where I rob my body of restorative sleep.

I could work on my writing or music, but I’m already exhausted and it’s difficult to focus on my tasks. I could watch TV or a movie, but afterwards it should be straight to bed – without a feeling of accomplishment. I can play computer games and feel productive – until I quit and face the reality that, in the Real World, I have done nothing but waste more time.

I can spend time with people, building those relationship, but feel even more discharged afterwards due to the energy I must expend to communicate. It tires me out more than invigorates me, much of the time.

And, of course, what about God?

Weekends offer more flexibility, but there’s still much time spent doing what should have been done during the week, doing large chores and projects, shuttling kids to soccer games, and going to church, among other things.

Is this what “truly alive” is supposed to mean? (I doubt it.)

And if you want to break the cycle, how on earth DO you?

Language & Thinking

Things inform each other, nothing ever seems to originate with itself.

Take intelligence and language, for example. Generally, the more words someone knows, the more “intelligent” they are; and the more intelligent they are, the more words they learn.

The thing is that thoughts (not mental images per se – after all, is a picture not worth a thousand words? -- but the typical banter that happens in one’s head, between oneself and oneself) cannot be formed without language. This leads to numerous points:

• In regards to the notion of just “thinking” in pictures rather than using words: The visual can only be experienced, not thought about. As soon as you try to explain it or study it or analyze it, you must resort to words, and now you are dependent upon your vocabulary for what you can say and describe. Thus even a visual vocabulary is in bondage to language and vocabulary, as soon as one tries to share or “parse” the experience.



• The more language one knows, the more options that are available to one – the more varied and rich that one’s thoughts can be. You can build a much more magnificent house if you possess a variety of materials rather than just one (such as plain boring brick or simple wood). The less language I know, the more my thoughts are restricted.



• How does a person without language even manage to think coherently? They can’t, really, in the sense that I mean it. They are forever a part of the Now, living in the moment and experiencing life directly rather than thinking about it. Language is what provides the opportunity to step back, to reflect upon our situation mentally – to actually CONSIDER something in internal dialogue with ourselves. In a way, language enables us to imagine the future based on the present.