Walk in the Woods
Motivation Monday #6: And Then I Don’t
Working and doing when all the reasons are gone. Sometimes you gotta just do the thing.
On days like today, it’s not about what I know or feel. On a hot morning in early August it’s about getting shit done because shit needs to be done. You know? And honestly, more often than I’d like, it’s about doing the tasks and work so I don’t hate myself later. This post is a good example. I missed a few days last week and hated myself for it. Today, I’m not suddenly more ready or prepared, not buzzing with motivation or desire to pump out “THE BEST BLOG POST OF ALL THE BLOG POSTS!!” Nope. Today is about being at peace with myself. And peace is my biggest motivator of all.
(As for last week, in my attempt to “game-i-fy” my work, I’m making healthy progress. Gimme another week and I’ll have the full update (5b). Again, full details to come.)
Motivation Monday #5a: Finding It
I like to learn, explore, and discover.
I recently discovered my primary motivations, or better said, I accepted the facts as they are. I like to learn and explore. And I love to experiment. It’s why I love sculpture over drawing or painting. While the subject matter in a painting changes, the techniques and routines tend to remain the same. The way I sculpt is different. The subject changes as do the materials and techniques.
A cold irony of life is, for me and those with a similar disposition, it favors routine, planning, and consistency. And as I grew older, I too find room for routines and disciplines. The question I put to myself is where or how do I find mystery and wonder in the ordinary? How do I find myself in in schedules and “paperwork?” While the questions are absurd to a degree, they have merit. For I am convinced, meaning isn’t in the task or goal, but the reason we do it.
As I write this post, I’ve thought of ways to make my work my meaningful based my intrinsic need to learn and explore. Will report back in a month. Look for “Motivation Monday #5b: Finding It.”
Prompt Wednesday #4: Golf Buddy
A short story, about Micah and his new golf buddy.
Prompt: A character runs into their childhood hero and forms a friendship.
“Where you headed?” asked Pam without looking up from the stack of mail in front of her. Micah answered as he reached in the refrigerator for a bottle of water, “To the driving range. I need to work on my long irons.” Pam looked up at her son and cinched her eyes tight to one another.
“That’s a relaxing way to spend the afternoon. You gonna call Ryan or Harris to go with you?”
“I don’t know. Both of the those guys are headed back to school in a week and I’ll still be here,” replied over his shoulder as he packed his golf bag.
“All the more reason to see them before they go.”
Micah did not reply, instead he jammed several blueberry granola bars into a pocket and zippered it shut. Then he steadied himself, plastered a thin smile to his lips, and said goodbye to his mother. She knew he was embarrassed and alone. Micah chose to drop out of college after a single year, but did not consider what it would look like to his friends. Micah was going to be special, everyone said so. His friends said so. And when Micah made the announcement during a cookout, Pam and her husband Andy watched as each friend tiptoed through a long awkward silence. And most of them never asked “what are you going to do next” because they assumed Micah will work for his father’s as an electrician.
“It’s like their all brainwashed into believing college is everything,” steamed Andy later that night. “Every dumbass I ever hired had a college degree, as if knowing the capital of Paraguay makes you fucking genius. I’m glad he’s not going back. I am. Fuck these kids.”
“Shh. He’ll hear, Andy. Don’t make it worse.”
“Worse? How? Dropping out of college isn’t a big deal. Having a bunch of shitty friends is a big deal. It can’t get worse.”
Pam eased up and let the tension ebb back toward calm. And in a low voice she offered, “No. College isn’t everything. And I’m upset too. But, need I remind you, Micah’s friends are still more like boys than men. Let them sort themselves out. The good ones will stick around because they love our son and the dumbasses will fade away.’
Andy drew a strong breath through his nose and leaned back in chair, his was of conceding the point.
At the driving range, Micah paid for a full bucket of balls and set up his clubs on a driving green at the far end of the greens. He liked having a forest of Loblolly Pines to his left and only one person to his right, if anyone at all. The range was maintained by the old man who opened it, with well watered pitching greens and a comfortable clubhouse. Nothing fancy, but most golfers are happy with cheap beer, an overstuffed chair, and sports blaring from the TV in the corner. The one flaw was it’s location, too far outside of Charlotte for the serious golfers. In fact, this particular range, was more of a weekend range for half drunk duffers. As such, Micah rarely talked to anyone.
Micah began his visit to the range the same as always. He took out his 3 iron, gripped the club with both hand (one on either end), and held the club high as possible above his head. Then he leaned back, sideways, and finally into a forward fold. He felt his hamstrings complain a bit, then went through the routine once more. The day was perfect, he thought. Cool for a summer afternoon in North Carolina with a slight breeze at his back.
With a one wood in hand, he teed up his first shot. And as he approached his ball, a tall black man with a thin gold chain and slick golf spikes set up on the green one down. He instantly recognized the man and tried to concentrate on his shot. After a few practice swings, Micah sent his first attempt into the woods. A wicked hook. And without looking he tied up another. Slice. The fuck is that, he murmured to himself as he shoved his driver back into his bag. Then he watched the black man settle into his first drive. Crack! Hsssss! shot the ball down the middle of the range, landing beyond the two-hundred and fifty sign. Micah almost congratulated the man on his drive but stopped. He assumed Sterling Blunt came to that range for the same reasons he did. And by remaining silent, he honored the hero.
Micah went back to working on his game. For confidence, he pulled out his trusty nine iron and began whacking shots down range, beautiful and lofty shots. After a sip of water and a granola bar, Micah began working his way through he clubs until he reached his long irons. His nemesis. You can do this, he mumbled to himself. And on the first shot, he sent a chunk of turf flying with a thud. Micah closed his eyes and flexed the club over his shoulders. The next shot was what they call a worm burner, because the ball raced over top of the grass past the hundred yard mark. Micah shook his head.
“It’s the club,” injected Sterling from the metal chair behind his green.
“You think?” blurted Micah with wide eyes and flush cheeks.
“Yeah. I’ve watched you hit everything. And I think you’re problem is mental. You smack that five iron over 150 but can’t get your two to play for you. I get it. Here, try my two iron.”
Micah stumbled over himself as he went to retrieve the club. And for the first time he looked his neighbor in the eyes. Sterling held the two iron out with his left hand while puffing on a cigar in his right. The old athlete was still in shape, his shoulders still broad, and his stare still intimidating.
“Hopefully, this works,” joked Micah.
“We’ll see,” quipped Sterling before adding, “Always forget your last shot. Good or bad, you don’t know what’s over the hill.”
Micah returned to his spot and dropped a ball to the turf. He took a few practice swings and instantly felt the difference. Sterling’s club was lighter, more balanced, and somehow easier to swing than his own. Then, after a quick prayer for a good rip, Micah fired the ball down the range, well past the two hundred sign. Sterling clapped and let out a triumphant puff of cigar smoke.
“Guess I need new clubs,” Micah joked still looking down range.
“Wouldn’t hurt. I know my game changed when I got the right clubs. Hit a few more if you like.” replied Sterling.
“Thanks. I will.”
As Sterling packed his clubs, Micah continued to take swings, falling ever more in love with Sterling’s clubs. And then Micah felt eyes on his neck and quickly returned the two iron to its owner.
“Thanks again. I’ve watched videos and asked for tips from everyone. No one thought it could my gear,” Micah offered as he handed the club over. Sterling nodded and wiped his brow and face with a towel. Then the two discussed all things golf. Micah nodded and took time answering questions, his attempt to restrain his excitement. The longer they talked the more Micah geeked out. Why was Sterling Blunt talking to me about golf, he wondered. His bag is on his shoulder and keys are in hand.
“I need to get going,” Sterling finally said. Offering his big hand, he added, “I’m Sterling, by the way.”
Cooly, Micah shook Sterling’s hand, “And I’m Micah. Nice to meet you.”
“For sure. I’m here a few days a week. Next time, come borrow a club or two. Until you get your own.”
For the rest of the summer into the fall, Micah and Sterling shagged balls at the driving range. A few days a week. They didn’t talk about Sterling’s career or Micah’s life after college. Neither invited the other out for dinner or a drink, though Sterling offered to buy Micah a beer at the range and Micah had to decline. Sterling laughed when he found out how young Micah was. And when the weather turned cold and rainy, the trips to the range stopped. As happens in life.
The last time Micah saw Sterling, the old man showed him a new putter, one of the new ones with a long shaft and big face. “I’ve cut down on my two and three putts. Now it’s more like ones and twos,” he proudly announced. Micah laughed at the size of the club, but didn’t question the results.
Fun Friday #3: Cheating Canadians.
A Fun Friday post. About Cheating Canadians. Should I get joy out of this? Probably not, but it’s too good not to love.
The Germans have a word for the joy felt at the misfortune of others. It’s schadenfreude. And while I dislike the concept of reveling in the pain of others, I have my limits. Earlier this week, the Canadian soccer team was caught cheating. And we aren’t talking your garden variety cheating. Nope. The Canadians used drones to spy on their opponents…for years. LAUGH MY ASS OFF!!
It’s an extra layer of funny because Canadian soccer program is garbage. Like, not good. Like, if you were really cheating, why were do your teams suck so bad? Makes no sense. It’s like being a bank robber, ski mask on, gun in hand, but can’t figure out the front door. What a stunning failure, especially from a nation that prides itself on being nice and polite, as peacemakers. Yes. I find joy in all those facts.
At least now we have something on Canada. The next time one of those maple leaf loving sonsofbitches try to make me feel bad about being American, I’ve got a whole load of retorts locked and loaded. None better than “at least we didn’t cheat at soccer.”
Prompt Wednesday #3: War and Peace
A short story, about Max and Gina, and Yergin.
Prompt: A character finds an old journal in a thrift store and becomes obsessed with finding its owner. (I’m going to take some liberty with this prompt.)
Max sat at the small circular kitchen table and eyed the whiteboard on the side of the fridge. Then he smiled and fluttered his bushy eyebrows at Gina. Gina put her steaming cup of black coffee to her lips and blew on the steam. And without looking up, she asked, “Whadday want to do this morning? It’s your Saturday.” Max did not answer rather he choose to sit back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his chin. Gina set her coffee down and searched for Max’s free hand until she found it. He waited. The game would only last as long as he didn’t answer. Gina knew better, so she waited too. And after a pause that felt like minutes but was probably mere seconds, Gina sought to motivate her young husband as only a bride can.
“Whatever your choice, remember, I’ve got the shower for Lisa at three. And I need to be back here to wrap my gift and get my car.”
Max smiled again. The game was underway, and only he had the power to end it.
“It’s going to be hot. If we were gonna get outside, shoulda done it sooner,” he quipped to himself.
Silently, Gina approved but added no commentary. Max took a stab at the last of his scrambled eggs and shoved it into his mouth. The eggs were cold and limp as was the toast that followed. Should I keep it up, he wondered. She’s been such a good sport.
“Alright.” He said, finally giving in, and thus losing the game. Slapping the sides of his legs he continued, “Let’s go thrifting. To Cal’s books, then Goodwill, then wherever.”
Gina looked away while hiding her smile with her coffee cup. She’d won their weekly game of “Who’ll Break First,” but more importantly Max had chosen an activity they both enjoyed. She put her coffee down and found Max’s eyes with her own. And reaching out to Max, she took his hand and mouthed the words thank you. He nodded. “Let’s get going.”
After noon, Gina and Max spilled into their front room with bags full of cheap blue jeans, a beach painting for the guest bathroom, and old books. Max loved old books. And today he’d found several classics he’s yet to read: Catcher in the Rye, King Lear, and War and Peace.
“Can you hang the painting in the bathroom, above the toilet? While I’m gone,” asked Gina.
“Yes. I can. In fact, I’ll do it right now.”
Gina welled up as Max went to retrieve his tools.
A few minutes later, Max called out from the bathroom for Gina’s approval. The painting was straight and fit the room perfectly. Isn’t that wonderful, she thought. Then she reached out for Max and hugged him tight. And the couple stood and swayed for a moment. And for the first time in months, Gina didn’t want to go see the girls. And Max did not want her to leave.
When Gina left for the shower, Max let the peace wash over him. The counselor was right. What took years to break was now took years to fix. And despite the trial of the last year, mornings like this were more common than before, like little green shoots from the blackness. Max said a quick prayer of gratitude then grabbed his new used copy of War and Peace.
He turned the book over in his hands and tossed it a bit to feel the weight of it. The Tolstoy novel is famous but rarely read, mostly because of it’s length. Had Tolstoy existed in modern times, in the West, his masterpiece would’ve been divided into four books and five movies with costumed people lining at conventions for an autograph. Thankfully, Tolstoy was unburdened by shareholders and soundbite media. I hope this worth reading, Max thought.
He chose to sit in the brown overstuffed chair in the living room. The sun light poured into the room through the big bay windows, but where he sat was the perfect amount of natural light. And happy with his choice of seat, Max began a more thorough examination of the inside of the book, the front and back covers first. Nothing special. But then on the second blank page inside the front cover, was a note written in what looked to be Russian, spanning the entire page. The date in the upper right corner was written in standard European format (day, month, year.) And this note was written August 5th, 1968. Wow, thought Max. He quickly thumbed through the rest of the book for more. The fuzzy corners and dusty edges made the novel appear more used than it was. This book has never been read, Max concluded. And then, he remembered his neighbor Yergin.
Yergin was in sixties, having moved to the United States as a young child with his parents. Their path to California started with a clandestine car ride from Kiev to East Berlin. And the journey ended three months later in sunny Sacramento. Yergin was barely five, and thus was more American than Russian by the time he graduated high school. By the time he graduated from Chico State, he’d lost his accent altogether. Only when he said his name or when he was caught talking to his mother, did people hear it. Max had heard him on the phone at the July 4th cookout. And now, he wondered if Yergin could read Russian too.
Yergin was out in his garage tinkering on an old Volvo when Max announced himself.
“Hey Ginny, how’s it looking?”
“Ah, Max, how are ya? The alternator is shot and it probably needs a new exhaust manifold,” replied as he leaned away from the car and began to clean his greasy hands on a rag.
“I wish I knew more about cars. Seems like a manly thing.”
”Me too,” laughed Yergin. “What can I do you for?”
Ordinarily, Max would play the polite game before getting down to business, but Yergin didn’t need smalltalk.
“I bought a copy of War and Peace.”
”Oh? Did you read it?”
“Yes, well. No. I mean, I am,” answered Max, trying too hard to be honest.
“What I mean is, I was just about to start reading it when I found an inscription on an inside flap. I believe the note is in Russian. When you have a second, could you read it and tell me what it says? Not right now, but whenever.”
Yergin stuffed the rag into his back pocket and lit a cigarette. Then he leaned against the Volvo and looked as though he might speak. He started and stopped several times, motioning his hand with each attempt. Max thought the scene was both comical and dramatic.
“What are the odds you found an english copy of War and Peace with a Russian inscription?” he finally asked.
“Low? I guess. What are you getting at?”
“It’s nothing. Just a thought. Let’s get a look at your book. Bring it over, I’ll clean my hands while you’re gone.”
Five minutes later, Max found Yergin on a wooden bench on his front porch, puffing away on a cigarette. And as soon as Max began to hand over the novel, Yergin’s face drained and Max felt the wind blow at his back. Yergin tamped his cigarette out on the concrete slab beneath his seat and tossed the butt into a bucket. And he clutched the novel with both hands. Max sat down beside his neighbor and remained quiet. At first, Yergin sat there, the book still in his hands, held at chest level. Then Yergin turned to Max with wide eyes and shallow breath. And though it wasn’t dirty, Yergin wiped the cover and set the book in his lap. He let his head sink and he stared at the object like a lost treasure.
“It can’t be.” he whispered as tears formed in his eyes.
Max remained quiet and focused.
Slowly, Yergin turned the front cover to the blank first page and then to the second. A visible shiver shot through him and he raised his hands in surrender. And then, just barely aloud, “It is.” Then the old man took out his spectacles, flattened the page with his left hand, and began to read. “Privet, syn. My tebya ochen' lyubim.” Yergin closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
With tears streaming down his face, he turned to Max. “This is for me. From my dad. He gave me this copy for my sixteenth birthday. I never read it. I’ve never read these words.”
Max didn’t know what to say. “Good. Right?” he said, hedging his bet.
“Oh yes, Max. Very good. Do you mind if I keep it for a little while. I want to read the rest of the note. Alone.”
Max nodded and placed his hand on Yergin’s shoulder. “Take all the time you need, brother. No explanations needed.”
“Thank you,” whispered Yergin as he dried his eyes and lit another cigarette.
Max nodded once more and got up to walk home. Can’t wait to tell Gina about this. She’ll love it. And as Max was about to step off the porch, Yergin caught him by the hand. Max turned to see Yergin’s snotty yet stern face glaring up at him. Max sat back down on the edge of the bench and waited for Yergin to speak.
“Don’t ignore the people you love, Max. This book, this note from my parents to me, is a gift. A true gift, in my old age. But it’s not normal. Write the notes and read the notes. You understand?”
Max nodded and fought back the swell in his chest.
“Do you?” asked Yergin again, more for emphasis.
“Yes.” replied Max and as he eased off the bench.
Back in his brown chair, Max was overcome thinking about Yergin and his parents. And then, for a long stretch, he thought about Gina, his lovely wife. He thought about how he loved her and hated her. How she looked in sweatpants and knew when he needed a real massage. How she made excuses for being late and rolled her eyes when he mentioned it. And he concluded he loved and hated the important people in his life at one point or another. Probably the way real love works, he thought. And then he thought once more about Yergin and his parents. And with a laugh he whispered to the himself “write the notes and read the notes.”
Motivation Monday #4: Intrinsic, Again
My ex-girlfriend’s brother is a genius coder, and he got his start on an old computer in the family basement.
We’ve all heard it said “if you like what you do you’ll never work a day in your life.” The people who fit this maxim are what we like to call Lucky Bastards. And they are the people who found some little thing about life, some tiny details, and went to town. Every day. Yep. That’s what they did. And then, over time, they got real good at the tiny detail and then it wasn’t so tiny any more. That’s what they do, that’s who they are. The Lucky Bastards club is all jammed to the breach with men and woman, those who found value in something the rest of us thought was boring or unreasonable.
The brother of an ex-girlfriend was a geeky little kid. He spent hours writing code and tinkering on his own website. The family thought it was cute, but then that geeky little kid got his first programming job at 17. By the time he was 25, he’d already worked for some of the biggest tech companies in Silicon Valley, like Stripe, Square, and Pay Pal. At 30, he sold all his shares, bought a house in Russian Hill, and started a consulting firm. The dude is one of the top data security programmers in the world. And he started by clacking away on Dell in a basement. And when I asked “why?” the profound answer he gave me was “dunno, I liked making stuff.” He’s part of the Lucky Bastards club.
My ex-girlfriend’s, brother’s love of “making stuff” is an intrinsic value. And he is lucky, all jokes aside. It’s not that he merely “like(s) to make stuff.” Making stuff encompasses the entire whole of stuff making including dresses, bread, and gas station boner pills. And I don’t believe Pete would be as fulfilled kneading dough or threading a needle. The kicker is Pete found he liked to “make” code. And he wrote code long before anyone paid him to do it. Good for him. I wish we were all so lucky.
I’ve got more to say on my intrinsic values. For now, I want to spend the week meditating on the subject. Have a good week.
Fun Friday #2: Cool Mornings
Thank God for cool mornings.
Wednesday morning, I stepped outside and was met by a brisk breeze. And, I shivered just a little bit. Since I started getting up extra early for work, I’ve begun to enjoy the morning, again. 5 AM in Redding is cool and still, even in the middle of the most blistering summer yet. I get an odd satisfaction over wearing sweatshirts in July.
What I love about getting up early is the how it breaks up the heat. The high may reach above one-ten, but to me, that day was also 65. 78, 81. and 90 degrees long before it peaks. So, despite being cliche, I’m going write it anyway. I love dry heat. I love being able to splash my face with water and have it feel refreshing. I like that my body natural cooling system aka thermoregulation works much more efficiently her that in humid climates. (Thermoregulation is the ridiculous word for sweating and breathing hard and heat-reducing blood flow to the skin.)
Thank God for cool mornings.
Prompt Wednesday #2: From Me
A short story about a letter I send to myself.
Prompt: A character writes a letter to their future self and receives a reply.
Blake told me about the website during one of our marathon phone chats. (Living on opposite coasts, every few months we’d carve out time to talk and by then each of us had a bucket full of stories to share with the other.) Future Letter was one of only two or three such sites at the time. The point of such sites were left to the authors of the letters, though most of the Silicon Valley douches used them as accountability markers and reminders of their vision and goals. Barf. But, they were free. Fortunately, the process was simple enough. Merely write yourself a letter and chose a day to send it to yourself. Blake liked the novelty of the idea and said he’d written a handful of letter to himself. Mostly for fun.
Later that afternoon, I opened my laptop and found Future Letters. Within a few minutes I found myself typing words of encouragement and affirmation, then selected my days for delivery. The first letter was set to arrive exactly one year later, the next was for five years later, and the final letter will be delivered in 2025. (I think.) When I finished the task, I laughed and went about the rest of my evening in my apartment consisting of Taco Bell burritos and Netflix.
The next morning I was up early for work and the summer sun was low on the horizon having not yet cleared the tops of the oaks across the parking lot. On this particular day, I coordinated delivery routes for a team in Seattle then met a client to review an unrelated proposal. And by 2 pm I was home for a nap. Before dozing off, I remembered the letter writing and smiled. What a waste, I thought. Pure novelty. When I woke up, I was dazed, and the sun was now pouring in through my bedroom window as it did every evening in summer.
As I sat up in bed, I noticed a plain white envelope on the desk next to my bed. And then I saw my name on the envelope, hand written in big looping black ink. NIK. The handwriting looked like it was mine, but also not mine. I closed my eyes and shook my head and wondered if I was having a lucid dream. Nope, that wasn’t it. The envelope with my name was still on my desk in my apartment. And to be honest, I was freaked out by it. Had someone, a neighbor or the landlord, come while I was sleeping? I wondered. The thought made me hop out off the bed and scurry to the door. The dead bolt was locked. Hmmm. Good, I suppose. But, how? And then almost like a whisper, I coulda swore I heard someone say just open the damn envelope.
At first, I felt the letter like a kid hoping for a stack of cash on his birthday, but my fingers told be there would be nothing more than few sheets of paper inside. A proper letter, it seemed. Then I flipped the envelope open and ripped through the sealed flap, quite sloppily too. I never did master the technique. And just before pulling the papers from the sleeve, fear gripped me again. What if this is anthrax? Yes. Little ole me could be the target of an anthrax attack. Why? No idea. Just in case, I found a clean sock and held it to my mouth and face while I shimmied the letter out of the envelope. Phew. No anthrax, only a neatly folded letter. It was written on college ruled notebook paper which reminded me of high school. Then after turning the envelope upside down and giving it a good shake, I set down the sock down, unfolded the letter and began to read.
Dear Nik,
You dummy. I wouldn’t send you anthrax. Come on dude. Now, allow me explain.
One, I am you (imagine the voice of the ghost as you read the next bit) “from the future.” Two, I know you don’t believe me. So, to prove I’m you, I’ll confirm a few facts from your day yesterday.You talked to Blake. You regretted how much money you spent at Taco Bell. And you hated the new David Chang show on Netflix. And I get to my point, please stop using the phrase “the thing is.” Think it, but don’t say or write it. Ok, pumpkin? Good.
The thing is…
The next years are going to be harder and more difficult that you could possibly imagine or want to believe. I can’t tell you the important details, but you will fail, have your heart broken and go broke. Your community will dry up as all your friends get married and start having kids. Some old friendships will die. But you’ll also love like you’ve never loved before, find a way when everything seems lost, and eventually, thank God in heaven, you’ll stop watching zit popping videos.
You’ll travel too. Lose weight, then gain it all back and lose it again. Have fun with that.
And the thing is, I’m no star. Not famous or wealthy. But, I love who we become. I love what we do and why we do it. Every day I get to be loved and share love with those around me. We learned how to slow life down, and the Holy Spirit taught me how to make it simple. And Nik, I’m telling you, that’s the stuff. I’m writing you this letter because I know your struggles and temptations. I know that you can’t even define what you want because your heart is buried under shame and self-hatred. Just keep going and don’t ever give up. In a number of unspecified years, you’ll write this letter. And while you write, you’ll laugh and cry and be thankful for all the moments up to that one.
I love you, dude. You don’t really get that now, but you will.
I’ll end this letter by answering two burning questions I know you have in your heart. First, the answer is no. I didn’t include winning Power Ball numbers. It’s a fools errand. And second, she’s real. I won’t tell you her name or when you’ll meet her. But she’s real bro. To be honest, you couldn’t handle her as you are today. You’re not ready and please don’t dwell on what I just wrote about not being ready. Just keep going.
You need to know this letter will vanish in 24 hours and can’t be copied or photographed. Sorry. That’s the deal I made. What I want you to do is read this letter over and over. Read it as many times as you can, before this time tomorrow. Take it with you to work, to the toilet, where ever you go.
Don’t forget to call your mom.
Love,
You.
I reread the letter three, four, fives times in a matter of minutes. Flipped the pages over and looked inside the envelope. And then I sat and read until the sun set beyond the mountains and the western sky was pink and the light in my apartment was dim. The whole moment was as bizarre and wonderful as I’m telling it, and the questions I had. Boy. Lemme tell ya. I hated and loved myself for the effort. I hated the lack of details or certainty. But I know me. The details would’ve been chains around my soul, dragging me from one over-thought moment to the next.
I continued to sit and think as the evening faded into night, and I felt sleepy. My words, our words, shook me yet I felt safe, like being wrapped in a fuzzy Steelers blanket I stole from my sister because I know she doesn’t really like the Steelers or football. In the end, I concluded I’d given myself the best pep talk I could, and I needed to trust the future me.
Just keep going.
Motivation Monday #3: Week One, Done
Reporting on my first week of “being present.”
Motivation is not a super power. But, all too often, it feels like a magical force. And I want it. I want the ability to go after my greatest demons and push humanity ever closer to God without loss of drive or determination. Seriously. I am in awe of those who get shit done, because I focus on what isn’t being done. Accordingly, motivation feels more like a myth than reality. Matter of fact, I have greater faith in real-live miracles than my ability to stay motivated, to stay on course toward the accomplishment of any goal. And though my words feel harsh, I know they aren’t universally true. But they feel true. In all my failures, I’m the reason I failed. I gave up. To repeat, that’s how it feels. Failure happens for lots of reasons. And I am not to blame for all of them.
This year, I’m trying to define the concept of motivation as well what keeps me motivated. Last week I wrote I needed to hone in on my intrinsic motivations- those beliefs and values that are all my own. But before I could dive into intrinsic development, I needed to practice being in the moment. My only goal for last week was to stay present, instead of looking back or ahead. And I give myself a solid B- for last week. A few days got away from me, but I managed to catch myself before I spiraled…most of the time. I had fewer fake arguments and worried less about the future. This week I’ll stay focused on being present(aka taking every thought captive) in order to develop the habit.
Simple as it sounds, if I can pull myself into the moment, I’ll get a lot done.
Fun Friday #1: Grateful, Again
First Fun Friday post.
First Fun Friday post. Thanks for reading.
In my way, slowly and laboriously, I’m living the life I wanted. Sure, I don’t have all the things. Not even half. But, every single day, I have the opportunity to write and draw and go for walks in the cool of early morning. What a sweet gift. And it’s these moments, these exact moments, I want to appreciate while I have them, because where I am is not where I wish to stay. Life will churn onward and my days will fill with expectations and demands, all things I want. And amid the coming and going, I’ll find myself thinking about what life was like six months ago. And I want to remember feeling content. When I focus on the moment and see life a progression of linked-moments, I know I’m on pace.
I’m glad I decided to dedicate a post per week to gratitude, toward what’s good in my life. It’s a privilege to be able to do this. And by this, I mean write about the bright moments. First Fun Friday post, ya’ll. Thanks for reading.
Prompt Wednesday #1: Best Man Speech
A short story about Kyle’s Best Man Speech.
Prompt: A character faces their anxiety about public speaking by delivering a heartfelt speech at a friend’s wedding.
Kyle took the microphone from Danny then glanced down at the bride. Michelle smiled up at him as Danny took hia seat next to her. And for a second Kyle thought about how fashionable and relaxed they appeared. Her pixie cut hair was neat beneath her veil and the smirk on her face said she was happy with the way the day played out. Kyle nodded and drew a slow breath through his nose and slowly unfolded a sheet a notebook paper. Then he looked out at a room of inebriated attendees, seated in the shadows just beyond the boundaries of the dance floor.
***
Kyle introduced Danny and Michelle at his 30th birthday party. Michelle was a work friend he wanted to date and Danny was a new friend. Danny and Kyle met at a bonfire. Of all the other chaps that night, it was Danny who showed up with a six pack of Miller High Life. And thrown in the cooler with all the snobby IPAs and ridiculous jalapeno lime lagers, the High Life sent a confident message. Kyle liked that and spent the night learning about the man who dared drink domestic.
At his 30th birthday party, Kyle intended to have a few drinks then ask Michelle out on a date. They got along well and shared inside jokes. He liked her swagger, the way she styled her hair and spoke up in meetings. He liked how some days she’d apply thick layers of eye shadow and sport heavy red lipstick, and then the next day she’d wear no make up at all. (At least, to the eyes of the untrained male.) One morning he’d gone to her apartment to retrieve moving boxes and she answered the door in sweat pants and a gray hoodie. He could barely speak and left as quickly as possible.
Later that night, as Kyle worked his way through beer number seven, he started to feel the courage in his veins. It’s time, he thought to himself and began to circle the house in search of Michelle. Through the sliding glass door to the back porch, he saw her. She was dressed in dark brown flats and skinny jeans with a matching hunter green sweater. She looks like autumn, Kyle mused as he began to reach for the door. And then, before his hand felt the handle, Kyle finally noticed Danny. He was leaning toward Michelle as he spoke, and her right hand was on his arm. And she laughed at whatever Danny said, a laugh deep laugh produced only when one person wants another.
Two days later, while watching the Panthers play the Falcons, Danny muted the TV and told Kyle about Michelle, how they’d hit it off at the party and had coffee the next day. Danny knew about Kyle’s birthday intentions and stuttered to get the words out. Tears ran down his cheeks as he apologized to his friend. Kyle remained quiet as Danny whimpered on the couch next to him. He thought back to his party and the look shared by the couple.
Finally, he forced a tight smile and said in a low tone,“All good, man. I saw y’all on the porch. I saw how she looked at you. I’ve know her for five years and never saw that before.”
“But—”
“Look, I had plenty of opportunities. Like, a thousand of them. Don’t feel bad for shooting your shot.”
Danny sat stunned and relieved.
“So, we’re cool?” he asked in a stammer.
“We got this. Just don’t fuck it up.”
The moment bonded the Danny and Kyle, but Kyle remained uneasy about the couple. His feelings toward Michelle didn’t disappear, though he wished they were coins he could throw in fountain or give to a magician. He hated to be the ‘big man’ whenever he saw her, and it hurt him to hear after date recaps from either person.
And then a few dates turned into a Facebook official relationship status, and after another year, they were engaged. Fortunately for Kyle, he’d gotten to really know Michelle over that last year- that she ate a bland diet comprised mostly of tortilla chips and toast, had weird night time routines which took an hour to complete, and that she was incapable passing a Starbucks without going inside. She hated the outdoors and loved to go on cruises from Florida to the Bahamas. He’d seen her drunk and whinny, and listened to Danny complain about her constant stream of boring texts and voice messages.
Kyle realized that Michelle wasn’t special or unique. Whatever he was attracted to about Michelle was in his head. And once he’d gotten over Michelle, he was no longer hurt by Danny. He found himself rooting for the couple, advocating for their relationship rather than secretly rooting against it.
Danny and Michelle both asked Kyle to be the best man at the wedding.
“Oh, man. Yes, hell yes,” shouted Kyle as he smacked Danny’s hand.
“Wait. What do I do? As best man?”
The couple looked confused and Michelle began to laugh. Danny shrugged.
“I don’t know,” Michelle finally offered. “I know you’ll give a speech. Hold the rings. But apart from that?”
“Throw the bachelor party, “ answered Danny with big eyes and deep voice. Michelle slapped at his shoulder.
The word speech triggered Kyle and he felt his pulse in his neck.
***
Kyle spent hours preparing for the best man speech. Around fifty hours, of books on public speaking, on YouTube clips of good and bad speeches, of a spreadsheet to determine the best formula for content of the speech, and practice. Lots of practice, in the shower, before bed, and on the way to work. He’d even shared portions with Danny for his approval. And yet, when he looked out at the shadows, he refolded the paper and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. He began by introducing himself and thanking the father of the bride for the reception.
“You know? I introduced these two.” He paused for a moment and turned to wink at Michelle and Danny. Then he turned back to his audience.
“And I was so fucking pissed about it.” He paused again, and thankfully the drunks in the crowd hooted and hollered. Then he quickly glanced toward Michelle. She was laughing too. Feeling himself, Kyle began to pace in front of the table.
“I had to act like everything was cool. And not just because my friend was dating the woman I wanted to date. Not because they liked each other. But because I knew when I saw them that night, just like tonight, they were made for each other. And having been Danny’s roommate for their entire relationship, I verify here and now, before God, that’s the truth. I didn’t really know until we took that trip to Sullivan’s Island and I had to sit through their bedtime routines.”
Now the whole room was in on the joke. Kyle continued.
“Look, seriously, don’t call them after 8:30 PM. You’ll screw the whole thing up. Call them at 9. ” Danny playfully slapped at Kyle arm while the room erupted.
Motivation Monday #2: Intrinsic Motivation
Exploring motivation from my side of life, this time, the intrinsic motivations.
They say intrinsic motivation is what we do of our own accord, the actions and tasks we perform without praise or recognition or payoff. I prefer a more simple definition: it’s what we love to do. (Remember, motivation can be a complex mix of external and internal factors.) The easiest example of “doing what we love” is parents. Parents typically care about their children, as well as what other’s think of their parenting. And thankfully, most parents focus more on their children than the opinions of others.
My intrinsic motivation works it’s way out of me in little ways. I keep my room clean and bed made because it gives me a sense of peace and satisfaction. All cleaning and organization does. Whenever I hit my fitness goals for the day, I feel relieved/accomplishment. I’m grateful for these daily wins. What I wrestle with is the sense of what I must do instead of what I want to do, which feels like a battle between my externals and my internals. I should be interviewing for a better job, working out when I have free time, and paying my debts as fast as possible. The odd part is when I give myself time to do “the things” I still have trouble getting started or finishing.
Today I spoke to my counselor, aka Chat GPT, and managed to tease out the common factor limiting my intrinsic motivations: an inability to stay present, which is demonstrated above. Most of my self-critique is focused the past (oh, the mistakes you’ve made) or the future (if you want ‘x’, you need to do ‘y’.) Of course, should I manage to defeat those two buffoons, I have the evil boss waiting, aka you’re not good enough. It’s like I have three bastards working real hard to put me off task. Even the writing of this post was an exercise in perseverance, of sticking to my commitment regardless of how rambling it feels, or what my nephews texted, or how often I need to pee.
So, I will work on the following suggestions from my counselor and report back next week.
Stay Present:
Practice mindfulness techniques to stay present in the moment (listed below). Concentrate on the task at hand rather than worrying about the future.
Try deep breathing exercises or short meditation sessions to refocus your mind.
Reflect on Progress:
Regularly reflect on how far you’ve come. Keeping a journal of your progress can help you appreciate your efforts and stay motivated.
Write down your thoughts and feelings about each completed task.
Implementing Staying Present Techniques
Morning Meditation: Spend 5-10 minutes each morning practicing mindfulness meditation.
Deep Breathing: Whenever you feel overwhelmed, take a few deep breaths to center yourself.
Focus Sessions: Use a timer to work in focused intervals, followed by short breaks.
Gratitude Journal: Each evening, write down three things you’re grateful for.