Sometimes Nothing Is the Hardest Thing To Do...

In the time that I’ve been here I have been itching to get to Jamaica. I’ve been talking about it for so long that I just want it to happen already. I want to be of use; I want to be put to work. I want to contribute to something larger than myself.

I was telling all of this to my mother the other day as we were headed out shopping and I could tell from the look on her face that my choice of words did not convey in the gentlest of ways what I really meant. I have a feeling it was the use of the sentence, “I want to get the hell out of here so I can go do what I’ve said I’m going to do.”

Just call me Mr. Smooth.

With my foot firmly removed from my mouth I went on to redeem myself (I think) but it was not until later that evening that I came to an important conclusion; that my impending adventure will unfold in time and perhaps right now I am just meant to rest and work on something substantial nonetheless: myself.

Shortly after my gaffe about getting ‘the hell out of here’ my mom said to me, “Son, you look a lot better than when you got here. When I picked you up at the airport you looked tired and worn out; you really looked beat up. Now, you look like you’re doing a lot better. I think this rest is the perfect thing for you.” Interesting observation.

Later that same day I was on the phone with a friend sharing what I have been up to for the last couple of weeks and he responded, “Well, man, you deserve it. Live it up. Considering how things have gone for you lately, you have it coming to you. I think it’s just what you need.” What a coincidental second opinion, eh?

Finally I was talking well into the night with my brother-in-law and as we kicked around holiday plans and other family matters he inquired about how I was doing personally and how I feel now that I have had some time away from Chicago. I told him how great it has been to re-discover cable television, to sleep late and to workout every morning and that I’m chomping at the bit to get out of here. As a man whose job has had him continuously away from his home for repeatedly long periods of time, he shared with me how much of a difference a little down time in between assignments would have made in his life. “This ain’t a sprint, it’s a marathon, son,” he said. “This is exactly what you need if you are going to do this new job well.”

One time is an accident. Twice is a trend. Three times is evidence.

To what does the evidence point? Am I that unwilling to take time for myself and do things for the betterment of no one else but me? Is it that difficult for me to put my own well being on par with the importance of the projects I undertake? Yes! And surely imbedded in there is some sort of bassackward pattern that keeps me from just accepting the fact that good things can come my way. More probable is its not-so-subtle indicator of my penchant for associating my value and self worth with what I accomplish; the old human being vs. human doing slogan.

All of this rings too familiar a bell with respect to feedback I have received from outside sources, most of all it strikes an oddly familiar tone with respect to the hand analysis sessions I had just over a year ago. One of the biggest things I have to learn to do is spend more time being self-focused (not to be confused with selfish or self-centered). And it’s true. The very thought of it gets me jittery and twitchy and I cannot sit still which is indicative of it being an important thing to for me to learn.

And I get that. I am willing to try and make better use of this time as rest and replenishment, to let others take care of me and ‘be instead of do’. But I must be honest: had my parents not asked me to re-paint my dad’s office, I would be on the verge of madness.

Going For A Stroll Down Amnesia Lane…

Growing up as a Navy brat, one of the lessons I learned the hard way was that the only constant in life is change. ‘Home’ was dependant on the needs of the government and by the time I was eight I had lived on both coasts and never spent more than a few years at any one address. I suppose in some ways that experience prepared me for life since leaving home: unpacking but never really throwing away the boxes because they would be needed again.

Eight years ago my parents unloaded their belongings into this beautiful house I am blessed to occupy from time to time. The house was hand crafted by two professionals who took their time and made sure it was built correctly. Its quality is unparalleled in this era of churn-‘em-out subdivisions and McMansions; it’s one of those houses you just don’t leave unless you undergo a job change that will move you to the opposite coast. My father has accepted such a job change and next year my parents will once again relocate to the West coast; Seattle to be precise.

In light of the pending move my parents (read: my mother) have asked me to scour the belongings I left behind thirteen years ago when I ventured westward for college. In the back of my mind I always knew these things were here but chose to never deal with them whenever I came to visit. I’m sure on some level that was a metaphor for not putting certain aspects of my past to rest, or discarding the unnecessary and keeping only that which truly has impacted me. I am also open to the idea that there is no metaphor at all and it is simply a matter of not really wanting to go through every little trinket and item that has come my way since the Reagan administration. That being said, I began in earnest ready to see just how far I have come in life and was carried even higher with inflated hopes of finding some items which might fetch a nice price on ebay. I was prepared to encounter an embarrassing item or two, take my lumps and bear my fair share of humility. Who among us doesn’t have something in their past at which they hang their head and laugh with disbelief? How bad could it be, right?

Note: Don’t ever ask that question unless you are prepared for the ugliest truth.

Note: You will never be fully prepared for the ugliest truth.

All I can say is thank God for that constant of change. If things did not change, I might still have that horrible mullet haircut. (For those of you who don’t know what a mullet is, ask someone. They’ll tell you. And then you’ll laugh at me. But I’ll deserve it.) If it weren’t for change, I might still have a penchant for Disney and Hard Rock Cafes. And while we’re on the subject of evil inventions, let’s not forget the obligatory nod towards proms and year books. These last few days have been peppered with continual encounters and reminders of them both and I have determined that they are nothing more than cruel devices whose sole purpose it is to humble those who think too highly of themselves later in life. (I know of what I speak.)

I dug through that monstrous time capsule of devastating proportions quickly, almost too quickly. With a shrewd mind I decided what was staying and what was ‘junk.’ Many items fell into the latter column, few items in the former. I didn’t stop to take in the impact of the memories and ghosts that were dancing about me in that attic space. I did not honor my past. Rather, I was interested in getting through it all so I could move on to the next thing. And when I came to that box that I had filled with the most sensitive of personal effects and had sealed so thoroughly with tape and twine, I tore it open and flew through its contents like a rabid fiend.

Racked with a sense of having disrespected a part of myself I went back. I sat quietly with both the things I was keeping and those which I have chosen to discard. What I have come to see, that I did not at first, is a foundation in my life; a glorious sweetness centered on family, immediate and extended. It’s a constant that will not change so long as I tend to it like a plant in need of perpetual care. No matter how arduous, ugly or painful life may be, I can always come back to this refuge, this center, and pick myself up from the nasty fall.

“It is dearness only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price on its goods.” – Thomas Paine

Exile...

In my last post, I noted how I was wrestling with the choice of staying in Chicago or leaving to go work with the poor in Jamaica and until I purchased my plane ticket, the option of backing out was still viable. I’m moving things forward and my first stop is New England for a visit with mom and dad. After that I will continue my trek down to the island nation of Jamaica as soon as all of the necessary pieces are put in place. (Right now, that looks like initial contact with some folks down there, but we’re working on it)

So here I sit on the eve of my…

I am not entirely sure how I would classify my leaving Chicago: exile, retreat, sabbatical, evacuation? I have always thought of exile as a bad thing, a punishment or ousting of someone who wasn’t really liked by a whole lot of people; think Napoleon or Jean-Bertrand Aristide. More specifically I am reminded of a passage in Dante’s, “The Devine Comedy”:

“…Thou shalt leave each thing
Beloved most dearly: this is the first shaft
Shot from the bow of exile.”

Maybe it is a little of all of them. Regardless, I am aware that I am choosing to take my leave of the place that I have learned to call home over the last eight years in order to explore an idea which was first introduced to me in high school but lingered in the back of my mind because I never had the guts to act on it.

So much excitement surrounds this choice and yet I don’t want to leave. This is home. I have settled here and it is familiar, comfortable, safe. Yes, I am experiencing emotional strife right now, but would it be better to lick my wounds here than on a tropical island where I won’t know anyone? (Given the fact that winter is about to arrive in Chicago, that question may seem pretty dumb but trust me, there is some comfort in the idea of having a circle of support in the cold over the idea of a solitary effort in the tropics.)

This past weekend I moved my entire life into a 9’ x 10’ room in my uncle’s house (Huge thanks to you, Jim, for your generosity) and that has me grappling with polarized thoughts. On the one hand, I feel a personal sense of pride for such a minimalist life in the face of gargantuan consumerism – even though I still feel like I have way too much ‘stuff.’ On the other hand, I have this nagging sense of, “I’m 31 and this is all I have to show for it, eh?” It’s like the angel and devil on opposing shoulders, although I’m not sure of who is speaking which idea.

Side note about my uncle: He is a realtor in the city, quite possibly one of the best there is given the fact that he’s been in the field for 20 years. If you need a realtor, click here. Jim’s your man.

After that, I had only to handle some final appointments and the usual loose ends to tie up: haircut, voting and mail forwarding (huge thanks to Mr.& Mrs. Kevin Dombrowski for that one). Tonight I doled out hugs and kisses on those closest to me, be them bipeds or quadrupeds, and tomorrow I will take a final look at that glorious skyline and wait to see what the dice have in store for me. With any luck, it will look like this part of a prophecy of the Hopi Elders which was recently sent to me by a dear friend:

This could be a good time! There is a river flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid.
They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being
torn apart and will suffer greatly.

Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of
the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes
open, and our heads above the water.