Unplanned Expectations

I just deleted 75 some odd words that seemed to be leading me nowhere. It happens. I wanted to write a 2011 New Years Day post reflecting on the past year. I wanted to pull reflective inspiration from my archives and convert it into a new arrangement of words that tells the remarkable journey life is. I wanted to put a frame around where I have been and where I am going. But as worthy as those wants are, it is clear that when this is finished I’ll be no closer to understanding what this journey is all about than I am right now. But for the sake of documentation at least, something should be added to this ongoing journal of life.

I have written some sort of year-end reflection piece each of the past five years. Each has documented how the relative quality of the prior year has been "better than ever," "among the best years of my life" and similar accolades. And 2010 has earned the same recognition – it was a very good year for me. Much is proceeding according to plan and while I am on track to achieve a particular long-term goal this year, it has turned into yet another beginning – a beginning that has already started. For the past five semesters, I have been steadily working on my MA in communication studies at California State University, Sacramento. I am now just a thesis away. If all goes well, by May I will have completed my thesis, I will be awarded the degree of Master of Arts, and I will be exhausted.

In addition to writing the longest and most involved work I have ever attempted, I am also charged with teaching 60 undergraduate students the art of public speaking. And since I have made the decision to continue my postgraduate education so that I can make that teaching gig a career, I am also vigorously pursuing admission to seven different Ph.D. programs throughout the country. This new direction will tack another four to five years onto my formal education, but it will also allow me to gain full-time, tenure track employment at an institution such as Sacramento State. In the past year, my world has expanded yet again – it was not what I had planned.

 In the coming weeks, I will be planning lessons, teaching, grading, researching and writing – this much I knew as long as a year ago. I will also be submitting applications to LSU, University of Southern Mississippi, and University of Denver – each of which requires careful consideration to propel my application to the top of a very competitive pool of candidates. My applications to Stanford, USC, University of Washington and Columbia University are already in. All are highly regarded schools and all accept only a small percentage of those who apply. I am hopeful, but just being qualified to apply is amazing to me.

I never know what to expect anymore. Opportunities have come my way in the past, but I was never prepared or motivated to turn them into anything of lasting value. And perhaps that is the difference today: preparation and motivation. Everything that has come my way in recent years was built upon what came before it. My plan for 2011, therefore, is the same as it has been for the past five years… there is no plan. I do what is in front of me and just keep moving. When the doors open, I walk through them with the experience I have built upon from days passed. It is a simple plan, but it seems to be working quite well.

Mountain Song

TRUCKEE, Calif. – Off in the distance the muted roar of a diesel engine combined with the intermittent warning tones of a snowplow backing from a driveway sing their plaintive duet. As this industrial calliope fades to silence, making its rounds into the next valley, around the next turn, the Sierra winter returns to pristine post-storm silence. The only sounds are coming from nature herself; the crackling of new snow, the drip-drip of water dropping off the icicles and an occasion breeze rustling through the trees form a very different movement… from a very different orchestra. Even the sub-freezing temperature adds a steady cadence that maintains the rhythm of winter in the high Sierras. And through the passing storm clouds the crisp starlight shines all that much brighter.

From 1998 to 2003, Truckee was my home. Although my current home is only about 100 miles to the west, it might as well be 10,000, for this winter song takes more than a short visit to reveal its beauty; it demands immersion. For the past two nights and again for the next, I am immersed - there is only acquiescence and submission, nature always calls the tune. The parallel to life in the grandest scheme is apparent and as usually seems to be the case, this has become unavoidably apparent when the world outside is at its quietest. Perhaps due to the volume of this particular brand of silence, this song of dominance and renewal, it has stirred me from my sleep. And the words will not wait…

This blog debuted five years and two days ago, give or take a few hours. I am not sure why I did not mark this particular milestone with some words of reflection, but it is quite likely I did not have much to say. It seems to be the case, at least as far as this project is concerned, more often of late. Busy? Sure, more than ever, but it usually doesn’t take a major commitment of time to write these posts. It very well could be that the novelty of life’s unexpected turns and twists has worn off… it is not as profound as it once was. That is not to say that life is any less profound, only that I notice the multitude of ironies, complexities, connections and interconnections with such frequency that it does not surprise me as deeply – and that sense of wonder is often a source of inspiration.

Thankfully it is not the sole source as this post clearly demonstrates. I am tempted to say that my life has come full circle without really understanding or caring what that means. I am beginning to believe that there is only one way to truly come “full circle” and I am not ready yet. But in many respects this colloquialism makes sense. These mountains and this little tourist town marked a line of demarcation in my life. The one side came to a violent end while the new one had its tenuous beginnings right here. Since leaving Truckee about eight years ago, that tentative new beginning took root and flourished, although I did not and could not know it then. This is the first time in a long time that I have returned and stayed long enough to allow the mountain’s winter serenade to engulf – and awaken – me.

In five years much has happened in my life and most of it was not planned. It did not just happen, it took effort on my part, but the results are beyond anything I could have imagined. The same is true of the many relationships I have formed and it is this unpredictability that has me thinking about that parallel I mentioned. Snowflakes are each unique in their creation. As they fall to the earth they combine with others to form complex and beautiful relationships. There is no blueprint, they come to earth and do what they are supposed to do. They cannot fail. As long as I can do the same - what I am supposed to do – then what is supposed to happen does not matter. Only then can I experience the same harmony that the mountains are singing now.

Not Good Enough

I have not posted anything here in the entire month of November (so far), and it has been more than a month since my last posting. Actually, there was a rant I posted for a day or two, but it served its purpose and I took it down. It reflected a rare moment of anger and thankfully that moment morphed into proactive engagement such that it no longer takes up space in my head. The ball, so to speak, is no longer in my court. But even if that one short-lived post is included, this has been a dry spell the likes of which this blog has not seen since its inception almost five years ago. And since diving into this medium, I have seen other blogs come and go for a variety of reasons - my circumstances are likely not unique. I am busy with other things; it takes a great deal of motivation to start the writing process; I feel as though I have nothing more to say. This last reason is probably the most difficult to accept, but it is what it is.

Life is challenging. My life has been particularly challenging due to my own choices and sometimes just because that’s the way life is. And this is true in both the negative connotation as well as the positive. The challenges I face today are due to choices I have made that are absolutely positive, but to realize my goals, there is a great deal of work to do. I recently shared with a friend how these hurdles often look overwhelming from the front side, but my experience has proven that as daunting as they appear, these challenges can be met if the effort required is applied. But like everything else worthwhile, success does not come overnight – it takes time. Here again, this is something I’ve said before. My pearls of wisdom regarding perseverance, patience, positive-thinking-glass-half-full insights are nothing new… I feel like the proverbial broken record.

For the sake of documentation, I’ll update where my recent path has led me thus far. This blog was created so that I could keep my writing fresh during the five-week winter break at California State University, Sacramento. It was just after the completion of my first semester there (I transferred as a junior) working toward my BA in government-journalism. Blogging was a suggestion from one of my journalism professors, but I never imagined it would continue this long or that it would have spawned more than 500 posts. I have not only documented my educational and professional path, but also many of the insights I have had along the way as inspired by everything from family to friends to politics to our society in general. The subtitle of this blog, “Perspectives, Purpose and Opinion,” turned out to be prophetic indeed – I had no idea that it would be the common thread that ran throughout, it just sounded good at the time.

Very early in my archives, I explained how “The 25 Year Plan” got its name. In 1983 I was a first semester freshman at San Diego State University. At the time, many of the students there accepted the reality that finishing a degree in four years was unrealistic. When seniors were asked what their standing was, many would say, “I’m a senior, but I’m on the five-year plan.” Today, the term “super-senior” has replaced the euphemism used at SDSU to denote a second (or more) year senior. I never made it past the freshman level at SDSU. I was placed on academic probation after my second semester and after my fourth I was disqualified – another euphemism; I was kicked out. College, apparently, was not for me.

In the intervening years between 1985 and 2003, I reentered post-secondary education (some college, some vocational) many times for different reasons, but the common denominator was that my path had come to a dead-end and I needed to regroup and start over again. My success at these various attempts was remarkably better than what I experienced at SDSU, but I was never in it for the long term. I stayed just long enough to get the carrot and then moved on. When it means being satisfied with the bare minimum, “good enough,” at the time, was. But things changed profoundly with the new millennium and by the fall of 2003 I found myself once again staring over, this time at American River College in Sacramento. If I said that my perspective had changed as a result of the events that had occurred between October 2000 and fall 2003, I would be lying. In some respects it had, but not regarding my propensity to put forth minimum effort to get by… good enough still was.

How I ended up at Sac State is a long(ish) story, but for whatever reason, I got excited about school again. My grades were better than ever before and though I had no real plan this time, circumstances serendipitously led me to that journalism professor, this blog and an education path I am now pursuing. I graduated with my BA in December 2007 – a full 26+ years after my 1981 high-school graduation. That’s how this blog got its name – “The 25 Year Plan.” I know, it’s not exactly 25 years, but “The 26 ½ Year Plan” didn’t have the same ring to it and if the clock is started in 1983 at SDSU, it’s 24 ½ years. You get the idea. The point here is that my best intentions are what led me to this point – always. That is, I have always intended to succeed – everyone does. Who would set out with the intention to fail? But good intentions, like “good enough,” were not enough.

Jumping forward, I am now almost finished with an MA in communication studies at Sac State. I have only a couple of assignments left to complete this semester’s work and next semester I am only working on my thesis. It did not take long before I was not satisfied with what a BA could do for me – good enough no longer was. And I am not stopping at an MA either. I am currently in the process of applying to eight different doctoral programs in the hopes of earning a Ph.D. I do not know whether I will be successful at getting in yet, but the only way to guarantee failure is by not trying. Some might say, “Okay, but I know the college thing is not for me, what’s any of this got to do with me?”

The answer is another question: “Are you satisfied with good enough?”

Pit-Fighter

I almost never use profanity when I write. It is rarely ever necessary to make my point and although it can be used effectively for emphasis, it is at the cost of credibility. I know what the words mean and I am well versed at using them, both grammatically and rhetorically, but again, it is not necessary. Usually. There are, however, exceptions and this particular post represents such a case. I am highly agitated by an anonymous letter some punk sent me today. Before I continue, please take a moment to peruse the following scanned image of the letter and the envelope so that we are all on the same page.

Regardless of whether or not the so-called mess actually exists (it does not) is beside the point. Being called a “white trash pig” does not bother me in the least – I have been called worse. The demands, relevant or not, are not the issue either. There are many ways of communicating one’s desires – this is not the most effective, but small minds have limited capacity for realizing their desires anyway. No, everything up to the capitalized “or” is fine with me - it is what occurs afterward that has my pissed-off meter off the scale.

“Fuck up my cars?” Really? Including (but I would assume not limited to) broken windows, cut radiator hoses and flat tires? That sounds like a threat, and just to be clear, this little justification-for-abortion declares that he (probably, or she) attacks late at night. It is clear just from the addressee on the envelope that this evolutionary anomaly does not know my name, or really much about me, for if this box of rocks did know me, said box would likely take into consideration how important the sanctity and security of my home is to me. The idea that someone might come onto my property with the intention of causing me harm removes all restrictions and inhibitions on how and to what extent I will defend myself.

“Pit-Fighter,” if you have the capacity to even turn on a computer, let alone navigate to this page, take a very broad view of that last sentence.You might attack late at might, but consider who might also be up that late. I warned this post would contain profanity and so far it has only been quotes from my new adversary, so let me fulfill that promise with words of my own:

I’m not fucking around fuck-head. You want to play? Bring it – we’ll see who fucks up what.

Negotiation

Sometimes I’ll write simply because I haven’t written anything in a while. Sometimes that feeling is just that, a feeling. The fact is that I am writing every day and some days I am writing quite a lot, but it is not the sort of writing that I would post here. So that aforementioned feeling probably stems from not doing this kind of writing in a while. I just abandoned a piece of garbage that will languish in my documents folder titled “unfinished stupid shit.” I can’t bring myself to delete it, but it will likely never be re-opened again either. There are not many of these files on my computer, but there are those rare occurrences that I have written myself into a corner with no hope of return. I am trying to redeem myself at this very moment…

When it comes to writing for this blog, I only have to answer to myself. Nothing is ever “due;” I have complete freedom to write or not about anything or nothing. My archives are full of anything and nothing, some of which I am quite proud of, some not so much. But writing for me can serve as a window into my soul, as a way of exploring those areas of my psyche that I am otherwise too preoccupied to pay much attention to. And it always comes back to the words. Words are random; meaning is arbitrary, if we have not agreed to a large extent what words denote, there is no meaning whatsoever. But that is only a start. Our language is in constant evolution and the connotative meanings of words bring life to them – and often become denotative in time. However, language in all its infinite flexibility and variety is still restricted by our ability to come to agreement.

Yet despite all our differences and seeming inability to agree on much, especially in the polarized society in which we currently find ourselves, the ability to come to terms on terms is astounding. Despite the butchering of the English language that is found in the explosion of textual communication in recent years, correct grammar is still the rule – the gold standard – one that is still acknowledge even by those who do not, cannot or choose not to practice its tenets. Changes in the rules of grammar have been few - the structure of our language has remained largely static even if the vernacular evolves daily. Yet the proliferation of willful violations of those rules in places where they are still paramount does not bode well for the continued agreement of this most basic requirement in communication.

But it begs the question: If communication is about the sharing and creation of meaning, does it really matter how that is done? In other words, does the response, “But you knew what I meant” hold any validity. I would argue that in discrete, isolated and informal circumstances, the resultant exchange and negotiation of meaning is sufficient to satisfy that communication did in fact occur. But in a more global context, this is a non-fallacious slippery slope. If the rules of formal communication, mass communication, research and the like are made up as we go along, relying on the sole criteria that “You knew what I meant,” then the already imprecise nature of communication based upon agreed norms becomes nothing more than a crap-shoot. It leaves too much open to interpretation and a return to textbook postmodernism that takes away any universality to what is true, good and beautiful. Furthermore, what if I “don’t know what you mean?” Then what?

My world is self-admittedly about communication. It is what I study, what I practice and what fascinates me every time I stop for just a moment to ponder it. Our ability to communicate has transformed the world, for better and for worse. The power of communication is undeniable. No other species has come close to the accomplishments ours has and the one and only factor that separates us from them is our ability to communicate symbolically. It is more fascinating than our technology, our mobility, our arts and our sciences because communication makes all of that possible. It seems that as a species we disagree on more than we agree on, often violently so, but we could not have become who we are if we were unable to effectively negotiate meaning – to communicate.

Ten Years

A lot can happen in 10 years. Adolescent children pass through their teens and into adulthood in 10 years. Some investment accounts and US Savings Bonds can reach maturity in 10 years. And a 12 year-old Scotch whiskey need only an additional two years to make it so. But in all seriousness, 10 years represents a considerable stretch in the context of one human life. If we lived to be 100 years old, 10 years represents a solid 10 percent of that life – it is not insignificant. Ten years is also a nice round number to do some reflection, perhaps a targeted self-assessment and acknowledge that I am but one man and I cannot do this life thing alone. The last part of the preceding sentence would be the likely answer if one were to ask, “Which one of these things does not belong?” Read on, it more than belongs; it is pivotal.

I wrote a post in January 2006 titled “Five Years.” In October of the same year, a sequel of sorts was written titled “Six Years.” In October of 2007 and 2009, the predictably titled “Seven Years” and “Nine Years,” respectively, graced this space. What happened to “Eight Years?” I am not exactly sure, but despite the absence of a dedicated anniversary installment, the theme was picked up in other posts. I hyperlinked the "n Years" series for a couple of reasons: First, I do not want to rehash what I have already written. Indeed, in rereading those posts, I see that has happened too much already. The details and the “facts” of this particular event have not changed. Second, this anniversary is likely the last in the “n Years” series – not that there is nothing left to write about, but from this time forward this anniversary will be remembered with some quiet reflection and contemplation. Words will flow from that, but not in dedication to the anniversary of my death.

Yes, death. Those that know the story and/or hit those aforementioned links before reading this already know the details. For those that don’t know, I was involved (okay, I caused) a head-on collision with a logging truck on October 17, 2000… at about 9:00 a.m. Or so I’m told by very reliable sources – I have no recollection whatsoever. I fell asleep at the wheel of a Jeep Cherokee while driving my then 13 year-old son to school near Squaw Valley, Calif. My son and the truck driver suffered relatively minor injuries – mine killed me. And then I stopped being dead. Repeat. I don’t know how many times. The records are a little unclear – not surprising considering the nature of the emergency medical attention I required. I guess they did not spend a lot of time writing things down in those early moments. For the details on my injuries and what some of that surreal “near death experience” (I hate that term) was like, hit the above links (and this link). This is not about that.

In less than 12 hours, it will have been 10 years since I should have died. Whether or not one believes in being at death's door, or crossing over and coming back, or the ubiquitous “near death experience,” one fact is indisputable: Based upon the nature and extent of my injuries, I should have died – but I didn’t. I am not only still here, but by a sizable margin – 10 percent if I live to be 100, a higher percentage if I miss that mark. In the context of one human life this is a considerable length of time; in the context of my life it is virtually an eternity. It should be quite obvious that without the help of many, many others I could not have survived or recovered. And many of those who helped I’ll never know.

But that whole idea of not being able to walk this life alone has become so much more prescient as I have navigated these last 10 years. It’s way more than thanking all those who stood by me (especially my family), and it is way more than being grateful for every single day since waking up in the hospital some time just prior to Thanksgiving, 2000; it has become apparent to me that constantly pulling away from and creating barriers between myself and humanity (as impossible as totally succeeding at such a plan is) had become my life’s perspective. I was becoming socially antisocial. And the crazy thing is that getting into that wreck and even recovering (mostly) from my injuries was not enough to make me grateful for the people around me, to say nothing about having my life spared. I was alive, but not all that happy about it.

That attitude began to change – slowly – when I finally came to the realization that life is a team sport… and I was not a team player. I’d like to say it hit me like a bolt of lightning, but I’m not so sure my psyche could have handled that much truth that fast. It happened over days, weeks, months and, in some respects, years - since the day I was born. I guess I had to come around to it on my own – maybe it had to be my discovery, who knows? But I finally figured that if I went along, followed some rules and became a team player, I would be, at the very least, less agitated (read "angry") all the time. I found not too much later that the team I joined was the winning team. Together it appears that we cannot lose. By this time I was around 40 years old and losing was a living place for me. Now almost 48, I have not had a losing day in many years.

I can’t begin to relate or recall all of the people who have come into my life and touched it in some way. The relationships I have even with strangers have an authenticity I could never fathom, and the relationships with those close to me? Absolutely priceless. Friends, colleagues, professors, family (not exclusively, some fill more than one category) all play a pivotal role in shaping who I am and what my life is. And life is good. All I had to do was join the winning team… and participate. Perception is everything.

Queue the music…

We are the champions, my friends
And we'll keep on fighting - till the end
We are the champions
We are the champions
No time for losers
Cause we are the champions - of the world*

*Freddie Mercury, 1977