Word Slinger

I didn't sleep much last night. It's not often that I find myself so restless, but once in a while it seems as though the words just come at me without mercy. The ability to arrange these symbols - these letters and punctuation marks - in a way that makes some sense is both a blessing and a curse. There are too many times when I am just not into it. But the words keep coming and if I don't transmit them to writing, there is no rest.

Human beings are unique in that we have the ability to recognize - and question - our own existence. Dogs don't. Monkeys don't. Even whales, as far as we can tell, don't. Only we are gifted with the ability to torment ourselves so completely. When disassembled, the "big question" is really nothing more than an infinite number of little questions. What is my purpose? What makes one thing right and another wrong? What is love and why do I need it? Good questions all, and all but impossible to answer. Yet philosophers, clerics, seekers of wisdom and just about everyone else have ventured out on a personal quest for truth. Or a quest for personal truth.

In some respects, we are far more knowledgeable than ever before. Science has solved many of the mysteries of the world, but there are still some that cannot be answered. Why do people do what they do? What are we driven by? Is there anything else? At times it seems as though the answers are just out of reach. Last night and in the small hours of this morning, I almost had a grasp of it. Maybe not the answer, but at least I had some insight to what might have been a path toward an answer. The words were flying at me. I collected them and stored them, meaning to record them later…

And later never came. Although my exhaustion is partially physical, much of it is due to wasted mental, emotional and perhaps even spiritual energy. I should have dragged myself out of bed and wrote - it is, after all, what I do. I should have poured the words out as they came, letting a fabric of understanding take shape. It is the method to the madness and I know it. But there are times when the burden is too great. There are times when I might not want to know what is coming to me and I resist. These words are a feeble attempt at seeking relief that will not come.

I never wanted to be a writer. Of all the talents that I could have been graced with, writing was not anywhere near the top of my list. It is, however, mine. It took a very long time to recognize it and even longer to embrace it. Often the words are known… I get the story and then re-tell it. There is a path, a beginning, middle and an end. But when the words come from out of nowhere, I never know what will appear before me until it's there. It's like magic.

Giving More Than Thanks

FAIR OAKS, Calif. - Dawn, Thanksgiving Day morning. At 37 degrees, it is cold for these parts. The world is quiet - there is much to be grateful for. These pages, for almost two years and in many of nearly 300 posts, have reflected this irrefutable fact. Personally to be sure, my lot in life has improved beyond what I ever dreamed possible. Just a few short years ago, my imagination wasn’t that big… I didn’t even dare hope for what has proven to be a life beyond my wildest dreams.

I used to believe that fame and fortune, or at least fortune, would bring contentedness. Although even in my younger years the evidence did not support this notion, there are even more profound examples today. I thought happiness was an externally influenced reality… that stuff would make me whole. It never did. It never could. I never knew. It seemed so simple: Get what I want when I want it and happiness followed. Unfortunately or not, gain without pain is a rather hollow victory and never satisfying. Stuff is a byproduct of happiness, success follows effort, effort creates worth and all of that brings all that stuff that I thought I needed so badly. I like my stuff, but is has nothing to do with who I am.

The list of gratitude is endless. I give thanks on a daily basis. Of late, it is not so much for the material items in my life, but more for those intangible qualities that have created them. Success can be measured in a number of ways. Today I am most grateful for the people in my life. My friends and family have always meant the world to me… but today I am part of that world. It is beautifully simple. I am now a participant in my own life; I am not just watching it go by. By placing one foot ahead of the other and living one day at a time, I have found peace in my world.

And my world is a subset of our world, a world that is in desperate need of more peace. There is plenty wrong in the world today, but if one looks hard enough, there is plenty right as well. It is my business to keep an eye on the government and this one has kept me busy. But even with all the mistakes, some of them monumental, no administration is bigger than this nation or, perhaps more accurately, the people of America. We, as a nation, have worked hard, sacrificed much and above all persevered even when there was not much hope. And we made it.

These are characteristics that Americans for generations have held close. There are times when it appears that we have perhaps become too comfortable, that we are resting on our collective laurels… that we are moving towards national retirement. Perhaps there is some truth to this perception; maybe with the ebb and flow of social evolution, we are facing generational indifference. Could it be that the apathy I was living is reflective of a population on cruise control? Maybe, but it is never too late to wake up and get moving. I am certain that my greatest days are ahead of me and likewise, so are America’s.

It helps if you believe it. So on Thanksgiving today, let us not only give thanks and reflect on how fortunate we are, let us also rededicate ourselves to our greatness personally… and nationally. Let us show the world not how powerful we are, but how benevolent America’s people are. Let’s remember our strength is not in our size or our wealth but in our compassion and our generosity. And let us not forget that it was the sacrifice and work of our predecessors to whom we owe our good fortune. Give thanks, yes, but also give your word, your sweat and your dedication, for these are the qualities that made this nation great. Our best days are still ahead of us.

Self-Imposed Deadlines

It has been a long time since I have written anything for this blog. Although it is true that I have been busy and also true that I recently dealt with illness that kept me down for a few days, these are not good excuses. I have been meaning to write here almost everyday and I have even had some compelling words swirling in my head. I just have not felt sufficiently motivated of late to commit them to paper (or its electronic equivalent). I have even given myself personal “deadlines” and what I have re-learned is as simple as it ever was: Without consequences, a deadline is nothing more than a good intention.

And I am not happy to say that for the first time in many months, I have missed a deadline. During my recent bout with bronchitis, I simply didn’t have it in me to get a column written by its due date. I had the assignment before I got sick and if I had written it right away, I would have met the deadline, but I don’t work that way. This one instance isn’t likely to change that either. In this case, since it was a school assignment and not for a publication, the consequences are not nearly as dire. If more was on the line, who knows? Maybe I would have found the energy to drag my butt out of bed and write it.

That assignment is for my latest blog, “Home of the Free.” It has become a more regular source of publication for me and it has truly been my saving grace. Although significantly more structured than what I write here, it has also been a great source of pride for me. I really like what I have come up with, how I have presented my arguments and what it has allowed me to do while staying within the confines of the assignments. The missed deadline probably won’t affect my grade much, if at all, as it is an isolated instance in an otherwise perfect record.

But I still miss writing here and more so, the visits from my regular readers. I also miss visiting all those blogs on my link list as well as a few others. I know how the blog world is and I have seen blogs come and I have seen them go in my nearly two years blogging. Rest assured, I am not going anywhere, but I have been silent and derelict in my reciprocation. Those who do not travel do not get visited. I will be making my rounds soon enough, but for now I can only leave this brief, rambling and sincere post.

Right now, it's all I’ve got.

Presents and Presence

There are times in life when its focus is not so clear. Even in what is, in comparison and by every measure, a well-ordered life, sometimes it isn’t as “hands-on,” as proactive or profound as it is automatic. Indeed, even when all seems right in the world - or at least in my world - the real essence of life almost becomes a dubious luxury. And then in the midst of it, when all is both fine and dandy, when everything is going just swimmingly, it hits me.

There is so much more.

I don’t want to sit here and devalue “the good life;” if anyone has reason to be grateful, it is I. The lack of chaos, the elimination of drama and the general peace in my life are all very much, and often, appreciated. It hasn’t been that long - I didn’t forget what it used to be like. But there are moments that make it clear that as good as everything is, there is way more and in my zest to acknowledge and appreciate all that has changed, there are the little things that make it all so much better.

Recently, I have been a solid presence in not one, not two, but all three of my boys’ lives. And as I have recently written here, at 23, 20 and 18, they are all legal adults now. I guess that it is true that I am always there and equally true that I have always tried to do my best by them, but right now - all at once - I feel as though my aid is being sought out, appreciated and needed. A small part is financial, but it’s not the money but what it is doing - and money is a very small piece of the picture. My kids are starting to become self-realized and it is my strength they are drawing from.

And in these past several days, in what is really only a series of moments, I have made a profound difference in their lives simply by being their father. It isn’t really about what I know, or some “Father Knows Best” wisdom, or that I might be able to get them over a financial hump… it’s about my being present in their lives. I am there no matter what and they know it. More importantly, I know it. And that is a very good feeling. It’s better than all the external validation in the world. There are only three men whose respect means so much to me - and they all call me Dad.

Days Will Come

Monday is typically the busiest day of my week. All four of my classes this semester meet on Monday and some things are coming due… the semester is already half-over! Some grades have been trickling in and although by now it shouldn’t surprise me anymore, I am still amazed by how well I am doing. There is an exception, however, to an otherwise uninterrupted string of very good grades - my score on the Law School Admission Test (LSAT). I can’t say I am surprised by my dismal showing - I got pretty much what I put into it - but it is a bit of a disappointment all the same.

What it means is still unclear. I have been having second, third and fourth thoughts about whether I want to commit to three years of law school at all, and although I will probably still apply to the University of the Pacific, McGeorge School of Law, there is no guarantee that I’ll be accepted. And even if I am, the likelihood that I will in turn accept an invitation is in a great deal of doubt. There are other avenues that I view as more favorable on a number of levels.

In the meantime, it’s back to the grind, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I like the informal and non-routine routine that my life is. No longer flying by the seat of my pants, that was the norm not so many years ago, there is still an element of uncertainty - I am not a nine to five guy and this is no nine to five gig. Yet, there is far more predictability and stability than there ever was, and that is comforting. In December one chapter comes to a close and in January a new one begins. It has yet to be written.

It is a beautiful autumn day on the campus of Sac State. The sun is shining, the squirrels are scurrying about and there are students everywhere, probably enjoying the mid-semester lull. It’s a balmy 74 degrees with only the slightest hint of a breeze. But the storm is coming; finals, term papers and the usual madness that comes with the changing of the season is on the way. Days will come and days will go - I am ready.

Seven Years

October 17th has become an anniversary that is as important to me as my birthday. Indeed, as the years pass, it has become even more so. October 17, 2000 was the day my life nearly ended and, in many respects, it was the day it began. Seven years ago today, I had no idea that just 24 hours away my purgatory awaited. It turned out to be a place between life and death that I have heard about, but until then, never experienced.

While it is true that I have had many “brushes” with death, they always remained what can only be described as “close calls.” Some years ago, I became aware that I have a deadly allergic reaction to a common over-the-counter medication. The first indication was the rapid onset of anaphylactic shock - if I did not have the wits to seek medical aid in time… well, they said the end would was only about 15 minutes away. Close enough? Not really. It was a fleeting moment and recovery was almost immediate. Many of us have experienced at least one close call at some point in our lives. Perhaps it was on the road, while engaged in some recreational activity or just from the things that come at us - and just miss - through the course of our lives.

October 17, 2000 was not a close call. It was a direct hit. Circumstances in my life had me perpetually off-balance. Exasperated by a lifestyle that can only be described as reactive, I was always “catching up” and as a result often found myself sleep-deprived. The morning of October 17th was not particularly unusual - I was tired and running late. I had to get my younger two boys to school and myself to work. In fact, it was a good day for my sons to be “sick,” a condition I not so subtly suggested to them. At 11 and 13, they were old enough to stay home while I was at work.

My 11 year-old readily took the bait - any day home from school is a good day. My 13 year-old, however, was still smarting from a tongue-lashing I delivered some days before. Although he acknowledged that maybe he was not feeling well, he didn’t want to get even more behind at school. He didn't want to disappoint me. Then he turned the tables on me by saying what I would often say to him when he claimed to be sick, “I’m not too sick to go to school.” Of course, I had no choice but to get him there, better late than not at all.

It wasn’t as though I didn’t think I could make it, I had made the trip from our home in Truckee to Squaw Valley more times than I can remember. I just didn’t want to. Hell, I didn’t even want to go to work, I was tired. But I had to do both and I didn’t give it a second thought. Running around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off, I finally hit the road. I guess with the stress of finally getting under way relieved, I felt somewhat relaxed. Driving through Truckee and turning onto Highway 89 towards Tahoe City was my last clear memory for about five weeks.

Just about a mile before Squaw Valley, my vehicle crossed over into the opposite lane and directly into the path of a fully loaded logging truck. According to all accounts, I was sound asleep at the wheel. The truck driver said he sounded his horn several times, but my vehicle just kept coming. He moved as far to the right as he could, but it wasn’t enough - the front left corner of my car struck the front left corner of the big-rig at a combined impact speed estimated at more than 100 miles per hour. My Jeep Cherokee (a rental, but that’s another story) was predictably totaled and unrecognizable. The Peterbuilt tractor pulling the logs was also totaled; logs and debris were strewn across both lanes of Highway 89 over several hundred yards.

And I was totaled. My son escaped with minor physical injuries and the logging truck driver did as well. All of us were wearing our seatbelts and the Jeep, at least, was equipped with airbags. My injuries included: A compound left femur fracture; a compound, open pelvis fracture; a lacerated liver; a lacerated kidney; and a lacerated femoral artery. I was taken by ambulance to Tahoe Forest Hospital in Truckee where they stabilized me for the helicopter flight to Washoe Medical Center in Reno. I remember none of it until I was taken off the helicopter in Reno.

By that time, I had already taken something like 16 units of blood. To put that into perspective, the average body only holds about eight. I was losing it as fast as they could put it in. The first fuzzy memory I have is of the trauma surgeon on duty asking me to wiggle my toes and squeeze his finger. At the time I was oblivious and the lights quickly went out again. I had more foggy memories that I can today link up with the reality that spawned them. It is absolutely amazing what trauma, shock and opiates can do to one’s perception of reality. But there were other recollections as well. As weird as the “reality” based memories were, the “other” ones were out of this world.

And I might mean that quite literally, I really can’t say. I believe this was a near-death experience, as in I experienced what happens at the time of death - but came back. Before we go on, I must make some things absolutely clear. I am not some follower of psychic mumbo-jumbo. I don’t believe in horoscopes, tarot cards, palm readers or any of that other stuff. It is still true today. Although I can’t say with certainty, I do believe there is more to existence than just the physical world we are in. It cannot, however, be proven to my satisfaction by myself or anyone else. It is only a belief, and I am ok with it. I think there is more to this whole life thing than meets the eye.

I used to proclaim myself to be an atheist. Indeed, I was an evangelical atheist - it wasn’t enough that I didn’t believe, I had to convince you that you did not either. I wasn’t exactly on a mission, but I never passed up the opportunity to engage anyone regarding his or her beliefs. Today, I am not so sure what I believe and I certainly don’t have room to tell you. That makes me agnostic, if a label is even necessary. The experiences I had that cannot be linked to reality in anyway were the catalyst.

There was no bright white light, no angels playing harps and no pearly gates. There was neither an ethereal being drawing me near nor leading me away, but I was never alone. Time had no context; there was no day or night; no years; no nothing. Although there was the presence of others, there were no voices, no faces and no names. It was more like an energy that permeated everything - an energy that I was part of. I was wandering aimlessly but never lost, confused but not scared, always comfortable despite being thrust into the unfamiliar.

I don’t know if this journey lasted a second, hours or days. I do know that when I was weaned off the medication that kept me semi-conscious and immobile, five weeks had passed and hell for me was about to begin. My family was living with the gravity of the situation the entire time, and at the beginning, they did not know whether I would even live through it. Indeed, even if I did, there was no telling how much of my former self would remain. What would I remember? Would I ever walk again? How long will the rehabilitation take? I was blissfully unaware. My memory gradually got clearer until just before Thanksgiving when I re-entered the real world. They untied my restraints and removed the tracheotomy. I could move (a little) and talk.

But I had a long way to go. In time and with a lot of help, I have been able to make an almost complete recovery. I still have a steel rod and some screws in my left leg and a host of very large scars, but all things considered I was extremely lucky. Or was I? Perhaps luck had little to do with it. Again, I really don’t know, but I do have a different perspective that at the very least has made me far less arrogant, not nearly so combative and much less condescending. Furthermore, I am far more appreciative of the little things in life. It did not all happen at once, it took a lot more than a three-month hospitalization to get here.

And here is a very good place. Although the pain was monumental and the struggle to get back was the hardest thing I ever had to do, it was all worth it. I have today things I never knew I wanted and didn’t even believe really existed. No longer stumbling around in the dark, I now have a direction; a purpose in life and it isn’t necessary that I know what it is. It is an intangible but oh-so necessary part of life that I could never quite grasp before it was nearly all taken away. It isn’t about stuff or status or prestige or recognition - it’s about what’s on the inside and when the inside is at peace, the rest follows.

Life is good.

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