Transition.

It's funny how sometimes we create plans. Extravagant plans that encapsulate every last little detail. Finally, we reach a point where the plan should materialize and those little details should blossom into flowers of reality. Then, I realize that this is real life and real life doesn't always look like the picture on the menu. Not that its, bad; just different than expected.

I find conversations with current college students very entertaining in a sadistic kind of way. My humor is at their perhaps misguided view of a grand future. "After I graduate, I'm going to get a job with [insert grandiose cadre of companies] and live in Portland." It really does sound nice, and perhaps even I will leave the comfort of my parent's home and venture into that place called the real world. I mean like the TV show.

Having graduated and found nothing but dead ends with my pursuit of that job which would allow me to live in Portland, I find myself at home again, but with new perspective. It has taken me months to come to terms with, but I think its good. I've said before that I am "caught in transition with hopes and dreams I don't yet know what to do with." This is 100% true, but I might be getting closer to knowing what to do with them. I'm learning that one's current mindset is very easily influenced by those they are around. For instance, when I'm at work, I think about how I could be an electrician and a good one at that. Slowly, the back of my mind lends a quiet voice, reminding me of those hopes and dreams which teeter on the edge of becoming fears with each thought of a future without them.

I had another realization. I didn't even know what hopes or dreams I had until I found myself months into the summer job turned into "work until I find a 'real' job". What if I had found a job straight out of the gate? Would I have slowed down long enough to think about what I want to live for and who I want to become? Perhaps I would have been okay with it; that's what scares me the most.

Almost tears.

Its been four years minus a small handful of days since I last cried. I don't just mean tears either because I get those all the time when I accidentally pull out a nose hair. I mean a good cry. I simply do not cry. I like to say its because I'm an "iron pillar of masculine strength". While I may wish for that to be true, it is unfortunately not. This isn't to say that I'm not moved by things or sometimes wish that I could cry. I wish I could cry all the time. I hear that its even healthy. I even think of times when it would be appropriate to cry. I am moved by both simple things and complex things; the moon on a clear morning before the sun comes up, flowers growing where they should not, that damned biggest loser show (embarrassing, I know), and things far more serious. Tonight I was driving and thinking, which I do often, and a thought entered my tiny yearning brain. I love food and I would even venture to say I might enjoy it more than most people I know. It's never a chore and always enjoyable. I love it. But what about people who don't have food? Then I imagined a little scenario. There was a little girl I met in Romania (you can read about her in "Dandelions") and I will never forget her or her brown eyes. She wanted me to buy flowers from her, but I refused. I imagined her asking me for food and me telling her no. Then a flood of other children's faces flooded my mind, campers I had at Tilikum, children of friends, even my family and my friends. And for a split second a tear wanted to push itself out onto my cheek. Selfishly, I held it back and thought of something else. Those images are sticky though. Especially telling them no. And that's what I do. This is me wondering what its like to be somebody who does something about passions and convictions. This is me in awe of the inconsistencies of my own life. This is me hating money for seeming to hold me back from doing something about these feelings (which I know is a total farse). This is a small bit of the dissonance I feel between my mind and my heart. May their blood be on my hands if I go on as before, and continue to do nothing.

Puddles of freedom.

I love puddles. Ever since I started being a little boy 22 years ago, I've loved them. Mostly, they are fun to splash in, sometimes they are really big, sometimes they have cool reflections and sometimes they are the nastiest things ever. Maybe literally. At work, there are a lot of puddles because the building does not yet have a roof and water collects on the concrete. There are a lot of puddles outside too, but I don't really like those ones because they are really deep and super muddy. However, this is not about those puddles, this is about the ones inside.

I went through a couple week streak where I really didn't like my job. Not that it was really all that bad or that I didn't feel fortunate; that was not the case at all. My mind was simply elsewhere. I would walk through the building to deliver materials to the electricians who needed them and splash through the puddles on my way. Except, for tiny moments, I was alive in another world. I would imagine stepping into the puddle and falling into an alternate reality.

You know the feeling when you step off of a dock into deep water? The cold envelops your entire body and for a second you think about gasping for air, but you don't because you're underwater and that would be stupid. That is the feeling I would imagine each time I stepped in a puddle. Actually, who am I kidding? I secretly hope to fall into an underwater world each time I step in a puddle. I imagine the cold surrounding my entire body. I long for the feeling of being almost out of air and finally coming to the surface. I wish... I wish I was on a dock with screaming (joyful) all around and the sun beating down on me. Children chanting for me to go in the lake. I suppose each time I step in a puddle, its like reliving those moments when my body entered the cool lake on hot summer days. That was camp. It is in these simple moments of reclaimed reverie that I find freedom.

Perfect music.

Sometimes, every song seems like the same song. The same album, the same track, stuck on repeat. It's torturous. Always longing for, but never finding, the song that will absolve this feeling of uneasiness. Then, finally, by chance a song more perfect than you expected falls on your ears and everything, at least for that moment is okay; not because things are actually okay, but because the music of that moment is. My favorite times are when there is no audible music, and that same feeling washes over. It might be the wind or rain or the way light catches you for a split second but for a moment, things are perfect.

Fire.

For the past several years, I have been involved with the Muscular Dystrophy Association. It's one of those things where, if you allow yourself to be truly alive in the moments you are at their summer camp, you can't help but return the next year. It's often hard and frustrating, but there is something about it. Most of my time throughout the week was spent simply 'hanging out' with my camper and others in our cabin group. There is always a fire burning, and one camper is always encouraging somebody to throw more wood on the fire... to "make it bigger".

Muscular dystrophy in one sense is a very sad disease. No cure. Often, a shortened life expectancy. Limited mobility. A constant dependence on others. Though these negatives are stinging reality in the lives of most of the campers, there is much to be learned from them. Many learn more about love, the beauty of interdependence, and the joy of true community than many of us ever will. For this week of camp, all bets are off, the field is leveled, and everyone is somebody.

Many of the campers are loud and boisterous, while others remain practically silent. Yet to each of them, camp is like a little morsel of heaven. Unfortunately, this heaven isn't eternal and has been cut short. MDA just announced that the age limit for their summer camps would be dropping from 21 to 17. 4 years of this magical place stolen from many of them. Apparently, those making the decisions haven't spent time at one of their summer camps, or this decision would have happened only after much more deliberation. For these kids, this is what they live the other 51 weeks of the year for. It is the highlight of their years, and for many and their shortened lives, it is a yearly source of strength, love, and joy.

When a camper has reached an age where they will no longer be able to return to camp, their counselor is asked to say a few things to everyone about their camper. This year, I was up, as Ben is now 21. Typically, there are about 6-10 "graduates" as they are lovingly referenced. This time, there were 37. Not just 37 campers, but 37 of about 90 campers who will no longer be invited back to camp; not another week of joy and camaraderie, and no partaking of a small morsel of heaven.

Yet, there is still a fire burning. A passion for life and for living; for loving each other and relishing in the joy that comes simply from 'hanging out' with one another. That is a fire which can never be put out.

Usual Monday, hold the tact.

I've said before that people who lay in the negative space make life more beautiful. Just keep that in the back of your mind.

I love Mondays that feel so normal you hardly know another has come. Sometimes they get lost in the business and others, well, they are as normal as they seem.

This morning, I tried to get up early and got up on time, as usual. I made some delicious tea and headed out the door with food in my bag to eat, as usual. I drove to school a few minutes early and parked in my usual row of the parking lot. Then I did something unusual. I read the a chapter of the Bible. Don't get me wrong, I'm not tauting this in a 'look at me' sort of way, just that it was something unusual about today.

The Who have a song called "Behind Blue Eyes". Limp Bizkit actually remade it and I'm little embarassed to admit that I like it better. This song was stuck in my head. I'm not sure now why this is important, but I'll move along nonetheless. (This is a post I've added a sentence or two whenever I've had the chance. I'm still not sure how to say all I think about this though)

Anyway, this was a day that my chapel band was playing, so I headed in through the back doors of Bauman Auditorium as usual on these days. I did my usual dinking around under the guise of "tuning" and, surprise, everything was usual. Thats when things became very unusual, awkward, and emotions from every part of the spectrum flooded me; except good ones. I was informed with very little tact, that a former student had passed away the previous night in a car accident. What a shock. I guess its the same feeling as finding out that anyone has passed away because of some freak thing. Simply shock. He was actually one of the first people who got me to play bass guitar at George Fox, and I would see him from time to time at Chapters, one of my favorite places in the whole world. For a couple weeks, we seemed to bump into each other everywhere; Fred Meyer, Chapters, the gym, among others. But now he was gone. It wasn't even the sadness that I first felt, it was the fact that we had been told with such haste it was almost as if it had been said in passing. Sort of like when you see someone you kind of know and to greet you they say, "Hey, what's up?" but keep on walking. It so... unsatisfying.

To make things worse, I later found out more details about the death. The disturbing part was that it was more than a car accident. It was sort of like one of my worst nightmares had been manifested for someone else. From my understanding, he and his wife were driving and slipped off the road. They were fine, but their car got stuck so he walked up to the road. Then another car came over the same hill and struck him. He died instantly, but the worst part is that the driver of the other car was also a former student, and they were friends. How terrible. I have no idea what to do with things like this. He was such a nice guy, always friendly and inviting- always smiling. That's all I suppose.

GirI in the corner.

She has this austere look about her. I can tell she is deep in thought, the way she looks around and then back at her book or computer. She's actually leaving right now. Carefully putting on her socks, she still thoughtfully looks about while paying careful attention to how she ties her shoes. I wonder what she's thinking. Does she know she is beautiful? Does she want to 'grow up' and be a wife, a mother, a teacher, a great friend, a politician, a musician, a writer? She's gone now, but I could see her walk past the window I have found suitable to study next to. She looks at the ground while she walks. Is she insecure or is she admiring something on the ground or is she still deep in thought as before? Maybe she needs somebody. Maybe she doesn't need anybody.

Deafening Silence.

You know when you can't stop thinking... either about someone or something, and no matter what, the thoughts

just

won't

stop?

I'm not even really sure of about half of what I'm thinking either. That's the part that really kind of gets me. Normally, your thoughts are what only you can control and nobody else. I guess sometimes that isn't true. It's like every time I stop to do anything, what would normally be silence is now deafening. All I can think about is what they must be going through... all of the horrible things going on in the lives of people I know and some I've never met, or other things like... and how much I love certain things and how much I hate other things, and how... Then of course there are thoughts about how I have become a terrible student. Graduation, a job, an internship, where I will live, how I will retire. Some of those are a little exaggerated, but I think about all of them. Each of them a faint murmur lurking in the shadows of my mind, together creating something much more than a quiet whipser. It is a deafening silence.

Cracked.

Concrete. It's everywhere. Cold. Lifeless. Concrete. Why do we like it so much that we put it everywhere? I noticed something a while ago that was quite inspiring. Concrete has to be poured in smaller chunks so it doesn't crack everywhere. The ironic part of that is that there are manmade cracks every so often. Well, I was walking down 99W and I noticed something. A small almost unnoticeable orange flower, blooming up from between the cracks. How awesome! Even though it wasn't supposed to grow there, it did anyway. Even concrete could not stop the will of a small orange flower. So much for lifeless.

Stones.

I went for a walk along the beach yesterday morning. The weather could not have been nicer for the Oregon coast and the peaceful solitude was quite refreshing. I love the sound of the ocean and the way you just keep walking if you are not careful. Anyway, I was walking along the edge of the ocean, taking in the sounds and enjoying the beauty I was surrounded by. Minutes slipped past without a hint of my knowing. I was literally surrounded by beauty and taken aback by it. Then, as I continued along the shore, I noticed a small stone. Seeing as it was nearly a perfect circle, I picked it up. I liked the cold feeling in my hands and the way the sand slowly came off as the water dried off of its smooth surface. As I walked a little farther, I noticed another stone, and then another. I decided to head back toward my starting point only this time noticing many more stones along the way. I kept picking up these stones, varying in size, shape and color. I didn't really want them, but I refused to let go at the same time. Deciding that I must throw at least some of them back, I looked over each and weighed its unique characteristics against the others. Again, I needed none of them, but they became the sole objects of my attention. My walk continued and I neared the end of it, but the way back saw only the stones and none of the beauty I had seen before. Finally realizing this, I began throwing the stones back, one by one, until only one remained. For whatever reason, I could not let it go.