Life is Good

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There comes a point in life when one looks at what they truly have. They see beyond the difficulties and hardships of the run-of-the-mill, and they notice—maybe for the first time in a long time—the blessings that their life truly affords. However, sometimes, this awakening takes time to completely appreciate.

Life is good.

Today I saw the sun setting, amid a cloudy evening. The screen of grey hung in the skies above me like a veil, as the light of the setting sun marinated the countryside around me.

It was intoxicatingly amazing.

Life is great.

Tonight I sifted through the blessings I enjoy—the lives that have touched mine over the years for good, and those that I’ve had the opportunity to touch in return. It was somewhat overwhelming.

Life is unbelievable.

I thought of the challenges that my very existence affords me. The challenges that destroyed me from the inside out, and tested my intestinal fortitude beyond the limits I thought I had.

Life is hard.

It brought to mind the difficulties yet to be faced in the future; the changes in life that will undoubtedly come, those small moments that will help define an existence.

Life is cruel.

I thought of these many things that have made me into who I am, those things which are good—as well as bad—that sculpted me, which continually define, and that which will undoubtely recreate me. As I thought of these things, I came to a final realization:

Life is so beautiful.

So it is for all of us, but if only we’ll take the time to see it.

The Wall

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There are days I know I’ve given my all.

I arrive to work long before the sun comes up, and usually find myself leaving when it’s completed its journey down into the fiery blanket of the western skyline.

I thought about this tonight.

I thought about my life.

I thought about the people that you just can’t seem to please, no matter what…despite the hours you put in, heedless of the amazingness you try feed into the day, there are those who just don’t seem to feel that your efforts have merit; it seems that all they are capable of viewing is that which you didn’t do.

You know those people I’m talking about, don’t you?

Of course, my greatest archenemy is probably none other than I, the scrutinizer extraordinaire. No matter what we do, it never quite seems to be enough for us to feel good about who we are…there’s always one more thing we should have gotten accomplished before day’s end.

And so today, I hit the wall.

No, not literally, but figuratively.

It was akin to finding yourself standing in front of a brick roadblock that is far too high to climb, and too step to traverse. You sit before it, dejected, and know that you are beaten as the rain thunders down from a vortexual sky.

There’s no point in going any further; there is nothing you can do.

You feel your weakened resolve as it begins to crumble, and you succumb into apathy.

It’s then, in that quiet moment that you make the decision not to give up, you realize that it is the wall that will come down.

It must.

A brick is pushed loose and the entire peak comes crashing down in a heap of dusty rubble.

And when the dust clears, you stand, straighten your shoulders, and you keep on running.

Melancholy

Pin It I’m a bit despondent tonight.

Melancholy thoughts drift about and weigh heavily on my mind; the tree—with it’s hundreds of glittering lights—does nothing to lighten my somber mood.

I went to lunch with a boy I used to mentor—now a young man. In the course of our conversation, he asked if I’d heard about one of his friends, an old student at my previous school—

I told him that I hadn’t.

The young man told me.

As the words left his mouth, my heart dropped out of my chest and I sat there in dumbfounded silence—the news washing over me in a tidal wave of despair.

This boy had been in my Math class. I’d joked with him in the halls and out at recess. I’d watched him in class working with his friends.

But now he’s gone.

It was yet another sordid reminder of how temporary and fragile this existence truly is.

It’s been on my mind all evening.

To the Bully in Middle School

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It’s been a few years since we were in middle school together.

I thought you should know that I still remember the way that you made fun of me in the lunch line. The way that my spine curved because of a condition I had when I was still a kid, and how you got all of the other students to laugh at me, too, as you mockingly jeered about it.

To you, it was no big deal.

I remember the time you let all of your friends cut in front of me in the lunch line.

Every. single. time you did it.

I still remember all the laughing—probably nothing to you—poking fun at my expense.

You were a jerk.

I say that now, years later.

A score of years separate that time between my twelve year-old self, and the self that exists in the here and now.

Today I’d have told you to knock it off. I’d have had the nerve to stand up to you and tell you that it wasn’t cool.

I’d tell you that being mean to others isn’t anything to be proud of.

I’d show you what being cool was really all about.

Did you know that I grew up and became a teacher?

I still see you from time to time…in the faces of some of my students.

I do everything I can to help them to realize that being a bully just isn’t cool.

I realize that many of them have been hurt, too.

Sometimes, I rail on them for being mean to somebody else.

Then I put my arm around them, and I remind them that Mr. Z is on their side, too.

I let them know that I care about them…even when they do wrong.

I wanted to thank you.

You gave me a heart.

It was partially due to you that I learned what it felt like to be shunned, to be ridiculed, and to be the butt of jokes.

You want to know what you did to me?

You made me stronger.

No, not at the time. At the time, you destroyed me. Words can’t express how much it hurt all those years ago, nor can they convey just how much it helped build me and make me who I am today.

Did I mention that I’m a teacher?

I see you all the time.

Sometimes in the faces of my students.

I do everything in my power to help them not to become like you were.

For that, I thank you.

And I’m no longer angry.

Two years, and I Write...

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The hard sound of guitar and rough vocals flooded over me again and again as I drove the vast expanse of miles—the mileage that swept beneath my tires, though storms and rain; ominous cloudbursts similar to those of two years ago.

As the miles of road blew past, my mind careened over the past two years of my esoteric life: the alterations, the battles, the good as well as the bad times…all of those infinitesimal moments that have brought me to the here and now.

I slipped in and out the present as the mesas and sandstone cliffs—veiled in grey storm clouds—peeked from the heights above me as the arroyos, now flooded with overflow, ran freely through sand washes and open landscape toward the rising Swell off to the west, rising up like tidal wave of stone from the desert.

And again and again the melody thundered from the speakers, the words were pouring through my mind; it was if I were hearing them for the very first time:



It’s been years since they told her about it,
The darkness her body possessed…

It’s a blur since they told me about it,
How the darkness had taken its toll,
And they cut into my skin and they cut into my body
But they will never get a piece of my soul.
And now I’m still learning the lesson,
To awake when I hear the call,
And if you ask me why I am still running,
I tell you I run for us all.

I run for hope
I run to feel
I run for the truth
For all that is real
I run for your mother, your sister, your wife
I run for you, and me, my friend
I run for life.

It is now night...two years ago today though.

I moved out to the front porch and sat in the near silence as the night enveloped the neighborhood. A few crickets chirped off in the empty lot as a few stars peered through the clouds overhead. From somewhere up the street a dog barks and reminds me of where I am.

Why, two years later am I still writing about her?

To sort of quote Melissa Etheridge:

I write for hope.
I write to feel.
I write for the truth.
For all that is real.
I write for your mother, your sister, your wife.
I write for you, and me, my friend
I write for life.

In my head, the song still plays; the hard sound of guitar and rough vocals floods over me as I gaze at the heavens. And still, another year of journeying storms and sunny skies await yet in the wings.

The Riddle

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“There are secrets that we still have left to find.
There have been mysteries from the beginning of time.
There are answers we’re not wise enough to see.”

- John Ondrasik

BTW, the orange words are a link...

The Passing of a Legend

Pin It “Teachers never die. They live in your memory forever. They were there when you arrived, they were there when you left. Like fixtures. Once in a while they taught you something, but not that often. And, you never really knew them, any more than they knew you. Still, for a while, you believed in them. And, if you were lucky, maybe there was one who believed in you.”

- Kevin Arnold

The Wonder Years

When I was in high school there was a teacher I absolutely loved; her name was Mrs. Frizzell. She was the type of teacher that every student needs to have during the transitionary period of life when their self-worth is in a precarious place, and they find themselves searching – trying to discover who they really are.

This was me.

Mrs. Frizzell was my Drama and English instructor; she was probably the teacher in high school who made the biggest impact on my life – helping to shape me into the person I am today. In fact, it wasn’t all that long ago that I was thinking about Mrs. Frizzell, and I decided that I needed to contact her. I wanted to let her know the influence she’d had on my life, and tell her how she’d helped me to come out of my proverbial shell and spread my wings while I was a student in her classes…

And yet, I hadn’t talked to her in years.

Ruminations at 5:00 AM

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I found myself on the threshold of decisions this morning as I rolled over and looked at my alarm clock. I blinked unbelievingly at the time displayed: 3:30.

Should I get up or just lay here?

As I stared up at the ceiling fan, a thousand questions rattled about inside my head, like pennies in an empty coffee can. I knew if I were to get up, I would most likely become tired early in the day – probably being spent by lunchtime. This was doubtless not the best alternative when one has a class of 26 rambunctious students, and faced with the likelihood of an inside day if the temperature is too low…

I lay there and willed myself back to sleep.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

The Last Day

Pin It What if it was your last day on Earth?

Funny that I should be blogging about this subject so early on a Saturday morning, especially when I stayed up so much later than I usually do on a Friday night.

When I awoke this morning from a somewhat restful night’s slumber, I felt the headache that had only started to sprout last night having matured into a full-fledged migraine. It pulsed, it throbbed, and it was awful. Yet, amidst it all, I had an anthem of sorts playing in and amongst the pain.

I took a helpful dose of a trusted migraine remedy, and stumbled to a hot shower. I let the drenchingly-warm water cascade over my head and down my back, slowly pulling away the hurt.

In about 15 or 20 minutes, the pain had almost fully subsided. I felt so much better.

Yet…

The song with which I’d awoken in my head was still playing, and a blog post was already being written. What would I do if I woke up on a particular day and knew it was to be my last on Earth? It was startling, really, to think of being here one moment, and then not the next.

It was once said in Finding Neverland: “I suppose it's like the ticking crocodile, isn't it? Time is chasing after all of us…”

I had a lot of thoughts this morning on that subject, all of which simmered in my head, and most of which I choose not to share here. But it did leave me curious…what would you do? That is, if you knew that this was it? The final showdown? The last dogfight? The conclusion of the story? The moment right before the ending credits started rolling?

For me it was a sobering thought…now I’m off to do a little living.

In light of Horcruxes

Pin It If one were frequenting this blog in the hopes to find a post brimming in both light and righteousness, then said person would be well advised to click the ‘back’ button right now, and stop reading—before it’s too late.

For today I wish to speak of Horcruxes.

It is at this point that I must make a confession to those who’ve decided to keep reading on; that is, before the Harry Potter phenomena had swept the Muggle world, and previous to the latest movie in the saga’s release to theatres, I was the secret-keeper of a hidden tidbit of wisdom, a little-known fact of magic. It is the knowledge of these magical devices whereby a person can take a portion of themselves and secret it away into another.

“Well, you split your soul, you see,” said Slughorn, “and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But, of course, existence in such a form...” Slughorn’s face crumpled, “Few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”

So, I can almost hear you wondering. How, teachinfourth, could you possibly be familiar with this type of evil magic? Well, you see…I’ve been making Horcruxes for years.

However, before I go into detail any further, one must really get things straight; namely, to fully understand just what a Horcrux truly is. It’s quite simple, really. In fact, what it is is actually defined in the name itself; the first part of the word, “hor” comes from “hors” meaning “outside.” The definition of the second part of the word—“crux” is, “a puzzling or difficult problem” or “a crucial point.”

So, a “Horcrux” is not necessarily a thing of evil...but merely a point outside of ourselves that causes for us a difficult problem, or a crucial point in our own—or someone else’s—life. In other words, it is a tearing of the heart.

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don’t understand, though... Just out of curiosity, I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number? Wouldn’t seven…”

You see, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had it all wrong. He sought immortality through means of ripping his soul into seven pieces. Seven being the key number—or so he thought—thinking in the established Hebrew reverence of this particular numeral: seven days in a week, seven colors in the rainbow, seven notes in the customary musical scale, seven deadly sins, and most recently—Windows 7—Microsoft’s newest operating system.

But a 7-part soul is not the guaranteeor of immortality; for you see, a soul torn in the supreme act of evil to create these earthly-bound Horcruxes, will only weaken the person making them.

“Well,” said Slughorn uncomfortably, “You must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature.”

In other words, a Horcrux made from your soul is a bad idea all around. It—in the end—gets you nowhere but into a place which is far worse than where you are now.

However, a heart Horcrux is the utter and exact opposite; the heart is split through a colossal act of service—an act of love. When the heart is torn, the pieces are hidden in many individuals—making them into living Horcruxes. This in turn makes both of the individuals stronger—not weaker.

The heart grows back with these other ‘pieces’ grafted in, becoming as one yet again. These pieces are intertwined and will always be so.

I was reminded of the Horcruxes I’ve made over the years recently…in my classroom I’d informed the students that I was going to be sending a care package to my dad, and if any of them wished, they could write him a letter to be included.

Several of them set to work and wrote their letters, putting them into a pile so as I might add them to the parcel I’d be sending the next day. One of these letters, as I was putting it into the box, caught my eye and I began to read. I’d like to share “Joey’s” letter with you here:


As I thought of this Horcrux which had been made through months of service, I found myself becoming reminded of the other Horcruxes made in and from my life. With students, with friends, with complete strangers, and the one made with my mom, guaranteeing her immortality in memory—as well as in heart.

I am the secret-keeper of the magical knowledge of Horcruxes, as now are you. Now, go and make some heart Horcruxes of your own.

Indulge Me – Just an Evening of Random Thoughts

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December 11, 2009 - 9:14 P.M.

It’s been a long week.

But I loved it anyhow. Despite the frustrations and everything which comes from my chosen line of work.

Tonight I made my way home to a house which was cold and empty; however, it was light out still. A Subdued glow came from my kitchen, and outside countless neighbors sledded down the hills on toboggans and hurled snowballs.

I ignited the lights on the tree, and started to play some instrumental Christmas music. The candles were lit, and I turned up the thermostat. Soon the house became a warm, festooned place where I found myself drawing up my laptop and composing my thoughts.

What is it about these simple comforts of home which bring such peace and security?

While the cold rages outside, I find myself thinking of the countless blessings I’ve come to enjoy in my life. Granted—not all of them have been wonderful; however, they’ve been blessings all the same.

When I arrived at work this morning, my classroom was a dark and cold place as well. I ignited the varied lamps I’d brought, as well as the four-foot artificial tree flocked with snow and ashen lights. As I turned on that instrumental Christmas music, my classroom came to life. I was thinking that before I arrived, it was just a cold, hollow place—I thought of those cozy bookstores, or small shops we love to go to, and how that first person enters into that cold, lifeless place…and from there, it suddenly comes to life—somebody has to be the first.

By the time my students had arrived, it was warm—the cold edge was gone, and it felt like home. The light and feeling therein was welcoming. It was ready.

I had a Christmas earlier this year—I’d called it, “Christmas in September.” I said I’d post photos…or nearly enough. I didn’t. This doesn’t mean that I didn’t take any…only that I didn’t post any.


It’s amazing to me how the little things can escape from us, and we suddenly find ourselves running ragged and trying to catch up on all of our varied good intentions. Seems that there is always something more waiting in the wings for our attention to which we continually put off.

I had Peeps. They were frosted Christmas figures. They were from last year. I challenged my friend’s son, “Joey” to eat them. I’d even bribed him with a buck or two. I then told him I’d race him…

The Peeps were awful. The frosting had hardened. The marshmallow was crystallized sugar. The frosting cut into my gums and tasted like sweetened chalk.

I hate Peeps.

There is hamburger in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator waiting to be made into spaghetti sauce with basil and oregano. The Mint Bites on the kitchen counter are waiting to be consumed. Good friends will be here before I know it. But tonight I just wanted to speak out into that great space.

Why?

I cannot say, really. Only that tonight is going to be a great night. But only because I choose to make it so.

November 26, 2009

Pin It My mind is a tumult of thought.

I thought about Mom today; as I did, I found it strange that someone you care about in this life could suddenly be whisked away. Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of their voice might still be in existence…yet they are no longer with us.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to write about Mom, about how I’ve felt, about the good and the bad moments over the previous months since that fateful day this past summer. A whole lifetime has passed since those heartrending moments, and yet, it feels like it was only as long ago as a whisper shared amongst friends.

Time keeps going on whether or not we’d like it to.

The house was a melee of smells as family members were preparing the food for our Thanksgiving feast; however, I just felt that I needed to get out for a little while—to be alone—to think.

I decided to take out the trash.

I moved outside into the bitter crisp of November as the Thanksgiving wind buffeted me from all sides. In the distance, the pale light of the sun shone through the horizon’s misty clouds. I wanted that sun to bury its warmth deep into the empty and dark places of my soul. I stood, breathing in with lungs capable of still doing so, feeling the oxygen filling me.

I thought of the meal we were about to eat; the meal that she would not be taking a part in. It just seemed so inequitable, so unfair.

I retreated to my basement office to escape everyone and everything. I decided to organize files—as well as the accumulated slices of decades’ worth of living—to take my mind from the pummel of reflection. I settled down and found boxes rising about me in the minefield of disorganization…

Letters, photographs, various knickknacks and paddywhacks; they surrounded me like a vestibule of yesterday.

As I sifted though these fragments of my own life’s history, I felt myself remembering this particular student, that specific moment of childhood—a fragmented memory which had long-since been forgotten and lain dusty and dormant.

It wasn’t long before my dad came into the room.

Against the wall was a collection of artwork Dad had given to me on that last visit home, nestled amongst them were the sticheries, those which Arlene had done while she was still alive. Dad stared silently at each of these pieces in turn and then asked:

“Did you know that she wrote to you on the back of this one?”

I looked up from the papers I’d been sorting through, and shook my head. I arose from my place and moved slowly to where my dad was standing. The stichery was large, proclaiming “Welcome to the Zimmerman’s” proudly from its frame.

I turned the frame with trembling fingers and looked down at the brown paper backing. There, scrawled in curls I immediately recognized, I saw a message written to me. Mom had written it, she’d written sometime before—before the final days and moments that had taken her inescapably away.

I read over the note she’d written, my mouth dropping open. I was devoid of speech for several moments—I simply gazed at the writing before me.

And, just for a moment, she was there. Whispering those things I so much needed to hear, a message spoken from beyond the blistering confines of this thorny life.

When my dad departed from the room, I remained a few moments longer, gazing at the letter written to me.

I smiled.

Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of voices might still be in existence…and testaments of love will not be forgotten.

Darkness and Light

Pin It I hadn’t planned on posting tonight.

I’d planned on wallowing in a pool of self-pity.

Isn’t that the fashionable thing to do? After all, it’s all about being ‘in,’ right?

The past few days have been a battle for me...I’m not going to lie; it’s been a skirmish in endurance and perseverance.

…make that survival.

Do you ever find yourself in the midst of those days when you just feel that you can’t go any further? That you can’t do any more than what you’re already doing? That you have given your all, and it’s just not enough? That every time you start to get a bit ahead, you suddenly find yourself three steps behind where you originally thought you’d be? Then, to top it all off, when the day has ended, there is still far too much to do?

The inbox is still full.

The outbox is much too empty.

The dishes are piling up.

When you came to work the past few mornings, the sun still had at least an hour before it even considered coming over the horizon; then, when you left, it had set many hours before, leaving you in total darkness…

It’s been one of those days, for the past several days.

I came home tonight in darkness. I walked outside feeling as empty as the parking lot which was laid out before me, a shadowy reflection of myself in the twilight.

I closed my eyes, allowing it to drench me, to consume me, and overflow to capacity.

I breathed in the warm evening air.

I opened my car door and started the ignition, thinking of tomorrow. Despite it all, I smiled. I found myself taking comfort in the fact that a warm bed awaited me, and a new day was readying itself in the wings for the morrow. When I was to awaken, everything would begin again yet anew, and it would be better.

The sun would rise again…and when it did, I would see it.

Friends, there is light.

It really is contagious

Pin It A friend of mine—strange that I say friend when we’ve never met in the ‘real world,’ but we’ve had so many encounters while here in ‘the Matrix’ — so I choose to call her friend.

While on a visit to her realm of cyberspace a day or two ago, I perchance encountered a song she posted which I’d never heard before. This song has become somewhat of an anthem in my head for the past several days—a testament to what I believe music can truly do; which is to speak the message which our hearts feel, yet we just cannot express properly with words alone.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this weekend, mulling over those times when I have felt myself drug down into that well-known pit of bitterness and despair. Don’t think for a moment that I don’t have one of these places, for I do; a deep, darkened abode which I frequent on occasion. Anyone who has read over the summer experience back home understands just how far one can wander when a tragedy hits so close to those whom you love.

Life is not always easy.

Heaven knows this, and unfortunately, hell does too.

So why don’t I always blog about those experiences? Why don’t I talk incessantly about the times when I feel that I am trapped on the outside looking in? Why am I not continually sharing the moments when it seems that things are bleakest and there’s no hope? Because let’s be honest, those times are very real and DO happen.

Mostly it’s because I believe that standpoints are infectious; I believe that attitudes are contagious. I have the mindset that if I can strive to believe it, I can achieve it….wow, I’m starting to sound like one of those Hallmark cards, aren’t I?

Who is the person who generally holds me back when I am not able to do what it is that I should? Usually, if I’m honest with myself, it’s me. The sun can be shining, yet I can carry around a proverbial raincloud over my head if I so choose.

Please understand right now that my life isn’t all rainbows and kittens (thank goodness as I’m allergic to cats, and when you stop to think about it, rainbows fade with the passing of the rain). This isn’t anything I need to remind myself of, after all—it’s my life; however, on my blog (and from day to day) I try to focus on that which is good.

But why?

Because I believe that attitudes—like I said earlier—are infectious.

Case in point: When I was a boy, I remember being in school. It was amazing to me just how much power the teacher controlled in the classroom. True, while I as a student could select my own personal outlook, but that teacher had an incalculable power to plot out the road-map for the day. If Mr. Miller, my sixth grade teacher, was excited and enthusiastic, it made it so much easier for me to be so as well; however, if he was complaining about his problems, or about how much he hated the job of teaching us, that attitude would have been transmitted to his students as well.

I cannot control others, I can only control myself. And that is a full-time job. When I go to school, I have two dozen students who look to me to set the stage for the day—I choose to have a good attitude and get them in the right mindset. It is from there that they must take the reigns and decide how they will respond.

Believe it or not, I hadn’t planned on writing all of this today—I really hadn’t, but I did. I’d only planned on sharing a song. But anyhow, there it is.

Attitudes are contagious, make yours worth catching today.

And if you’re having what I call a ‘rainy day’ this might help; however, remember the challenge…don’t click unless you’re serious.

Canyons

Pin It Strains of Billy Joel accompanied me as I drove along Alpine Loop’s twisting and tendrilish roadway—switchbacks hugging the mountains to the east of Timpanogos; traveling amongst the brightly-lit fireworks display of autumn which once-again graced the threshold of that place where summer departs and fall begins.

The waning day’s light was subdued as it reached over the distant hills, finally winking out of view to whisper back the night.

The world is content, and so am I.

…and life is good.

Repost - Adventures and Misadventures of What?

Pin It Originally posted on August 26, 2008

I wrote this just over a year ago at the commencement of a new school year. I was just starting out at a new school; it was a brand-new adventure...

So, Teachinfourth…the name of your blog is “Adventures & Misadventures of Daily Living” yet you don’t post every day. Why is that? Can it really be daily adventures if you don’t blog about these experiences?

Ah, quite the astute observation my friend.

Whist I admit that I don’t blog every day, I am trying to do something a little bit different…every day I am trying to live my life. There are adventures to be had and I can’t recall how many of these I have let pass me up; usually because of something which seemed so pressing, or because of my very innate nature which causes me to hold back at times.

When I was walking up to my place of work a day or four ago, I caught my eye in the glass entry doors. I gazed back at the young man standing before me, laden down with his laptop, camera case, and a bag full of school books. I stood there for very nearly a minute…it was as if I could see beyond my reflection…into something much deeper.

As I looked back into the eyes of my unmoving reflection, I was taken with this thought, “You only have one life, and you’re only young once. You need to be living that life for all it’s worth.”

I won’t say that it was a voice which spoke, because it wasn’t…however, it was something which struck me with a harsh realization, like a gust of icy-cold wind in the middle of August. That realization was that I have not always been living the adventure known as life.

Maybe these thoughts were the result of my witnessing some of the terrible things to people around me, or maybe it was because of the feeling of my own mortality, but regardless of the reason, it hit me all the same.

You, like me, only have one life…are you living yours?

Repost : Blogs - Serials of Society

Pin It Originally posted on Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Why do I like to read blogs? Interesting question…really.

I guess you could say that I relate blogs as serials of a society. Blogs, like syndicated programs I love to watch, allow me to know more about certain characters, about their interests, quirks, and even moments of frustration and achievement in their day-to-day living. Like favorite programs, I have my favorite blogs as well. However, I look forward to reading all of the blogs on my subscription list (currently at an undisclosed number). Some of these ‘shows’ are on more frequently, while others only have a special which comes on every once and great while (ex; Yancy’s Christmas Special).

In the words of Will from the movie, About a Boy: “The thing is, a person’s life is like a TV show. I was the star of The Will Show. And The Will Show wasn't an ensemble drama. Guests came and went, but I was the regular. It came down to me and me alone…”

Blogs, like shows, have their major and minor characters…those whom we’ve become endeared to—though perhaps we’ve never before met them. They are the characters we laugh with at the good times, mourn with when there’s tragedy, and stand up and cheer for when they rise up against the odds.

You know what though? The ‘show’ would not be worth watching if it weren’t for the good times, as well as the bad. We need both to recognize the other—and to appreciate them. I never feel so good about feeling well as I do right after I’ve just been sick.

There have been times over the pasts few years when some my favorite ‘characters’ have taken a turn for the worst, are met up with insurmountable odds and trials, or quite simply, jumped in the lineup for a cancellation.

I guess I write this because I need to remind myself that a serial does not have a happy ending…at least, not yet. Sure, there are those episodes which make us feel good at the end when the credits start to roll, but there are others which leave us feeling frustrated or upset.

Just know that the writers will eventually get past that particular hurtful episode, and will get it right. But in the meantime, don’t cancel your show just yet.

Moments that matter

Pin It There are moments.

Moments that occur in our lives which can define us.

It is through these little instances that our lives become intertwined with others, where we mix the colors of our life sketches together for short or extended periods with those which may or may not be family members. It is in these small, perhaps seemingly insignificant moments that we mold ourselves—or even those around us—into the type of individuals we will all one day become.

These are the moments which matter.

I switched on my computer this afternoon and logged into my Facebook account—I wanted to check the activity on the site when I noticed that an old student and boy I’d mentored several years ago had tagged me in a photo. I clicked on the link and was a bit surprised when I was greeted with this image:


I scanned the photo and started to read over the descriptions; as I moved the mouse over the picture, I noticed that names would pop up—squares which had been tagged by people, as friends or acquaintances of theirs who’d fit the description of said box.

When I scrolled over one of the boxes a name popped up I recognized.


The name was mine.

I sat, staring at the screen for several moments in bewildered silence.

I was speechless.

I hadn’t seen the young man who’d done the tagging of this particular image for quite some time; but I thought of many of the experiences we’d had in the mentoring program over the years—all of the good times—as well as the struggles and hardships over the five years I’d worked with him as a young boy growing into adolescence.

I have not been his mentor for a few years now. I have not been his teacher for even more of those years—yet there was something I did which made a difference, something he still remembers.

I am still speechless.

I am reminded of what I said a while ago when someone asked me what my future goals were in regards to my life; to this I responded: I plan to one day take the ultimate photograph, to have a student come back after graduating high school because I made a difference in his or her life, to see each kid in my class feel a sense of belonging, and to get up each morning with a smile on my face and project that into the lives of those around me.

These are the moments…

The call

Pin It I drove.

The open road was beckoning to me.

I heeded its call.

To fields of sunset-drenched wheat…

Warm summer winds blowing away my frustrations…

A Cannon Mark II camera…

Biting red ants climbing on my legs in the long grass on the roadside.

…euphoria.

Hide and Seek

Pin It I had a dream last night.

I was playing hide-and-seek; odd that I’d dream about childhood games, isn’t it?

I was playing with a large group of people from various periods and places in my life—we all dashed and hid when it came time for the game to be set into motion. Sometimes there were those of us who chose to hide together—sometimes apart.

As I looked at the other players, I realized that there were all ages represented; I even spotted a student who was to be in my class this next school year. As the game went on, new players joined in from time to time, and the activity just got better and better.

It wasn’t long before I noticed players leaving the game—not to return. These players were called away by parents because of the lateness of the hour. These players had varied reactions to being taken from the activity; some of them would laugh and run to greet their parents to be taken home, while others would be upset that it was time to go and beg for a few more minutes.

However, when the remaining players were accounted for, the game would continue on as if there had been no interruption.

I awoke from my dream sometime this morning, not certain if I’d really been dreaming or not. It had all been so vivid, so real. I lay there silently as the early morning light danced on the other side of my eyelids, tempted to remain in the moment but then arose from my bed.

For some of us, the game goes on.