The Ink-Think Emporium

I love the smell of fresh rain. It speaks of newness to me—of the kind of cleanliness that can beat down dust-dry odors, christening the day with a kiss of holy water, sprinkled in wild abandon from above.

When I was a boy, I had an idea. Standing in a down-pour one day, I decided I would create a lemonade stand unlike no other. I would give chase to the black-bull clouds that stalked the greens of spring, lay my tables bare to the sky, and prime each cup with golden lemon nectar—just enough sugar in the mix to keep the taste tart, but palatable. When the drops began to fall, I would collect them in cup after cup, until the table was full. Then up would go my umbrella, and out would go my sign: “Rain-fresh Lemonade!”

The stand never happened. It seems that daydreams of youth are often too colorful to capture. But I think back on them each spring when the rains start. I breathe in that smell and my mind explodes in watercolor caricatures, probing the scenes like a ringmaster probes faded posters on a carnival wall.

Rain-fresh lemonade… Eyes come to rest on the rim of an empty cup. It follows the fluid curves of the cup, caressing with sight as suddenly, hands are everywhere—at the fridge for ripe, yellow fruit, at the drawer for the knife: slice, squeeze, a tiny spoon for sugar, just enough in the mix… I open the back screen and thrust out a bare arm like Zeus throwing a lightening bolt from Olympus. I hold the cup steady, studying, watching the rivulets of rain form on my wrists and frolic on my fingers. I must be careful, selecting, collecting, combining with my little sugar spoon until the feast is ready. Then, trembling with the trust of expectations, I pull the brew in, I close my eyes, and I drink.  

A new year begins with the magic of quiet dawn. We watch with wonder, with rejoicing, with perhaps even hesitation. What will this new year bring? Will we find the change we seek in our hearts? The days of this new year wait like an unwrapped gift on the path before us—shining, bright, an unfulfilled promise with potential to bring hope to a sometimes dark and confusing world.

On the threshold of 2013, we pause to give thought to where past years have taken us, to what time has allowed us to become. Perhaps we see gaps, we see holes in the me we hoped we would see. Perhaps we find ourselves falling short of the me we thought we would be. 

Is it good to scrutinize ourselves so closely on this day? Should the dawn of this day be different from the dawn of any other?

I would say the answer is a resounding “Yes!”

I think we need to take periodic opportunities to look hard at ourselves. Like tuning a well-used piano each year, we may come to realize that some of our thinking has drifted and soured. We may even find ourselves staring in our minds at the words of the Once-ler from Dr. Suess’s classic “The Lorax.” Remember those words? Carved in stone at the foot of his tower, the words read, “If Only.”

These are words that can easily haunt us if we’re not careful. “If only I…” “If only they…” “If only we„, If only, if only, if only…”

The words come with pain, longing, disappointment, sometimes anger, often regret. They whisper of things that are, of things that can no longer be changed.

But this is the new year. This is the magic moment. This is the great tipping point where construction can alter the nature of reckoning. We have power to change. In truth, we have power to change every moment, every morning, every day, but we forget that. We get so busy, so caught in the rutts of reality that we find it hard to step back, to evaluate, to counter and correct our paths. Pinned against the seat by the inertia of day to day minutia, we fail to act. But this is the New Year, a day to stop, to reflect—a chance to act.

We can rearrange the words of the wise old Once-Ler. We can look forward with hope and say “Only if…” What power this simple change in word order brings to our minds! We suddenly have power to change the order in which we do things, the order in which we act! Instead of waiting until it is too late, we are free to begin now with the task of reconstructing our world from the inside-out. By placing a focus on us, on what we are doing this moment, we limit the ability of circumstance and chance to impact us later on. We take control of our destiny by fully utilizing every opportunity of today, and in so doing, we find that we are building a stronger hope for tomorrow. The truth becomes evident—as we change ourselves, we change our world.

My hope for this New Year is that we (starting with me) find the will to build a better world by claiming the power to build a better us. As we change the way we view what life may bring, the way we react to challenges we face in the now, we will alter, ever so slightly, the text of time. There are wonderful dreams can we realize as a nation, as a people, when the goal cupped in our hearts is emblazoned on a path which we control, a path fortified by the conscious acts of today, by the magic “only if …”

May it be so is my prayer for 2013.

A wise teacher once told me that the older we get, the shorter a day becomes. That seemed like a strange comment to me. After all, there are the same 24 hours in every day, no matter who you are, or how old you might be. Not so, claimed my friend. “On your first day of life,” he reasoned, “a day is your entire life. Comparatively speaking, on the second day of your life, a day is only half of your life. On the hundredth day of your life, a day is one hundredth of your entire experience, and so on.”

He offered statistics to support the assumption that, as our days get comparatively shorter,  our ability to learn, and to improve ourselves in a single day diminishes. Why? Twenty-four hours is still twenty-four hours. Is there not enough to learn in the universe to keep us continually busy? Do we reach such perfection that we no longer need to improve?

Watch a child go through the line at a frozen yogurt shop. They pick multiple flavors, pile on all kinds of colorful topping, then scoop the concoctions into their mouths as fast as they can swallow. When they are done, there is a pleasant, contented smile, and bits of the yogurt and toppings worn across the face like a General’s medals. 

That’s how ice cream should be eaten, I think. With gusto, excitement, anticipation, complete and utter enjoyment in this exploration of delight.

Watch that same child go through the same shop as an adult. They are more selective, aware of the costs associated with the desert. They skimp on topping, aware of the calories associated with the desert. They nibble at the mixture slowly, aware of the public around them and concerned that they may look piggish or ill mannered. They carefully wipe their mouths, as if ashamed of this moment of indulgence.

What makes the difference? I think it all comes down to risk. The more we know, the more we become concerned about risk, about the possibility of failure. Imagine an infant analyzing the risks associated with learning to talk. What if they knew all the possible ways speech could cause them trouble or cause them pain. Would they ever really learn to talk? How many adults lose the ability to freely converse as they become more adept at analyzing the risks of interpersonal communication?

Comparatively speaking, ice cream doesn’t change. The hours in our day haven’t changed since we were younger. They aren’t any shorter or longer. We, on the other hand, have changed. We’ve somehow lost faith in ourselves, in our world, in our God. We’ve forgotten that failure is nothing more than the foundations of eventual success. We want to grow, to improve, but we want to do it without risk, with the deck stacked in our favor. When we see this can’t be done, we slow, we waiver, we atrophy. 

I’m going out for ice cream tonight. I’m going to eat my fill and enjoy every bite, and not care if I have an ice cream smile when I’m done. I am going to make sure that the one thing everyone who watches me will know is that, if ice cream is eaten right, it brings power to the soul. 

We need that kind of inner power—if only to put away the agonizing hours of analysis and paralysis; if only to realize that living is all about the art of eating ice cream.

“This is my quest, to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far…” (from the musical Man of La Mancha)

Quest; I love that word. It so defines life. For some, it defines a race toward fortune and fame. Once they find it, though, most start using words like “empty” and “pointless” to describe how miserable they are. Oh, but they did have a good time getting here!

For others, life is a quest for universal understanding, for inner peace. They want to discuss things like “fulfillment” and “tranquility” with you, often alluding to the importance of their suffering and pain. Misery for these, it seems, is a way to cleanse their souls and sharpen their senses.

Then there are those of us somewhere in the middle. Yes, we’re talking about the middle-aged, middle income, middle American, middle of the road, middle of the bus, (some of us a little robust around the middle) group. What is our quest? We aren’t interested in the mad dash to endless regret, nor do we feel inclined to seek depravity as a way of reaching nirvana. We use words like “responsibility” and “practicality” interchangeably.

For many in the middle, the word “quest” has been replaced by another word; “test.” We imagine the ultimate judge up there, his pencil hovering between two check-boxes; Okay—as much as I want to, I will not kill the cat for vomiting on the carpet—pass; Forget about the diet; today I need chocolate!–fail. The pressure of the pencil point is forever hanging over us, judging every act every day.

Is it any wonder the idea of quest becomes a little fuzzy in the middle? At mid-life, we’ve lost a sense of the once brilliant sunrise. We aren’t pushing at the horizon either, experiencing the subtle glow of the sunset. We’re at high-noon, a time when you don’t worry about the sun. You just go out there and face the world, guns blazing. Keeping on-track, on-time, on-task, online, keeps us from being off our rockers.

Here’s a thought to you middle of the roaders; what if the pencil up there isn’t checking boxes at all? What if it’s sketching pictures—eyes, faces, smiles? What if it’s watching all our scurrying about and tracing our patterns? Do you know that out of the millions of snowflakes that fall this year, it is a statistical improbability that any two snowflakes will ever be exactly alike? Out of the million, zillion that have fallen on this earth, each had minute differences that made them wholly unique. Wouldn’t capturing that uniqueness be more valuable than all the check boxes that ever were?

So, my friends, maybe instead of fretting about our daily score, we should spend a little time thinking of the patterns we weave. Who knows; maybe we’ll find in the colors of our unique tapestry a quest, already begun.

Dreams, it seems, aren’t meant to last

But must be built anew each day;

Built and loved, then swept away

‘Til swollen eyes begin to see

The beauty in asymmetry…”

We don’t live in a perfect world. While we would like to think a new year means new, different, better in a hundred ways, the truth is that much of our lives will be pretty much the same this year. We’ll wake, we’ll sleep. We’ll laugh, we’ll cry. We’ll work, we’ll play. We’ll grow up, we’ll grow old. Only occasionally, along the way, will moments arise that make life worth living. Like grand castles, forming up out of the dull, wet sand, we’ll stare at these with wonder and appreciation. It’s important that we remember where these moments come from. They are, after all, but skillfully shaped sand, resting precarious, only inches from the poundings of life’s restless sea. In its turn, each castles will fall, reclaimed again by time’s ceaseless tide.

But that’s the point, really, isn’t it? Castles are built. Above all else, we, as humanity, are builders. In building with clay and sand, with seed and sinew, with toughness and tear, we somehow move beyond the elements we shape and give texture to the untouchable—we carve out hope; we structure grand and glorious dreams.

So, my good friend; my wish for you is not a happy new year. As one builder to another, I wish for you the restlessness of hope, the ceaselessness of dreams. I wish you the courage to build, and build, and build again…

For hidden there within the heart

Each castle built becomes a part

Of life’s grand magic tapestry—

The builder built

By ceaseless sea... 

I have never forgotten a walk I had with my then five-year old son. We were walking around a small lake when he asked me if we might see a whale in the lake. I explained to him that whales were too big to fit in such a small lake—that they needed hundreds of miles of open ocean to roam in. He asked, “Well, why doesn’t God just give us compact whales for our little lake?”

As I contemplated his question, I realized that he was thinking of the wonder of this behemoth of beasts and wanted God to give us an accessible glimpse of its majesty.

At Christmas, I can’t help but think of the wonder of Christ—of that bright star and little babe, and the man who grew from grace to grace to become a central figure in the story of mankind. Like the majestic whale, I cannot think of His life and teaching without a sense of awe. While I wasn’t able to observe first hand His ministry on earth, God has still blessed my life with His presence. I have known many a “compact whales” who have helped me feel of His majesty and love in this little lake of my life.

Today’s entry, then, is dedicated to all the “compact whales” out there—those who do not need a specific holiday to show brotherly kindness and a dedication toward peace on earth.  Thank you for being God’s hand in our lives. May you each have a joyous Christmas season and a wondrous New Year.

tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT?

Pen

December 1, 2011 

For years, friends and fellow writers alike have been telling me, “Get a blog.” I have stubbornly resisted the notion. Asking someone to read a story I’ve spent countless hours plotting, editing, and polishing is one thing. Putting out periodic ramblings to the world that are more or less raw musings and impressions seems a very different thing. What changed my mind?  A conversation I had with my friend, the Gray-haired Man, from my Paperwood series:

GHM: You may have physical substance, but you occupy a very small space.

Me: What?

GHM: You think yourself superior because you have physical form and I must live only clothed in words. Yet, in my ink, I travel much farther and much faster than you can in your form. I am unfettered by financial means, by familial ties, by politics or pretense. I can move freely in my naked words, seeing out through the eyes of thousands, even hundreds of thousands of your kind, contemplating your narrow planes of orbit. Why would I want to be like you?

Me: Yes, why?

GHM: There is a reason. It is the latter part of the phrase, “I think, therefore, I am…” However narrow the orbit, substance is the natural yearning of those who would inch themselves along the creative climb we call life. Thought reaches for word. Word clothes itself in ink. Ink rears its face as character. Character searches for story. Story finds rhythm with melody. Melody reshapes its ink into note. Note clings to the page as accompaniment…and so the slow march continues, each step along the long climb a miracle of progressive replication. We replicate to form distinction across a canvass of oblivion. Replication, not polish, is what allows us to be. You are a writer. Write.

I have decided to listen to my wise friend. I may not blog daily, or even weekly, but I will write, if only to see the firework imprints of my soul take shape and, in some cases, progress along the slow path toward that thing we would call “real.” You may even have a part in this. After all, what we replicate is shaped by what we consume. It is not my intent, however, to speculate over the fate of my words. I can only be true to my call. I am a writer. I must write.