zen and the art of intentional procrastination

* Updated at the bottom

It takes a lot of effort to prioritize. There’s the judging, and the weighing, and the balancing and contrasting. One must take into consideration scenarios both probable and im-, measure the potential consequences of each choice carefully, count the cost of each path not chosen, consider the ramifications.

It’s an awful lot of work.

almost a manifesto

Let me see if I can crystallize this…[1]

The path is not a competition, with others or self. It’s just a fucking path. Walk it or don’t, but don’t think there’s any kind of winning involved.

Accomplishment should be intensely personal. Those who will know about it by proximity are really the only ones that need to know.

If one listens to sycophants, one must give equal time to critics. Best, if possible, to ignore both (except for required civility).

If it’s hard and level and predictable, it’s not the path; it's a sidewalk. Turn left (metaphorically speaking) now.

Figure out what you’d bleed for and you’re on the way to figuring out your path. Besides, if you bleed, it’s a sport, and everything sporty is more fun.

Scars are tattoos that you earn.[2]

We do not fall so that we can learn how to get up. We fall because we trip, or drink too much, or get hit on the head. If you can learn to get up from falling, good on ya, but that’s not why you fell. Shit just happens sometimes.

Everything’s eventual, so don’t panic. A mountain in the way just means you have to switch to climbing shoes. Think of it as a great thing, like an unbirthday present.

The shortest distance between two points is fucking boring anyway.[3]

Climbing teaches us that falling doesn’t hurt. It’s the landing that does that. You’ll either survive the landing and get to quote Nietzsche for the rest of your life in an intensely personal way, or you won’t survive and, subsequently, won’t give a damn.

The journey means that mile markers are quaint novelties, not something to dance about. Mile markers just say “I’ve come this far”, but the truth is that they also mean there’s farther to go. The only one worth dancing about is the one that says “The End”.

There isn’t a mile marker that says “The End”. Not one we get to see anyway.

If you need a reason to dance, dance about the love you’ve given and received. It’s the best motivation anyway.

One of the best things about the no winning and no ending concepts is that you never lose and you always have more time to learn and grow. And that’s all that matters.[4]

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[1] Just for me, of course. I’m not referencing anything specifically except the bumper sticker, but chances are I’m plagiarizing something because, frankly, it’s all been said. So I claim nothing as original here, at all. Read at your own risk.

[2] My favorite bumper sticker. Ever. Even more than the one on my laptop: Kill your television

[3] Very sure I read this somewhere. Just can’t remember for the life of me where.

[4] Just, of course, my opinion. What the fuck do I know… J

love in mexico…

I was thinking about balance and careers yesterday. About how I could learn to hate something I love if I fell into treating it like a career.

I think my vacation metamorphosized into an open yet sub-conscious rebellion, one that is tempting me away from getting back into a blogging routine, from committed Twitter sessions, from freelance contracts, and absolutely, without equivocation, from dealing stupid cards at the stupid casino.

And then I remembered that I still hadn’t finished blogging about Mexico and the wedding. The wedding deserves a post of its own, as do the amazing people that made the trek to be there, but I’ve been lolly-gagging for a whole week now, laying back, enjoying the slow current, not worrying about where exactly it was taking me. Languishing. Happily…

Yesterday, driving into to Kelowna to meet an old friend for coffee, I realized this was happening – this sub-conscious resistance – and allowed myself to explore it, feel it, probe it  with my mind’s tongue, as if it were a cavity or a chipped tooth. I found a photo-album in a crevice and opened a mental folder full of those things I’d promised myself when the life inversion started: that this was about creativity, about creating; that success would be measured in days wearing flip-flops, not by counts of commas and zeroes; that victory would be measured in sighs and smiles; that I would not miss the ties or ever be sucked into thinking they were important, at all, ever again…

If you’ve seen the pictures on Facebook (and if not, why aren’t we friends yet? See below and to the right), you already know that the wedding was amazing. Beautiful. Awe-inspiring. Travis, my brother, and Kate, his bride (my new sister) have a unique love. They’re both thirty-ish, so they waited long enough to know. They’ve been together for six years, so they made sure. And they’ve already weathered storms, so they know how to find their way out/hold on/let go when those hurricanes inevitably hit.

I think that they have the real thing, found it and grabbed on and made it their own. They awe me, did I mention that? But I knew that going in. Their love is wonderful to watch, and it does awe me, but it doesn’t surprise me any more. 

Here’s what did: Their friends. Thirty-six of us made the trip to Mexico. Eleven of us were family. That  means that twenty-five friends – co-workers, buddies, amigos, bff’s, what have you – took the time off and forked out the money to travel and stay so that they could be there for a wedding. Consider that six of the people all work at the same salon in West Van, including the owner, and that she actually closed the salon down for the whole week, and an image begins to form of a very tight group.

I was never one to belong to large groups of friends, at least not with any aplomb. I was a fringe-er, a hanger-on at best. Mostly, I was just a loner. Loners, no matter how imagined, rationalized, or real their comfort with solitude, still have moments when they envy those idealized group dynamics. Mostly we tell ourselves that those perfect group moments only exist in ‘90’s sit-coms and movies.

Subsequently, I spent a week in Mexico in blissful envy, happily a fringe-er again, on the fringe of something unique.

I once wrote a post about a Japanese proverb regarding gauging the character of a person by the quality of their friends and I was reminded of it again and again. I wrote then that I have amazing friends, and I stand by it. But I have those friends in ones and twos, scattered across a wide geography.

To see that depth and quality of friendship concentrated among friends that live a work together daily was, well, weird in a beautiful way. That shit’s not supposed to happen in real life. My brother Troy, who acted as best man, noticed it and mentioned it in his speech. The parents all see it. I’m not hallucinating, not alone. It’s abnormal in the best ways.

So this is a toast, sort of, to Trav and Kate who are indescribably beautiful to me, and to their friends, whom I hope (and believe) appreciate how rare and precious is their love for one another…

And I thought, yesterday, maybe it was the quality of that time away that was making me reluctant to get back into the swing, to lean into the yoke, to bend to the plow. And, of course, it was, at least in part. But if I’m doing what I love then why would I resist at all? And I thought; maybe I’m just not quite doing it right. Maybe I’m off mission again, just a bit. Or worse: Maybe I’m trying to turn it into a mission.

I’ve been dancing around this concept for months now, rebelling against concepts of efficient utilization of social media, against the idea that writing is a career, or even a vocation (which is ostensibly better, like it involves a calling or something). But I think that I rebel against the idea that something I do could or would ever define me. That’s absolutely not what the inversion was about.

Writing was and is a facet of that, telling stories, reaching out – absolutely a part and, hopefully, one that funds the rest of it – but it doesn’t define me. I don’t ever want to work that hard at it, devote so much time to it that anything else has to suffer.

The inversion was about searching for an authentic life, a creative one, full of adventure and markedly lacking in the kind of focused self-discipline that results in dynamic careers. That kind of thing works fine for many people, and I’m not knocking it, but it’s not for me. At. All.

No more ties. No posting schedules. No worrying. Flip-flops always unless the activity requires something technical or the snow is deeper than a three centimeters. Zero pretense. Heavy on the adventure.

The inversion was and is supposed to be about no reserve, no retreat, and no regret. Good choices, no monopolies, all variation, always looking for the next adventure, perpetually learning. No rules. Living it, not achieving it.

I may need a new tattoo to remember this.

So here's to life and love. And let the cards fall where they may…

what happens in mexico...

...stays in Mexico. Screw that.

Apparently that rule is now ubiquitous: Just insert name of destination as applicable. I kinda don’t get it, that rule. I know why it exists, but even if nobody says anything, the participants still know, don’t they? Unless there was an actual blackout involved – a relatively rare phenomena – most of the claimed amnesia is voluntary. Denial by any other name and all that…

Anyway, that rule’s bullshit if you have a writer in the party. Everyone knows that, right? I hope everyone knows that. If they don’t, it’ll be okay because nobody that was there reads my blog anyway, and I had the only laptop.

We were, apparently, testing the “bad things come in three’s” rule of the universe last week. The rule held, and the rest of the week was utterly amazing or we’d have been in serious shit, because all three occurred in one day, on our first full day there.

First, the arrival festivities went full late on Friday night, starting with ridicu-cheap beer on the bus from the airport. The hard partiers had their full drink on before we even arrived at the resort 90-minutes later. By 2:00am, when the die-hards – including my middle brother, Troy, who became the first casualty – were leaving the on-site club, sound judgment and a basic understanding of physics had become entirely optional.

The story I got from a couple witnesses went something like this:

“So, Troy got on the shuttle in front of us, looked around as the shuttle started up, said something about somebody not being there – but without consonants – and then, as the shuttle reached top speed, jumped off.” The result was reportedly something akin to an ostrich diving into a full on cheese grater. Troy said he was going for a tuck and roll as he was falling. Instead he used his knee and elbows as brakes. When he stumbled into the room a little while later, kindly dropped off by one of the hotel staff, he was still lacking the power of consonants and had a really nice, deep abrasion on his knee that he bumped several times while trying to find his bed.

I made sure he wasn’t going to die, then put my earbuds in and turned up the tunes.

Even with the iPod, I have to say, nothing tests brotherly love like drunk snoring. Just for the record.

Silly me, I assumed that the general state of annihilation would result in a late start on Saturday for all those who made it to the end of the evening. I clearly underestimated the level of partying expertise assembled at this shindig, because the breakfast table was full. By lunch, we were all at the pool (the one with the swim-up bar, of course).

Bad thing number two happened when one of the lovely ladies stubbed her toe on the stump of a dead tree and kinda ripped most of the end of it off. There was blood and swearing, but she came back a little while later with a nice big bandage. We drew a happy face on it and had to carry her to the pool’s island so she could lounge. 

No pics of that one. Sorry. I'll make it up to you. Right. Now.

Bad thing number three is funny now, but could have been far, far worse. The resort has activities staff to keep us happy and, well, active. Around 5:00 or so, they decided that it was time for a belly flop competition. Five different guys, mostly in profound states of drunk-assedness, volunteered to compete. Number one was a guy with us: Koji. Koji moved a couple tables so he could get a massive run at the pool.

I know, you think you see it coming, but you don’t.

His first effort was a perfect, epic bellyflop, including about ten-feet of air. It was awesome. Then the other guys went. In my biased opinion, none of their flops matched Koji’s, but this was a crowd-judged event and one of the other guys had more friends there. Koji was relegated to second place. Koji is a bit competitive, so naturally he prepped up for a second attempt.

There was a run again, and then an attempted back flip, the idea being a reverse flop, a gainer. He made it about two thirds of the way through the flip and entered the pool.

I should clarify that this pool is three feet deep. It begs the question as to why they would ask drunk people to do silly jumps into it, and add the pressure of competition, but it is what it is. Koji’s trajectory took him straight to the bottom of the pool, top first. He was also in the layback position, arms at his sides, so the first thing that found the bottom of the pool was, naturally, his head.

Like I said, it could have been much, much worse. Instead of the worst case, Koji bounced up, hands in the air, screaming his barbaric yawp of victory. He might have noticed something wrong when there was no cheering to meet him. I think everyone watching was doing the McAuley Kaulkin, hands to face, mouth wide open. While Koji had fortuitously escaped a broken neck or fractured skull, he had managed to rip open a six-inch split that was bleeding the way only head wounds can bleed, and offering a fairly good view of a portion of his skull.

I know. Crazy.

There was a scream or two, and frantic calls for a medic, and a really expensive ambulance ride, and nineteen stitches, but we were all just happy that he could laugh about it when he got back.. Koji was happy that his alcohol imbibation proscription would be over before the next hockey game.

So yeah, bad things, in three’s, really glad that held true. There was plenty of drama as it was. And, you know, a wedding to take care of…

More on that next time. J

chasing dragons

When I was fourteen or so, back in the days of Mom’s heroics, I fell into a fairly profound depression that lasted for about six years. As amazing as her actions to keep us roofed and clothed and fed were, as super-human as her efforts to care for our schizophrenic borders were, the effort took its toll too. There were large rents in the fabric of our lives, and I slipped through a few of them.

Mom never knew how bad it was at the time. We’ve talked about it since, cried and accepted and forgiven each other for the missteps and gaps. That’s all there was to do.

There’s no such thing as a normal life anyway. TV is just theatre. I’ve never met anyone that had a “normal” childhood.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m thankful for what we had. It could have been worse. I was cared for and provided for, and I learned autonomy early. I was perhaps neglected in some ways, trusted by default to find my way, but never abused. I always knew I was loved.

But I had a serious mind, and it led me to dark places, and Mom had her own demons to struggle with. I survived it. Barely, I realized later, looking back. There were close calls. But I survived. We both did.

After the accident, when my marriage was falling apart, there was another depression. This time I was able to get help and it was shorter, but the return to depression had been unsettling. Profoundly unsettling. Walking over your own grave unsettling.

Looking back on the last couple months, and especially weeks, I realize now that I was starting to feel a fear, in the back of my head where I couldn’t quite reach it, that I was sliding down the rabbit hole again. That I was falling into pits too deep for me to extricate myself from. That I was slipping away and that all the work I thought I’d done had obviously not been as complete as I’d thought. (And, of course, it isn’t complete, never is, but that’s okay and a different thing all together anyway.) With words all dried up, even the desire to write absent, I was getting very worried that something was seriously wrong.

I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself or anyone else. My friends were worried, I could tell. But I just curled in. It’s what I usually do; try to fix it myself for as long as I can. It generally works, even if it’s not a perfect system. Knowing that support is ready and waiting is usually enough. I still have all those ingrained habits of (perhaps unhealthy) autonomy though. It’s what I do.

But it wasn’t a slip into depression this last few weeks. It was just the mother of all colds, or maybe an inconvenient string of them. I woke up Wednesday and felt human for the first time in a while, then felt better yesterday, and today I’m feeling practically normal.

And I’m breathing heavy sighs of relief.

From here, coming out the other side, I can see that my malaise wasn’t a descent into darkness. The fear was unfounded. But it was there. That’s worth taking note of. I’m taking notes. There’s (always) still work to do.

But there’s good news in this too. When I was telling myself and everyone else that it was just a cold, I was right. While I may have a fear of some of the dark places I’ve lived in, I’m not the person that fell into those pits anymore. Who I was doesn’t define who I am.

And I think I feel pretty damned good about that.

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P.S. I finished the full reading and notes for the manuscript draft today. The last revisions before beta reading start on Monday.

trust your friends

A brilliant friend of mine, Judy Clemet Wall, posted a beautiful blog earlier today chronicling the Ten Things She’d Do if she could. She’s a wonderful writer and just reading her list was (and is) inspiring. When you’re done here and have left a comment, I’d highly recommend popping over to Zebra Sounds ,checking it out and giving her a follow.

One of her ten things, a truly remarkable and beautiful thing, was this:

“I’d loan my eyes to some people I love so they could see how beautiful they are.”

I know. Fucking awesome, isn’t it?

That item informed a brief online conversation about wishing that we could actually do that; share in some fundamental, elemental way how much we appreciated certain people so that they could, in essence, see themselves as we see them, as we love them, as we appreciate them. It would be an inestimable gift to be able to express our respect and love that clearly, on demand, and shoot it out when it was most needed like a love missile.

No… dirty, dirty… not that kind of love missile. A deeply honest, positive regard smartbomb kind of missile.

And then I had this thought:

What if we tried seeing ourselves as others saw us once and a while, not assuming the worst (as is usually my inclination), but instead seeing the best? You know, actually believing the things that people say to encourage us instead of just brushing them off in some sort of ode to humility.

How many people do you know that have heard and ignored the same, consistent advice and encouragement from their friends and then, like a bolt out of a clear blue sky, finally get it when they hear the same advice from a therapist, or a counselor, or a book, or even on Oprah, ferchrissakes.

Yeah, you’re nodding your head now. I know. Me too. We’re way to willing to accept negative opinions from anywhere, and way to slow to accept positive ones from the people we trust most. Tell me how that makes sense.

This isn’t a self-affirmation thing. I’m not suggesting that you are a precious and unique snowflake. I’m not talking about flowery expressions of positive self-regard here. I’m not telling you to say nice things to yourself or apply the law of attraction. This isn’t about giving your self a hug or creating a self-realization mantra and saying it three times before your next job interview.

I just wonder what it would look like if we stopped once and a while, really stopped dead still, and then saw ourselves through the eyes of the people that care most for us. There’d be some honest, realistic critical observation in that view, sure, but I think we’d also be struck dumb. I think we’d have to just sit down and weep for the overwhelming joy of the love we’d feel. I think it would break us in the most complete and wonderful ways.

So here’s a thought exercise: Try to remember the last few compliments you’ve received from people you respect, admire, love and/or trust. Make them into a sentence about yourself. Like this:

“I am pretty, sensitive and I write like a motherfucker.” *

Or:

“I am strong, punctual and I work harder than anyone my friends know.” *

Or:

“I am creative, have great hands and am profoundly empathic.” *

Whatever…Do it. I dare ya.

And when you have your sentence of compliments, think about it. You don’t have to repeat it to yourself. Just think about it. Just stop… and think about it. Let it settle on you. Accept that your friends or family or boss actually think that about you, think you're pretty fucking wonderful in your own inimitable way. They sit alone sometimes and think, like Judy does, like you do about those you love, “I wish I could give them my eyes so they could see how beautiful they are.”

Thanks Judy. You’re amazing.

* These are not necessarily autobiographical in any way.

“When the character of a man is not clear to you, look at his friends.” Japanese Proverb

I have some truly remarkable friends, and when I say that I’m also pleased to count my family among them. I’m not sure this is an accurate reflection of my character, but if it were the best measure, I’d be full to the brim.

I’m not talking about the kind of friends that are just kinda fun to hang out with, although they are. Or the kind of friends that are fun to get my drink on with, although they are (on the rare occasion that we are moved to do so). Or even the kind of friends that are there to let you vent and bitch and moan occasionally, although they are.

I’m talking about the kind of friends that will extend themselves and make sacrifices to support me and help me achieve things that would, simply put, be impossible without that help. And the kind that will let me do the same in return.

Our society, by and large, measures wealth the old fashioned way – by what we earn, what we own, what we wear and what we accumulate. We are reminded from time to time, through the odd emotional commercial from the Mormons or a nice card that someone gives us or a motivational poster, or maybe even some twit that likes to post quotes, that there are other things in this world that make us wealthy, but it’s the monetary message that takes up most of the social bandwidth. But I like to remember that it’s my family and friends that are my real wealth.

Friends are a currency that never devalues based on market conditions. In fact, they appreciate when things are at there worst, providing a reserve of security that cannot be measured. And in times of plenty or poverty they are the ultimate entertainment and resource. They help us laugh and cry, they keep things in perspective and keep us grounded, or they inspire us to dream and reach for lofty goals. They help us measure the passage of time and the ways in which we grow and change, and chuckle with us when we realize that we’re moving backwards in stead of forwards, then support us when we make the changes that we need to turn things back around.

I’ve never kept many friends, preferring a few that I could trust and love for a lifetime to a plethora that drifted in and out of my life like leaves with the changing of seasons. If the Japanese proverb is correct then I have to assume that I’ve made some progress on pursuing a solid foundation to my character…

…because the friends I have are phenomenal.

Go me.

Do you have friends that will go to the wall for you? You don’t need to (shouldn’t) mention names, but if you do have them, how have they made an impact on your life? And are you thankful for them? J