Summer 2011. Elizabeth and I spent as much free time as we could together. Her best friend from Skidmore, Lauren , probably had hung out with me more than Elizabeth had. Our usual haunt for going out was the Dupont Circle area. Public Bar was a place familiar to me in name only. Lauren and Elizabeth wanted to go and the three of us made our way on a Friday night. The bar was three levels of a different atmosphere. I don't really remember anything but the first floor what we walked into, where I bought the ladies a round of drinks. The music was loud and I felt intimidated by the DC crowd yelling to each other over drinks. Lauren's boyfriend, Mark, was out of town for something and I remember her coaxing Elizabeth and I up the stairs to get to a different scene. Two floors above, we made it to a blue-hued dance floor with VIP booths lining the walls, with a bar alongside big windows that faced what I guess must have been 18th and Connecticut Streets.

Along our slow way up we consumed our drinks, and I recall us getting to the bar where Lauren said she would get us the next round. I remember looking down at her to my right...she was short...she was bouncing slightly up and down to the rhythm of the music. I never saw her anything but Mark's girlfriend, but she looked suddenly adorable. As I think about it, she was pretty, but I must have been so entranced by Elizabeth, I never noticed. We got out drinks...I don't know how things happened next, but the three of us were suddenly on the dance floor, stupidly dancing away to whatever heavy beat was on. Lauren seemed liberated, she was dancing...grinding, in front of me. I was surprised because I wasn't hers and Elizabeth was there. Elizabeth didn't seem to mind and was dancing with her and me. I didn't ask questions. The three of us were dancing so much that it was practically a workout of squats and awkward cardio. My legs were burning. I wasn't going to stop with these two pretty women who trusted me enough to be Ryan.

Another drink later, a young man around my age waved me over to his VIP booth. He removed his stupid velvet rope that separated his small party from the dance floor and asked if I wanted to bring the three of us to his area. I don't think I said anything. I remember looking at Elizabeth and seeing her smile, her move forward towards the booth, past the rope. The guy handed us a bottle of belvedere vodka with a few glasses and we poured ourselves a drink. I said "Thank you" and immediately the three of us went back into our world of dancing together. I remember after a couple of songs, feeling obligated to spent some attention on the guy and his party that let us into their VIP section. I remember briefly talking about nothing with him, as Elizabeth and Lauren now danced together in front of us to another song. I remember doing a shot with the guy and his friends. I remember going back to dancing with Elizabeth and Lauren.

Eventually the young man and his party left. I have no idea when. We danced so much that nothing else existed but the music. We were sweaty. We made it back to the bar for another drink, I feel like the night was getting late, and again I saw Lauren bobbing to the music, sweaty and careless as she ordered three vodka and water. Elizabeth always had a smile for me then. I couldn't understand how lucky I had become.

Some dork, with barely a burgeoning job in DC after a leap-of-faith move, found himself only a month in, on a Friday night, in the company of two lovely young women drinking and dancing the night away.

A Gift

For a couple of years in college, I was the Treasurer of the American Indian Student Association. Each year, we would raise funds for our organization by hosting a pow-wow and craft fair. For 3 days, tribes from all over the country would come to dance, share stories, and sell their works. There were usually around 70 tables and booths to visit, and I would make several rounds to talk to the traveling artisans and tribe members. 

There was an old Zuni man with a small table of jewelry and figurines. He carved semi-precious gemstones into animals, shapes, and insets for rings, bangles, necklaces, and bracelets. I browsed his selection of turquoise works in particular because my girlfriend at the time loved the color. One item in particular caught my eye: an equilateral cross about the size of a silver dollar. After 3 visits to this man's table, I decided to buy it. I wanted the cross to be the pendant of a necklace, so I asked the man if he could put a hole in it for that purpose. He said that he would be glad to if I came by the next day.

At the end of the following day, I came by to the man's table again to purchase the cross. He smiled and handed it to me in a paper bag. Before I could say anything else, he said, "Open it." The cross had been threaded into a durable, black fabric cord with a clasp. I told him that he had done too much, and that I would pay him extra for his work. He shook his head and said simply "No, take it." Pulling out my wallet, I thanked him and handed him the money that was owed for the price of the cross. The man remained seated with his hands folded in his lap and said "It does not belong to me. It is yours." I stood there with the money extended in my hand, and pleaded with him to take it out of gratitude. The man said, "You're not listening. It is yours. It is a gift. It wouldn't be a gift if you paid for it." I reluctantly pulled the money back and said that it was too generous and I would feel bad not paying for it. The man replied, "You need to let me be generous. Do not take that away from me. When people give things out of generosity, you must accept them. I am giving this as a gift for you, and I hope that you will like it. It will please me if you accept my gift."

I thanked the man again and walked away, deep in thought. Before I gave the necklace to my girlfriend, I told her this story. I hope that it had as profound of an effect on her as it has me. When I think of giving gifts and generosity, I think of this old man and the lesson that he taught me. 

Melancholia

Depression still comes. I think it's genetic. I think it's fixable. I think it's beatable with the right mental exercises. 

I'm not sure what triggers it. I don't really care. Maybe I don't care because right now is one of those events. I call them "grey". 

This morning I feel like I woke up with it. It's rare for me to experience the grey the last few years. My wonderful wife, I have to thank for that. I am guilty of being not my best self when I am grey, especially to her. She deserves the best from her husband. 

The pull of the grey is seductive. I can see the way out sometimes. I can feel that I'm almost out of the emotion and that I am past it. However, something about the feeling of being down makes me want to stay that way. It's pathetic. I let myself be grey for longer than I need to sometimes.

Like most negatives that I experience, I go back to my stoic philosophy. I level myself. I ignore the grey. Soon it is gone. But not today. I am still swimming in it. 

Sleep Paralysis

Sleep paralysis is the medical term. For years I didn't know what to call it, and at one time I think I wrote a post about it...6 years ago maybe? It felt good to have a name for it. I felt like it gave me more control to have a name of whatever it was that I was experiencing, because if you know anything about this event, you understand that you have zero control of anything. Knowing the name also gave me something to google, which to this day I still do because it makes me feel better to know that I am not alone.

Why am I writing again about sleep paralysis? I just watched a movie/documentary called The Nightmare. It wasn't too great, but affected me enough to recall my experiences and want to write one of my stories about it. After all, it is estimated that only 8% of the population experiences this, so I am among a small number of experts!

What is sleep paralysis? It's an experience a person usually gets during their rapid-eye movement cycle of sleep. This is the period of time after you have fallen asleep, but your brain has not fallen into a deep slumber. It's kind of what I like to think of the the "nap phase" because that's always when I have had the experiences. During this time your brain is working on shutting down your body, cutting off your mind's ability to control your nerve endings in your spine and move things like your arms and legs. The brilliant design behind that is so that you don't physically act out what you are doing in your dreams. Lord. Can you imagine? If you physically were doing all of the things in your dream while in your bed...what a show.

So during this phase of sleeping, the person wakes up to find that they are paralyzed. The brain is lucid, and the only thing that the person can control is their vision. This is where things become terrifying. Being awake and not being able to move is not something most people experience, ever. Because of this new sensation of being unable to control anything, the individual may start to panic. Now, what I've read and seen in ALL testimonies of this event, is that people proceed to suffer confusion and fear. This can last for a dozen or so seconds, or minutes if you can't wrestle back control to awaken. This experience is well documented in history throughout the world. Most cultures tie these events to spiritual encounters, and why not? I prefer to find scientific answers to all things, and while they have explained what I mentioned above, they can't exactly explain the hallucinations and dark, psychological direction that the mind takes when in this state. It is no wonder that people around the world have tied sleep paralysis to visiting or seeing something paranormal or spiritual.

Now, on to my story. This sleep paralysis episode is the first that I can remember. It may not be the very first experience that I had, but because it was so powerful, I can recall it vividly.

I was 21 years old and late one afternoon I sought a nap in my apartment. I'll note that I've usually kept my bedroom door opened wherever I have lived, even when sleeping, and this was the case for this nap. I was laying on my right side facing the wall, my back was to the door. My eyes focused on the wall and I could immediately sense that something was wrong. My conscience told me that I need to roll over. I don't know why, but it was clear that if I didn't something bad was going to happen. My brain was accepting that I was seeing the wall of my room, so it was questioning why, if I was awake, that I would need to roll over. Soon I felt why. The room began to darken, and the soft glow from the door began to seem like the only light in existence. I tried to move but I couldn't. I felt bound somehow. I could sense my arms, hands, legs, feet, and neck, but couldn't make them work. I panicked. I thought that I was having a stroke or had some strange medical abnormality that paralyzed me. The idea, then the reality of being paralyzed started to terrify me. How could I get help? Suddenly I felt aware of something at the door of my room. I couldn't look, no matter how far I strained my eyes up to the left to look over my shoulder, I couldn't see this thing at the door...but I somehow knew it was there. Seeing the light dim on the wall, I realized that it was blocking the light of the door. I wanted more than anything to roll over and face this presence. A buzzing noise filled my ears. It seemed like a machine at first, but then sounded more like layers of an inaudible, rasping voice sucking or breathing out air. I believed that the noise was coming from the presence in the doorway. For a split second I was suspended from my body. I could see myself lying on the side and see my room. It was very blurry, but I could see a dark figure in the door. It seemed to be growing and moving towards me, but at the same time not moving at all. The next instant I was back in my body and fear was gripping me like never in my life. I thought I was going to die, and this thing in the room was going to be what killed me. For some reason, I believed that somehow this thing was going to take my life away, but worse. The best way I can express it is that I understood that there was something worse than death. This death, from this being, was unfathomable. I strained and strained to throw my weight over to move. I thought that if I could merely roll over that I could snap out of this. It was at this moment that I wondered if this dark figure was suspending me in this "state" and using my helplessness to get to me. I tried again and again to yell, scream, jump--anything to force myself back into normality but I grew exhausted. It became harder and harder to build up the will to fight and grasp rational thought. The being in the door pulsed closer, and the noise grew louder. I felt it come up to the bed, right behind my back. My mattress began to rise up behind my back, folding in half over my shoulder. The being didn't resemble so much a person but a mass, a large, force that started pushing down through the mattress onto me. It became hard to breathe, and I had to use everything I had to keep taking breaths. I knew I couldn't fight forever. This darkness was going to envelop me and slowly suffocate the life out of me. I started to cry. I never felt more alone, more helpless, more lost, more agony at the thought of how this passing was worse than anything that I could imagine. The tears began to stream down my face. The sensation of my tears on my skin literally sparked the nerves in me. I suddenly found some strength and pulled everything that I had together into a massive convulsion. I pushed. It worked. I woke up, gently, lying still on my right side facing the wall, tears in my eyes.

To this day, I have never been more afraid than I was in that event. The words "fear" and "terror" have a different meaning for me. I have had countless other sleep paralysis states. In fact, I paused in writing this story one evening because I ran out of time, and continued the next morning. Early this morning, hours before writing these words, I had another experience. It was my first in probably a year or so. I have read and heard a bit about "letting it in", meaning that if one is talking or hearing about it, the sleep paralysis can begin to occur for that individual, or return for folks that have been rid of it for a time.

This morning's event was very brief, but I awoke, paralyzed. I knew immediately what was going to happen. To a person who has had these experiences a few times, I think that there is an understanding when we open our eyes. There's this feeling of "Oh no, not again, move move move move move move, oh no, what is it saying? move move move move move, there's its shadow! move move move move!" It's like a reoccurring torture, and our instigator has come back, and we must fight it off. This recent state happened while I was on my side facing the wall, and shortly after I opened my eyes to find myself unable to move, I felt the blankets and sheets be pulled from behind me, tightening over my body. I could even hear the sound of the covers quickly slide into place. While staring at the covers, I decided to close my eyes. I remember reading, just yesterday, that some people try to move something simple, like just a few toes or a hand to get movement started. I tried that, felt a little movement in my feet, but not enough to snap out of it. Then, a man's voice in front of my face said gently, "Excuse me?" I pushed again at my feet and I felt a kick, waking up entirely.

Another comment that I have about sleep paralysis is that one gets the feeling that the longer the state lasts, the harder it becomes to pull out. While in this dark place, the fear is palpable to the point that it feels like it is being fed to whatever evil is in the room. The more that your fear grows, the stronger the dark presence gets. It then starts to feel like a battle of will between you and this thing.

I know that this is a hallucination. I know that my brain is showing me this thing, or making be believe that I can feel its weight near me in the room. I know that it's my brain that is not letting me move. I know this, science tells me so. However, what if the science is actually explaining the paranormal? Why does everyone who experiences this--no matter the background, location, or time in history--have their mind go to such a dark and evil place in sleep paralysis? Why do we all feel something evil? Why do we feel fear like nothing else that we have experienced in our life? Why, when we have been through this and our brain records these events and remembers, do we still go back and face this thing? In my experiences, this dark presence has never done anything that specifically is evil, it just...feels evil. Why do I feel this unwarranted fear of it?

I don't know if I believe it or not, but I am open to the idea that in such a state, that people are briefly stepping into seeing and feeling what is right here in our reality, but inaccessible in our waking lives. I believe that science explains divine mechanics in all things. So it makes sense to me that perhaps my sleep paralysis is a manifestation of something getting into my head and manipulating my sleep pattern. It makes sense to me that my hallucination could be the work of something supernatural, though we would still call it a hallucination.


Again, I'm not sure. It could just be how our species is wired. Perhaps all of us that experience sleep paralysis have this reaction of terror and of something suffocating us because the human brain goes down this path when held helpless. The brain then creates some weird, scary details like voices, buzzing, and darkness. But when this happens, for us experienced sleep paralysis folks, we are always aware of what is going on. We know more or less what is coming. We don't know what hallucinations that we will see, but we know, from the moment that we wake up unable to move, that things are about to get frightening.

I would say that in a way, I have grown used to it sleep paralysis. When it happens, I try to throw myself at the evil and sometimes try to be scary in my own way. Fight fire with fire I guess?

Him

I contemplate God and the teachings of Christ now, more than anytime in my life. I don't think that this was intentional on my part. I've  been drawn to His love and the need to reflect on my life and how I have and currently live it. I'm not an old man yet, but I can't help but think about how short human life is on this planet. I find myself asking more and more "Is this how I want to spend this gift?" 

I suppose that I have always believed in heaven, and a union of the soul with the creator after our bodily passing. However, now I think about what Christ said about that kingdom. What does it take to get there? He told us. I think deep down, we all have a general idea of what it takes to be united with Him. Most of us are afraid to do those things on this material plane. Give up our luxury? Love those whom we hate? Forgive those who have wronged us? Share what we have worked so hard to earn to strangers? It's easy when the notion of Eternal Life is in the balance. But we are pulled by the security of what we know and observe here in the now. 

I seek to be Christ-like. I fail miserably at it, but I am trying. It's hard to ignore what my mind, society, family, and culture tells me that I need. The ideals conflict often, but they also coincide in some surprising ways...but that's another topic. 

I feel good when I think about God. I feel moved to infinite gratitude. Sometimes I feel bad when I think about God. I feel that I'm not doing enough. Will He forgive me?

Welcome Home

We moved to the farm when in September when I was 9, and our first house that our family had was a mobile home. I remember the first day that my siblings and I came home from our new school, and saw the house sitting in a field, situated between a pear and persimmon tree. The house looked like it didn't belong there on the farm. The land had a life of its own, pastures, creeks, hills, and forests. It seemed confused by the sudden structure propped on blocks, disrupting the wild harmony of the country. Homes are usually built over a period of time in the country, like the growth of a gradual relationship between man and wild. 

But not our home. It was just there one day, without water, plumbing, or electricity. We used candles and kerosene lamps for our first couple of days. For our family, it was like we were reenacting the pioneer stories, and I can't recall any complaints to using the portable toilets and lack of TV. The newly disturbed earth from our habitation created encounters with snakes, spiders, scorpions, and wasps. Electricity came the first week, and we had plenty of light to see our new neighbors. 

Water took a long time to come to us because we had to dig a well. Our weekend routine was to load up the truck with water bags and buckets and drive to family who lived 40 minutes away. We went to their bathtubs and filled up with as much water as we could carry, in order to be able to wash, eat, and dispose of waste during the coming week on the farm. My brother, sister, and I were ordered to bring all of our clothes so that they could be washed, and to take a bath while we had the chance in the city. 

This went on for 3 months. One day, when again my siblings and I came home from school, we saw something out of place. As we got off the bus and stepped onto dirt path that led to our house, we looked up to see a towering metal structure roaring away the fall afternoon. It was a couple of hours before we even stepped foot into the house, as we watched with fascination as the drill rig churned away at the earth in search of water. Eventually the men working for the drilling company called it a day and gave up, finding no source of water down to 80 ft. The next day, in another spot, they found water at only 15 ft, and built a well 30 yards to the south of our house. 

The water was-and still is sandy, but it's the best water I have ever tasted in my life. The underground spring that our well used was naturally cool and clean. I remember my dad saying that he rarely had to change filters on the pump because it was so pure. 

Within the next month, we built septic tanks, plumbing fixtures, and a well-house. At the age of 9, I learned just how much work was need for the basic utilities that you take for granted living in the city. It was nearly winter by the time that we could take showers and flush toilets. I can't remember if it was a relief. Probably because the work was just getting started...

In some years

In some years, I don't write a lot. I was looking through this 11-year-old blog and noticed that in some years I wrote a lot and others that I wrote little. I also noticed that I am the only one who sees the blog, which makes sense because I keep it pretty anonymous and don't share it with most of the people in my life. This blog is really just for me. But back to my first note (both issues are related actually), I wondered why I didn't write as much in some years, and more often than once a month in others. This is my second post of the year, and it is coming with only 25 days left of it. So, what happened? I conclude that I wasn't any more busy than I was in other years, which is what I initially thought, but rather that my writing depends on my emotional state. I tend to write when I am feeling more melancholy. Perhaps this is my outlet. Perhaps this is why the blog is only for me? It's a therapy of sorts. 

Does Blogger have an app? I'll have to look into that. I think that will get me to write more. Why do I want to write more? No one is really reading this except for myself. Ah, there it is again. I want to write for myself. I want to keep a journal. But why? What does it all matter? Why did you start this blog in the first place? Why are you here typing these words? Why are you reading them? 

Goodness, I must remember that I started this blog for a different reason. I even deleted some of those initial posts that I made a decade or so ago. I shared this blog on my Facebook page. When I had a Facebook. I wanted people to read it. But then my writing became more honest, more into my personality...more into ideas and characteristics about myself that I didn't want people to know. 

Something occurred to me just now. A reason that I write on this blog is because it helps me feel less alone. Not that I feel particularly lonely, but because I don't want to lose a piece of myself. If I forget how I felt during a time, then I lose who I was at that time. I need this to echo back to my contemporary self that "Hey, I was here writing these things, spurred on by these thoughts that YOU had. Guy." And I would say to myself, "Ah, yes. I remember that. I remember that feeling. I can try to remember what was going on in my life at that time. Yes, I see now who I was."

That is important to me. It's as simple as that. Now now. What should I be writing about, now that I have recommitted to posting more to this glorious blog of mine? I believe that I will write more stories.

Who am I

I'm a wizard. I like to learn and try new things. I'm a Christian. I love playing and watching sports, reading novels, camping, exploring and traveling around the world, listening to people tell stories, and studying languages and history. I'm grew up on a farm and now live in the downtown of a major city. I like riding my bike and helping people. Beer is good. Board games are also good. I think all people in the world deserve equal opportunity to live happily. I'm a competitor. I am stoic. I can find humor in almost anything. I judge people. I am obsessed with things being in order and organized. I am a leader and I like to plan and manage resources and people. I can't sing or dance very well. I like to cook. I wish humans were more developed in space exploration. I love my family. I admire classical philosophy. I loath modern pop music. I am loyal. I am trying to be a better person.

We are all different. I don't know how you can help.

All of the encouragement isn't enough. It actually makes me feel worse. It's the limits of their communication and reasoning. People try to help others with what they think would make themselves feel better. They think that their encouragement should make the difference. I wish it did. I feel worse because I know someone is trying to help, and I feel guilty that it isn't working. I feel bad that they fail. I don't know exactly how I handle my emotions, I just know that I do handle them. I have never been able to describe my problems in a way that it is understood by someone. I can only skirt the subject by writing about the fact that it exists. I don't mind failing as much as some people, but there are always kind people trying to encourage me. I don't know what it would feel like if they weren't there. Perhaps then I would understand the difference it made. Some people really push the idea that every person is uniquely different. Why do so many people take care of and treat other people's problems like we are all the same? 

Changed the label

In one week, I went from a 20-something bachelor to a 30-something engaged man. I don't know how I got to this state, but my decision to be here and make that change happen is a choice I made. It is a choice that I made with more conviction and confidence than any other that I have made in my life. 

Two things:

I believe that love is a choice. 
I do not believe that there is a "one" for anyone. 

I know that many cannot agree with either of these, and wonder then, how someone like me can be so assured of me making my move to ask a girl to marry me. That's okay. I'm not too concerned with what others think. I know what I know. I know that I could have resented this young woman years ago. I know what love is for me. I also know that there are other young women that I have met that had the potential to be wonderful, loving wives...and in return I would have given them all of me. But I didn't chose any of them. I chose the one that I did, and I am convinced that she is the best person for me. 

This young woman encompasses something divine for me. And I cannot resist something I believe to be a calling from a higher-power. Are there others who could have presented themselves to me in such a way? Perhaps. But that doesn't matter. Our paths have led us together and my heart, mind, and soul confirm that she is more than worth my life. 

My grandpa told me after I called him with the news that "Now the hard part begins."

Letting Things Go

I think that as everyone gets older, it becomes easier for us to let negative things go. We do not stress as much about what people think of us, we aren't as hard on ourselves on mistakes, it takes less time to forgive or forget slights, and we may even begin to shrug at some misfortunes.

I know that I feel this way now, and I can say that it is quite a relief to let go. Many negative things in life are only as powerful as we let them be. We create monsters out of those negative things, and give them their power. We do this a lot when we are children, and we continue to do this the rest of our lives. What we don't have to do, is make so many monsters. 

It's simple, but it's not easy. I think that every individual's path to understanding how to let things go is different. Mine for example, was purged in my youth. Other kids at school were very hard on me, and I was harder on myself still. I was very self-conscious, and though I was strong academically, I spent more of my time worrying about trying to get other kids to like me at school than anything else. I found something to fear in many aspects of my day-to-day existence: That I wasn't good enough at a sport, that I looked like a dork, that someone would push me around in the hallways, that my family was poor, that my artwork would get too much praise from the teacher, that someone would call me names, that I would sound too smart in class, that people would make fun of where I lived and the cars my parents drove, that I didn't wear the coolest clothes, that my handwriting was bad, that I was Catholic, that I had Jewish heritage, that... All of the things that were me, that identified who I was, I tried to hide and pretend weren't there. I couldn't let go of caring about all of those things, and it made a lot of my childhood miserable. 

Now I'm not complaining about my youth, I loved much of it, and was blessed with more than I ever could deserve. What I didn't have was the ability to let go. It was unfortunate that I went to a small town school; I didn't have friends that supported me and I wasn't comfortable letting myself open to identifying with anyone for fear of being made fun of. I taught myself well to hide. I pulled all of those monsters around with me on a tight chain, and hid them. Perhaps in a way I built fake monsters by not being myself: I tried to wear the clothes the other kid did, I kept quiet when I knew answers, I made excuses to avoid playing sports, I hid during recess and open class periods, I made my parents pick me up late or from distant locations to avoid being seen, I tried and failed to make fun of other kids...

Instead of letting go, I defied the world and myself! When I look back at that time now, I am floored with how stressed I was as a kid. I'd like to go back to that little boy now and tell him that it will all be okay. That none of "this" matters as much as he thinks it does. That he is only creating and building up monsters. But maybe that visit to the past would be a mistake. I am very proud of myself with how I handle stress now by letting things go, and maybe it took all of that practice as a child fighting monsters to get here.

Je ne peux pas changer...

...that's just how I am.

How many times have we heard people say that? How many times have we said it to someone that finds our attitude or behavior off-putting? 

What is a person really saying with the remark of "That's just how I am"? Are they just saying an excuse? Or perhaps they may be saying that they do not have the motivation to change this aspect about them. It is possible that they do not want to change, or that they think that this behavior cannot be changed. Both of which go far beyond the simplistic notion that they are just stubborn. That too may be an excuse.

It is important to look at the origin of both why the person is the way they are, and why they have the idea that they are unchangeable. One thing is certain, and that is that they have accepted the way that they are in the context of saying "That's just how I am." At that point, they are saying to you, "Accept this about me, because I do, and there's nothing to be done about it." 

Maybe there is nothing to be done about it, but I find the sentiment that an individual has no confidence in any change in their-self to be a lack of willpower and focus. Why is that person behaving that way, and excusing their-self of that behavior? Was it some factor of the way that they were raised? Was it accepted by people around them their entire life so was never before challenged? Was it a factor motivated by an event? The possibilities aren't really what I'm getting at. I find it curious that people accept themselves in a situation with behavior that is usually not positive, and yet hold others to a different standard where they do not accept the behavior of others. 

We cannot truly understand all of the intricacies for why others act the way that they do, but I think that we should be open to change. We aren't losing our identity by changing behavior, we are taking control of ourselves. We are revealing our identity of power, wisdom, and determination to improve, and we will creatively adapt that to ourselves in our own way. 

Baseball

Baseball is just a game. It's strange how a game can have so much meaning for a person...or a family...or a community...a city...a nation. The game has a power that draws people in so much that they love it whether the game loves them back or not. People give the game all that they have. They pray for it. They defend it. They cry, they laugh, and they rage about even the smallest detail of it. To some, it means everything. I am one of those.

Baseball is my grandpa at the age of 72 hitting fly balls to my cousin and I as kids on a hot, Texas, summer afternoon. It's fighting back tears at the end of the season in little league where I learned to accept loss. It's avoiding sports radio or TV after a heartbreaking loss. It's playing catch with my dad outside after he got back from work. It's my grandma's stories of heckling and flirting with Pete Reiser, Duke Snyder, and Dixie Walker at Ebbet's Field. It's pretending to be Nolan Ryan while pitching. It's socks rolled up into balls and bases made of furniture in games played with my brother and sister. Baseball is what stopped my classmates from making fun of me at school. It's the "temple" that I go visit when I want to be alone. It's lining up buckets and mattresses at the barn, to throw at 200ft away to practice long-toss. It's hating the New York Yankees. It's habits and superstitions. It's sleepless nights caused by missed opportunities. Baseball is stick-bats, stone-balls, and candy-wrapper bases on the playground. It's long socks and a new cap and belt. 

It's scars from diving for catches. It's the smell of a field of cut grass and the leather of a glove. It's Eric Nadel's voice at night in my dad's truck. It's 3 hours that bore most people but have me on the edge of my seat. It's Michael Young. It's batting cages for hours with my teammates. It's the reason my family had lawn chairs (so they could watch me and my brother play). It's a brotherhood of friends that I made in any American city that I have lived in. It's disappointment. It's coaches telling me that I have the "green light". It's player's cards and plastic cups from the ballpark.  It's girlfriends never understanding why I would breakout of my stoic nature for a game. It's watching Neftali Feliz strike out Alex Rodriguez to go to the Texas Rangers' first World Series. It's spending two years with shovels in our front pasture building a ball field. It's a game I've played every year of my life since I was 5. It's not blaming the umpire because there were countless other chances to succeed on my own. Baseball is my first love, and I will never be unfaithful to her.

Taken off the path

I am the galaxy and all of the celestial bodies within. She is the center of the galaxy. The center has the most powerful of pulls. Each body once had their own course, but now in this galaxy are pulled to spin around her. Nothing in the galaxy has a choice but to dance a spiral, slowly getting closer to the center. 

no grudge

I was bullied in grade school. I didn't know what was happening to me had a name, or that it was particularly wrong. I thought it was normal. I thought that it was my fault that other kids were mean to me. I wasn't self-hating. I wasn't puzzled by the scenario. I recognized that I was new, different, and aloof from my classmates in that small town, and I reasoned that this was the reason that I was the end of the ugly behavior. I understood that, and didn't blame them for how I was treated. Eventually I thought that if I dressed and tried to be more like them that they wouldn't be as harsh. I never really succeeded at that, and I expected each day of school to be some sort of struggle. This happened from 4th grade, when my family moved from a big city to our land near a small town, until maybe 11th or 12th grade of high school. I don't recall it being as bad as that seems, but I remember hating school. I felt sick with anxiety on Sunday evenings, with the looming day of school and the jokes and teasing that I would probably get. I tried to hide. I tried to make it so that there was nothing that I could be made fun of for. I kept quiet, I didn't ask anything of anyone. I didn't try and play or eat lunch with anyone. It seems lonely, but I didn't see it that way. If I could just get away from the people, they couldn't hurt me. 

I never told my parents. I never told my siblings. I never told my teachers. I never told my coaches. I know that the last two groups saw it though. If I was in there place I wouldn't know for sure what to do about it, and at the time I didn't expect them to make things better. Perhaps they knew that whatever was done could only make things worse, and that's the last thing I would want. "Kids are kids", and that involves being mean sometimes. Perhaps they knew that. I knew that. I don't recall taking insults, being shoved, spit on, or things taken from me as personal. Sure they hurt my feelings, but I somehow I held tightly to the fact that they didn't know me. The other kids didn't know who I was or what was going on in my head. I don't think they cared either. They kept their high status in school by keeping kids like me down, and a strange "status quo" way, I understood that then and I get it now. I am not saying that this makes it right. I had 1 friend in particular at school that wasn't mean to me. We never met or talked outside of school, but at least he was there to laugh with sometimes. I remember watching him take his share of bullying also.

Home was warm. My family was so loving, sweet, supportive, and genuine. Home was safe and positive, while school was the opposite. It was hard for myself as a kid to deal with those extremes, and it hurt my confidence to realize that I could barely survive socially away from home. When you have no confidence, you're only going to suffer worse, and I did. The most painful parts of the bullying were when people made fun of my family or where we came from. Having Native American and Jewish heritage brought a lot of slurs to me in particular, as well as being Catholic and from a poor family. I remember being ashamed that I did not defend my family. My family was a light that I loved and cherished more than anything, even myself, and I did not have the courage to stop that image from being humiliated. I think that hurt the worst. 

How did I deal with bullying? Alone. I spent as much time as I could out of the reality of the social life that was that school and town. I played a lot of role playing and adventure video games where I could pretend to be someone else somewhere else. I worked a lot because I had chores and tasks to take care of on a farm/ranch, and I had to earn money if I wanted clothes, shoes, or new video games. Working was very good for me because it relived my stress and let me feel like I was growing or building something, where it felt like at school I had no building material or seeds to do anything. I also dealt with it by spending some time crying in my room, screaming into pillows, hitting myself, or tearing pages of books. I told myself that I would be able to graduate and move out of the town. I could leave the mean classmates and all of those humiliations behind and start new. That hope, along with my family kept me alive. I contemplated, and even thought through ways and steps that I could take to end my life. The anger and hurt that experienced was bearable, and looking back I'm not sure why I felt that suicide as a way out was even a possibility. Maybe because I cannot remember today how hard that experience was. Maybe because I was a dramatic, hormonal teenager. What I do remember was that what stopped me was 2 things: The thought of me missing out on even just the chance of great things that were still waiting for me once I graduated and went to college, and ultimately my family. My younger sister and brother seemed so much more brave and confident than I did. They appeared to have been enjoying life more than I, and have such a bright future ahead of them that I couldn't take their older brother away from them. I would hurt them and my parents worse than any single thing. How could I do such a thing? The one shining flame of love and compassion for me would be repaid with a selfish, cowardly act. Every time I thought of ending my life, I always ended up with that notion, and nothing short of God would deter me more. 

This experience made a "late bloomer" in many ways, particularly in finding my identity of who I am and who I want to be. It probably still affects me quite a bit, but time and habit have lost my recognition of it. Bullying made my college years more formative, and to this day I treasure them so much because it was the first time that I could explore and express myself around my peers. I wouldn't wish the experience on anyone, but you won't find me on the front lines advocating for anti-bullying campaigns either. I still don't know what to make about that time as a kid. I was bullied for so long that I can't speak for what it's like to not have those problems. And in the same way that I deal with many of my anxieties now, I put those negative memories down and ignored them. I can't say with confidence that they were good for me and made me stronger anymore than I can say that they hindered my growth and made me psychologically frail. I've never met anyone with a similar experience. Like me, anyone who might have gone through that probably wouldn't tell anyone anyway. I'm telling my blog.

Keep up

I haven't wrote much on this blog this year. Maybe I don't need it as much as I used to. Did I ever need it? Were all of my past writings important for me to release stress? To feel like I told something what was troubling or exciting me? I don't fucking know.

This blog wasn't intended for anyone to read but myself, and when that is the situation I am purely motivated to write for me and myself only. Authors write columns or public blog posts because they know that people read it. They want their thoughts to be seen and may even feel that they owe the public something. They are motivated by the external expectation as well as for themselves. Maybe not even themselves. Beats me. Ask them. Whatever.

findthecenter.blogspot.com means a lot to me. It's a capture of myself and what I was going through and planning at different stages and places in my life....which of course I do not forget, but I like to have this in order to remind myself of who I was, and what I wanted. It's about 9 years old now, and as I get close to a blog being used for a decade, I realize that I want to keep using it for another 9 years.

I'm ready and not ready for what's next. And I think that this is all the better.

doubt

At this point, I have no idea what I am doing. When have I ever. I have had plans and dreams, but as of right now, things seem unreachable. I can see why so many adults throughout my life have settled. I understand now. I get why people stop fighting for their dreams and desires. I don't blame people for living their seemingly boring lives that I will never understand the details of.

When I was younger it seemed easy: If you wanted to be something or to go somewhere, then the answer seemed to be to just do it. There was no question about it. Now I realize that if everyone actually followed their dreams, our world would be a completely different place. Our civilization would be unrecognizable...so much that I can't even imagine the difference. I do know that it wouldn't be what we have now. I also realize now that those people older than me settled at some point and many stopped trying...living the way that they did because it was practical. They compromised because they knew that they couldn't have it all. I suppose that some individuals can, but it's rare. Most people do what they do out of necessity and comfort. Dreams are often uncomfortable to obtain.

So I come to this point where I find myself with a good job, a solid social life, and little material wants. What else could I ask for? What do I want? Who do I want? Am I so blinded by the confusion with what to do with myself that I am missing important things in front of me? Do I compromise it all and just accept what I have? What about my dreams? What about the places that I want to go experience, jobs I want to try, things that I want to learn? Am I defying myself? Am I betraying my heart? Am I being true to myself? Am I destroying a part of myself?

I'd like to believe that God has set my paths, that He is guiding me the entire time. Yes...I would like to. But I cannot accept that as a full truth. Things may indeed happen for a reason, but where is the free-will if all is predestined? If I am being guided then whatever would need to happen would happen. But where is my dream? Where is my decision in all of this? Is it all supposed to make me and everyone else happy?

Anger and sadness are just as much of a gift to the human emotion as joy. I argue that things wouldn't be changed or improve if it wasn't for negative feelings. Justice carried out, nations liberated, slaves freed, rights granted, pain relieved...the motives are countless. So does God put us before things that make us unhappy as to push us to change things? Is He even doing any of that? Does it matter?

If I believe that he knew what to do with me, then I wouldn't worry. I may not know what I am doing, but I would trust that events would happen in my life to make me understand my purpose. But deep down, I am not sure that I really believe that. I feel that I have to make the change on my own. The problem is, what changes do I want? What am I willing to give up to get those changes? Would I be happy with those changes and finally live my dream?

inquietus

Not to say that I wish this was 1500, but if it was, I wouldn't have so many options. If it was 1500, I would not find my lot in life, my lot in life would find me. I wouldn't decide where I should live and where I should work, but instead those paths would be before me. Sure, I might decide among 2-3 different jobs such as following my father as a craftsman or say, becoming a merchant or a soldier, but what array of choices is that really? I'd be confined to living near home, if not in the same household my entire life with my family. I wouldn't think twice about marrying whoever my family arranged or if I was lucky, a girl of my choosing...as long as she fit my social class lived within 5 miles of my family. 

Mais actuellement non! The world is open before me! I have been blessed with modern technology, handsome features, a clever-enough mind, a progressive society, and enriching experiences that lead me to about as much direction as outer space. 

Up? Down? Left? Right? Back? Forward? Diagonal? Wait; where the hell is "right" anymore?!? 

I have been many places and learned many things. But there is so much more. If I work hard enough and apply myself, I can be practically anywhere I want to be. It becomes impossible for me to sit still and be content with a job, a city, a language, a geography, and yes: a girl. I find myself questioning my lot as to why I am still doing what I am doing every year.

I become bored with a job and find something else nearly every year. I go into serious, wonderful relationships with lovely women and find that we probably aren't good for each other. I have lived in a different location every year since I left home. What has gotten into me? When did it get there? Why did I study Ancient Greek, Russian, Latin, Arabic, and French? Who does that?! 

Did I do all of these things simply because I CAN? Why do I continue? Perhaps I am in love with the idea of not settling, but will it go away? My contentment is fleeting and only lasts the duration of the change over several months, then it goes back to being hungry for something else. 

Gosh those words are so sexy together. "Something else".

Get Out

They'll never leave. 

I don't ask them to come in anymore.

They got in here because I let them in once, a long time ago.

But back when I let them in, I loved them and was excited to have them here.

Now they are dark and hurtful, and I can't get them out.

They come in and dwell in that place that used to be theirs.

But they aren't suppose to be there.

I don't want them in, they make me sad.

Marry Church or Marry Woman

Every Catholic male ponders the question at one point or another: "Should I become a priest?"

I don't know what God is. I don't know what God is not. Putting him in the category of "knowing" and "being" are not even justice to His existence.

The sacrament of being called to the priesthood comes through Holy Orders. If I don't know God or how he really talks to me, then how would I know that I am being called? Priests, parishioners, friends, family--they all say "you have to listen! you have to be ready and able to hear God's call" Okay...

What does that even mean? Do I feel it? Do I stay my path until one day I find myself either with a wife and kids or at the pulpit? Something in me fights the idea of being a priest. I don't know what it is or where it comes from. Is that God? Is that me? If it's me, is it selfish preservation of the freedoms of a layperson? I'd hate to be called to be a priest and miss it because I wasn't listening...

Then again, if it was in His will, I'm sure it would happen. Right? I've never really been on the fence with the idea, as I said I do not wish to become one. To make the idea even more inappropriate, the advantages of being a priest are what I think of when contemplating the calling:

• Part of a sacred brotherhood that has lasted for centuries
• No financial worries
• Pride in duty/position
• Trips to Rome and the Holy Land
• Admiration of many people
• Closeness to God and more time to contemplate faith

I don't think that "perks" should be weight to tip the scale in wanting to be a priest. I feel as though it should be something deeper and spiritual. I've asked priests why they went through the seminary and ordination, and surprisingly, I met quite a few who spoke of it as being without "a calling", but instead that it "made sense" or "seemed like the right thing to do". Boy that complicates things.

I have never been able to see myself in the future. Even as a kid, I couldn't picture myself in my 20s. Now in my 20s I can't see myself in my 30s or even as an old man. I want to get married and have children of my own, but I can't see it. I can't see myself alone and yet I can't see myself aging with another person. All my life I assumed that this meant I would die young or something. But maybe it's just like that for everyone. People say they can "see it" because they can imagine it. I have done too many things for reasons that I don't know that I don't bother imagining. I don't even know how or why I did them. Will becoming a priest one day just happen like that also? Or will finding a wife and making a family just happen?