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.