The Promise and The Reliquary

     Love is fire. Love is Creation and Destruction in harmony of form and purpose. The same strength of emotion which can offer resolve against doubt and clarity of purpose in quiet moments of reflection can, without warning or hesitation, grow into a conflagration of self-destructive best intentions. I have known the danger of this fire long enough to realize the truth: That, despite all of my intellect, regardless of willpower or skill at perception…I have absolutely no control whatsoever over that primal force which exists bound together within the core of my being.

When I was a younger man, I promised myself that—when given the chance to form bonds of fraternity, of camaraderie with others who gained my trust—I would become an aegis for them if ever they needed me. In my naiveté, I swore to take the hurt of my loved ones as my own responsibility, and to apply myself fully toward maintaining the happiness of each individual who fell into that sphere of social and familial interaction over which I had influence. This promise was made with the understanding that, regardless of personal cost, I would remain unyielding in my devotion and protection of those who needed me to succeed for them when they could not  affect change for themselves. In short, I promised to accomplish the impossible.

Half my life later, I have failed in love, at every turn. Love has become a poison, dripping from my mouth like venom from a serpent. That poison is a corrosion, inexorably eating away the bonds of companionship I’ve crafted with time and effort, heartache and tenacity. More than failing in love, I must admit to being afraid of its power. Love has sway over me, and compels me toward undermining every good deed I might accomplish with my life.

Love, as a realized concept, exists for me as a fragment of myself given full voice and recognition. Like a mirrored, often-times antagonistic presence in my subconscious, provoking me toward extreme actions in the name of keeping that oath which defines me, Love understands each facet of my psyche, turning self-doubts and discontent into gizzard stones wearing away at my confidence and happiness when expectations are not met. Love claimed for itself a seat at the head of the table shared between my heart and mind, steering the vessel housing the spark of divinity that exists within me onto a path of masochistic indulgence.

“Andrew,” I hear Love whisper, from its alcove in my chest, where the hurt stays after each mistake made; just long enough to burn its imprint into my memory along the way. This place in me which Love claims is a collection, a reliquary for my history gathered in storage close to my heart. “Andrew, why are you failing again?”

“I’m doing my best,” I explain, already exhausted and aware of the path the conversation will follow. “Isn’t it enough that I’m trying?”

“Oh, Andrew,” I hear Love sigh, “If you only tried a little harder, then we both know you could fix any problem.”

The anger starts in me, like a hot coil in my chest. I knew it would come, but there is no denying its advent. “You don’t think I’m putting everything I have into this? Money given in good will, time wasted in fear and exhaustion, waiting to know I’ve made even the smallest difference…all those times I never did….”

“And, as many times as you fell short, you succeeded!” Love raises its voice now, insistent, demanding to be heard. My heart starts pounding, hot blood running through me. “We’ve made an entire philosophy out of being there when others needed us to be, haven’t we?  When the rules don’t work, what do we do Andy?”

“We change them,” I growl, defiance toward the challenges in front of me locking my muscles taut, a reactor running at critical mass.

“Damn right we do!” Love stands from its seat, undeniable. “Yes, life hurts as often as it brings joy. Yes, you go to sleep alone each night; I keep that pain in you, that longing, with me always.” Love looks around the room, eyes so very much like my own filled with melancholy. “The truth is, I’ve always held onto your pain for you, even in those brief moments when all was good in your world. If you want to know a secret about me, that pain is what I forged the fixtures holding your mausoleum of memories to your ribcage instead of your brain with. Each ache and scrape and cut and wound, a new nail for a new regret. There is beauty in that, perhaps. But, Andy, if you don’t break, if you make Life yield first, you can accomplish anything.”

The fire smolders in me, its brilliance spent in a moment of radiant iron will. All that’s left is the hot weight of my childhood choice, slowing my steps, turning my eyes downward. I feel sluggish, shackled inside my own skin.

“When will it be my turn?” I whisper. Staying on my feet takes everything I have now. The next step I take will be a torture, a fight endured rather than won. Cold seeps into my limbs as I wait in darkness for my reply.

“No one gets to know the answer to that before their due comes to them,” Love replies, vexing me with its pomposity.

“That’s not good enough!” My shout echoes in the alcove we stand within, shaking the architecture of my breast, knocking memories and emotions off of the walls to pile in a shamble on the floor. I hear the sound of ice cracking; something breaking in a place I cannot see. Fragments of my childhood lay like shattered glass around my feet. Each irregular panel replays the memory held within, a thousand damaged thoughts and images spinning and dancing. For an instant, I am overwhelmed by the cacophony.

With effort, I reach down for a familiar portrait, unbroken from the tumult, but badly weathered by age. The image within is faded, bleached of color, with the face framed in the picture resting out of focus. As I pause to stare into the portrait, its colors return to vibrancy. The face begins to speak, and I hear words grow in volume. I favor the  accompanying remembrance with all of my attention, focusing for the instant required to silence the others as they return to their places on my walls. 

A young woman with dark hair, who cannot meet my eyes. Her expression is uncertain, caught perfectly between exhaustion, sadness and frustration. There is an echo of hurt in this moment, a stabbing agony which, over time, has lost its poignancy.  I hear my voice. “Do you even respect me anymore? Save the bullshit and just tell me how you feel.”

The woman doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look up before she answers. “I don’t know.”

I set the portrait on its shelf personally, sliding a thumb down the silver frame, admiring the gleam of metal under the coat of dust and neglect.

A hand on my shoulder draws my attention. Love stands behind me, matching me in appearance, but speaking in a voice that’s now not quite my own. It holds a newer memory up before me. “You keep this newer one with the one you just put back. I thought they should stay together.”

I take the recollection from him, savoring its texture and warmth in my hands. 

Driving in the darkness, a young woman with dark hair sits beside me.  There is a moment of silence before she speaks. “You know I love you, right?” Even looking into the memory after so long, my eyes still burn. Love, watching over my shoulder, smiles. “You know I love you too?” I hear my voice from the frame saying those words.

I set the portrait delicately on the mantle, slightly forward of the first. No dust or grime marks it, no faded colors bleed from the picture held frozen within.

“Take a look around for a minute Andy,” Love says, stepping back and gesturing at the room we share returned to order.

I give myself the time to do as asked, walking a winding circuit through the paths of my history, embracing the sensations of each memory as I pass. To my left, I glimpse a more recent memory, one in which I tell a woman whose energy and passion captivate me that she has my love, without obligation. “I’m not ready to say those words back yet,” her voice drifts to my ears. I smile, as I did first time. “You don’t have to,” I answer, continuing onward, appreciating the fire rekindling within my body. A few steps further, on the right, the memory of another woman—this one whose words and spirit touch my soul—catches my eye. She is watching the horizon with green eyes flecked with gold. We share no words in this frozen moment, but the emotion bound to this remembered day stops me in my tracks, asking me to savor their worth.

I continue onward like this for a time, losing myself in the halls and rooms of my reliquary. The noise of my life remembered within me grows in rhythm to the fire of my will. Eventually, I find myself once more before Love’s alcove. It rests on a dais now, well lit and smiling.

“There is your answer,” it tells me. “You wait for and demand me on your own terms. You see me as an enemy when you should not. Your promise was not wrong, but your expectations were parochial and greedy. And that is not how you should know me.”

I want to cry. I feel the tears returning, and put a hand over my eyes in shame. “Why am I so lonely all the time then?” I wanted to say that I understood Love’s meaning, that I felt its truth and accepted it without hesitation. But that question broke from my lips, giving itself voice, and I knew that that was my soul speaking in my place.

“You determine the value of the love you are given without wisdom. You have heard the words before, words spoken by others recognizing their love for you, felt their truth. To ask them to love you as you desire to be loved, that is to ask them not to love you truly. Suppose one of those women you said that you loved had, at any point, decided to love you as you asked, against the grain of their own natures. You would have felt that falsehood through me, and known greater hurt.”

“I feel broken.”

“You are confused and struggling with yourself. You pressure yourself too much, question your own motivations too often to trust your instincts, or me. Let go of trying to control the outcome Andrew. You love openly, and that is beautiful. You feel memories, rather than think about them. That is also beautiful. But, you retain bitterness despite all the good in your life. Your family, your job, your friends, your fortune in times of difficulty. Your soul companion in Florida, who walks beside you along the Path. You have accomplished every goal except one, and the time for that is coming.”

“What do I do?”

“Only trust me. Let me do the work. And, in the meantime…keep your promise, but live free of expectations from love.”

“You really are fickle and capricious.”

“I know.”

Streets of Pyrite, Nickel Lining

  In the past year or two, I have realized that my favorite places to shop-or simply browse-are quiet little stores that you often find in the historic districts of most towns or cities. Perhaps it is because I enjoy mysteries so much, or maybe my loathing for commercial franchises like Wal-Mart and Target are growing. Regardless, if I am presented with the choice to investigate a tiny store with a creative name, or instead take a trip to stores similar to the aforementioned chains, I will almost always prefer the smaller business.
     I think small businesses have a personal touch that larger industries lack. They are tied into the community they exist within, rather than being a bloated emporium of commerce. Take a look at art galleries promoting local artists, or bookstores with owners who work their own tills, and know every customer by name. These businesses do not content themselves with shoving an overpriced, potentially unnecessary product into your hands and sending you on your way. No, the smaller stores are the ones that take their time, offering advice when asked, and a (more) honest opinion than associates working for larger chains.

Before my vitriol earns me criticism, know that I worked for a large electronics chain for almost three years selling phones, computers, and the occasional television. I will not name the company, but over the course of 988 days wearing the blue polo shirt with a yellow price-tag sewn into the breast, I learned just how mechanical and ruthless big business can get in the pursuit of profit. In morning meetings, the other employees and I would group in a circle and discuss the weekly deals (which were, in effect, advertisements of products rather than actual sales, more often than not) and selling strategies. “Make the customer see the value of the product,” was the advice the sales team was given before the store opened. “Get to every customer, and get them what they need, including the things they don’t know they need yet. They want a computer? What about a printer to go with it? What about ink for the printer? What about a new monitor for that computer? What about protection for the item (We’ll come back to this one.)?”

This strategy was-and remains-a double-edged sword. Yes, it’s beneficial to understand a customer’s needs. This practice ensures that their needs are satisfied, and that when they get their purchase(s) home, that they are ready to function as anticipated. Personally, I would ask a few questions to understand the person I was speaking to, and their situation, then offer a few additional items if I truly thought the customer needed them.

My problem stemmed from an ethical crisis I faced about a year into working at the store. Employees at many of the major chains are evaluated based on their salesmanship. Put simply, my peers and I were given a quota to meet in order to be profitable for the company. While this is an understandable need (being profitable), the situation complicates itself if sales are slow, or not bringing a profit to the store. As an employee whose hours and chances for promotion were dependent upon selling skills, I must admit that there were times when my need to make a good sale for my own benefit outweighed my interest in the customer’s needs. I am not proud of this fact, but it is a harsh truth of retail life: If you work for a retail company long enough, you eventually grow desensitized to customers financial limitations, or the risks they are taking with their money at your recommendation.

Imagine being told to sell a computer to a family around the holidays. You greet them, the husband, wife, and two children. The want a new computer for family use. They tell you up front that they are looking to spend no more than $400; you try not to wince when they say this. Here’s a poorly-kept secret about economics in retail life: Profit doesn’t actually come from the core product alone. The real money is in the accessories, the software upgrades, and the protection plan.

Now, in order to do your job as the company requires, you have to convince that family to break their spending limit, and feel satisfied having done so. The options you present to them are not cons, simply offers heavily emphasizing the benefits vs. dangers of having each selection. Dozens of times each day, this cycle will repeat itself, often following a small number of patterns which, within a few months of holding the job, you the employee will recognize and learn to follow when possible or shift when necessary.

Neither I, nor anyone who worked with me at the store ever fully lost our moral compass, but each day ate away at us as a group, with little to no genuine support from management. A few tried, I will give them credit, but in the end the endless pressure, given enough time, wears well-meaning employees down to emotional dust. We were not heartless, simply conditioned.

I do not believe working for, or owning a business is ever easy. Quite the contrary, it requires an iron will, adamant work ethic, and an endless supply of patience and ingenuity. Setbacks appear with uncanny timing, while unexpected challenges and variables can swing the course of an entire day of sales. However, any work should bring a measure of satisfaction to those putting themselves to the task, and you recognize that deep appreciation for the job in the small businesses which focus more on the quality of the experience than the number of customers who make a purchase. This is not to say that a good business should slow its work to a lethargic pace, but that each customer, each person, should be made to feel as if the interaction truly is entirely about their peace of mind, not the money they have available.

Even working my former job, I found times of excitement, when the rhythm of an interaction felt like standing under the open sky during a thunderstorm. Adrenaline ran through my body, and I knew that, not only was I doing my job well by management’s standards and my own, but, most importantly, the man or woman I spoke with felt better for having worked with me. Sales like that, days like that, are what made the retail job bearable for the time I stayed.

Choosing to go into business for oneself is a risky proposition. I have considered on several occasions opening a bar-and-bookshop (called ‘Books & Booze’) to cater to the inebriated philosophe that lives inside us all. (Unrelated Sidenote: A pet peeve of mine is using a word correctly, spelled properly, and the spellcheck highlights it as an error. Ref: Philosophe) I think it is a great idea, though unlikely to ever become reality. I am sure, however, that it would be a place open to all, with the express purpose of creating an appealing atmosphere for my clientele.

When I walk through my local mall, or peruse the small shops that have struck out to earn the respect and attendance of a community, I feel pride, followed by a sadness that coils inside my chest. I fear for these bastions, worry that the corporate titans will likely choke the independents of their success until the shops are forced to go elsewhere, or close entirely. Seeing a dream broken in such a way, only to be called “progress,” that is an American Tragedy.

A Dialogue of Flesh and Stone

I come back to you now, at the turn of the year...

     I'm borrowing from Gandalf on that one, but it truly has been almost a year since I posted on this blog, though what a year it has been, filled with glorious triumphs and a fair number of pains as well. The words have been building up in my chest for some time now, rattling around in their cage, screaming for me to put them to paper (digitally, or otherwise).     

     Speaking with an amazingly talented new friend and peer (check out her work here: http://kimmith709.wordpress.com), we fell into the topic of what it would be like if we could speak with inanimate objects. Specifically, we wondered what we would discuss with a house if it were capable of thought and communication. We asked questions both insightful and playful, nostalgic and melancholy. "Do you get cold in the winter?" "Where do you keep the things I have lost over the years?" "Do the other houses treat you well?" "Where are you hurting?"

     Perhaps the years of reading Calvin and Hobbes, or more recently Neil Gaiman's "Sandman" collection (specifically, Volume Eight, titled "The Wake.") have led me to start shifting my own perspective when viewing the world. One of the stories in "The Wake" involves a dreaming city, with individuals slipping between the cracks of the city's dream, lost for years until they find their way home. The piece is a poignant work against a backdrop of masterful storytelling.

     When I asked Kimmith what she would want to talk about with her house, I considered the topic playfully, smiling with her over the idea of a home as a storyteller of lives across the generations, akin to the bards and skalds of the ancient Celts and Norsemen. Something troubled me about the question though, some nagging proto-concept swirling through the atmosphere of my perception, lurking in the shadows of my smile until I got home from work and found myself walking through the halls of my family home, remembering the years which have passed since I was a child visiting my grandparents in this very same home.

     Perhaps a house is a living thing, becoming as integral to our lives as a member of our own family. Parents, siblings, children, always remembered along with the family home. Individuals move through its body like blood cells traveling the arterial paths of a slumbering giant. Memories and emotions seep into the walls, recalled at the touch of a hand, or the sight of an imperfection caused by ornamentation or accident.

     I love the house my family lives in. We have lived in this house for fifty years, and it is the one constant place I have felt safe in all my years. I know every creak in the floorboards, every nail-scarred pockmark in the walls. I know every apple tree in the yard, where the wasps and bees make their nests in the summer...one August not so long ago, I spent every night for two weeks dueling bell hornets that infiltrated my room from their nest outside my window, drawn by the light in my room. Many fell before me, be certain of that!

     My grandparents bought this house when it was first built in the 1960s. It sits atop a small hill,  between the forking paths of a road running from one end of our tiny community to another. The first house in the line of homes leading into newer parts of the community, it has the honor of being the closest house to a not-insignificant lake on the other side of the road. 

     When the seasons change, flocks of geese and ducks will pause in their journeys and take respite upon the lake beside my family's house, preening their feathers and feeding as they glide along its surface. As a boy, I often chased them from the lake's shores, trying with all my power to pet the geese. Once (and to my continued shame, I admit), I threw a soft apple,-fallen from one of my grandfather's trees-into the flock, catching the goose atop its head. Years later, I watched a flock of ducks and geese leave one of their injured members behind (able to swim and catch food, though enough feathers had fallen off of the wing that I could see spokes of bone exposed). One duck remained with its companion, standing guard while it slept, helping it to groom itself, and offering support as they swam together during the day.

     My home has watched the turning of seasons and years for half a century now, from behind a veil of trees my grandfather planted in his years. Apple trees mostly-he'd collect their fruit every summer-though a few chestnut trees can be found along the hilltop at the edge of the yard closest to the forking road. One spring visit, with his help and encouragement, I planted my own yearling, taking extra care for the rest of the visit (and all subsequent visits from the age of eight to ten) to make sure my tree grew strong, with just enough water and sunlight. 

     In the backyard, a wall of trees fences the back slope off from our yard, veiling them in shadows. Here is where collected brush and fallen branches are set aside to be broken down for firewood in the winter. At times, deer or other creatures will travel through this last vestige of wilderness, feeding on the fallen apples and berries from our bushes. As a child, I considered the furthest corner of that shadowed area an ominous land, as intimidating for my bloated imagination as the entrance to a dragon's cave. Only when I came to bury a pet on the property (two cats, Moose and Suzie) did I brave the borders long enough to pay my respects. The wooden cross I fastened with a small length of rope stood for three years after I buried Suzie beside Moose, serving as a marker for me to find their resting place.

     The house itself is humble yet dignified, with only a single floor and an unfinished basement, holding small rooms designed for a family of no more than four. Portraits of men and women long since passed adorn the walls, with an 18th century map of Colonial America dominating one wall in the living room. A sealed fireplace serves as the spine of the room, with the bricks of the chimney rising past the ceiling. Photos and antiques serve as furnishings for the mantle and just about every other flat surface in the room. This is the heart of the house, and for my grandparents and parents, has been and continues to be the location for many of their activities. At night, Jeopardy or Frasier plays on the television, the voices of the actors funneling through the main hall of the house, straight to my room at the rear.

     My room is plainly ornamented, with a Geisha painting from the 19th century, and a copy J.R.R. Tolkien's "All That Is Gold" hanging on the walls. Temperatures are difficult to manage in my room; in the summer, the hot air collects, while in the winter, the heat is siphoned from the back of the house toward the front.

     Despite that small imperfection in design, this is my home, my family's, and it carries the legacy of each generation that has lived within its walls. I do not feel that I am indulging in hyperbole to phrase my feelings that way. A few years ago, due to financial difficulties, my mother asked me to take the house into my name so that it would be kept in the family if her situation worsened. Being in college, and fearful of my academic career being sacrificed-I required student loans, and believed that by having a home worth such an amount, I would be unable to continue receiving financial aid-I told my mother that I could not help her. 

     This decision damaged me, to put it plainly. I remember being in my home for what I thought would be the last time, running my hands over the walls, feeling their texture, then laying on the floor and crying for the enormity of my choice, my shame and loss. My grandparent's home, my parent's, one day mine...and I had (in my mind) sacrificed it all for a chance at something I thought I wanted more than my own family. In that moment, I knew that if the house ever left my family's possession, if it ever went to someone else, or there were none in my family left to claim it...that I would in all likelihood burn the house down.

     Fifty years of memories between this home and my family, and, having considered the question between Kimmith and I for the better part of the day, I know now what I would ask, if given just one question only. "Do you know how much we love you?"

Listen on Four and Eight

I hear a cadence in the air, a quiet whisper which grows

from a slow heart-beating pulse, to a thunderous lilt.

Music, knit from the frayed cloth of distant memories,

a half-remembered tapestry of percussion, strings, wind

and a boy’s voice, calling out to seagulls who rise in flight,

madly cawing as they flee the furious drumsteps of his pursuit.

Thump!Thump!Thump!

Feet stomping in tune to the pounding notes.

Thump!Thump!Thump!

Crossing and leaping, arms as pale as ivory piano keys

thrown out for balance, spinning in place, faster, faster!

A storming crescendo of sand, scattered seashells and impish glee,

until the child falls to his back, the sinews of his instrument reverberating.

Thump!Thump!Thump!

The bass line thrum of a heart beating.

Thump!Thump!Thump!

Watching white wings circle in duets to the rhythm of the tide.

Broconian Law

     Recently, I was asked to elaborate upon the rules of conduct men follow when interacting with each other. Simply put, I was asked to explain the "Bro Code." As I sat, struggling to come up with a response that adequately encapsulated the governing dynamics of male relationships, I was forced to acknowledge that I knew very little about the particulars of the Code beyond hypothetical scenarios I'd discussed with my friends in the past. Later, asking around for the opinions of both men and women (sometimes, an outsider's perspective can be very illuminating), I realized that not one person shared the exact same opinion as to the requirements of the Code when faced with a difficult ethical decision.
     After a good bit of research and opinion-hunting, I've come to the conclusion that the Bro Code is little more than the Superego with a penis. Men half-joke at times, about how there are certain things one man does not do to another. For example, "Do not try to date a woman that a male friend has declared their interest in." This leads to competition between friends, which can become bitter enmity lasting several years depending on the outcome. Another example is "Do not date your best friend's sister." This is a conflict of interest for the best friend and for you, as any difficulties arising within the relationship immediately become the purview of your entire social circle, rather than a private matter.
     Despite how seemingly black-and-white the above examples may seem to be, there are countless more possible choices which fall into an obfuscated area where decisions become a scaled system weighing potential outcomes against anticipated consequences. Here is where individual opinions begin to vary, where lines in the sand are drawn at different points. Every man is different, has unique opinions and boundaries. How then, can any Code of Laws, brotherly or otherwise, truly govern the actions of an entire gender? In short, they can't and don't. Although groups of men may choose similarly when faced with an identical ethical quandry, the responses to situations testing the Bro Code are overall impossible to predetermine. Some men do not care about the consequences of their actions and will not hesitate to sleep with their best friend's sister, or cut their friend out of a potential romance if opportunity presents itself. Those who choose such a path are often maligned by their male peers and, in some cases, ostracized. But, the question then must be asked, "Is such a choice the wrong one?"
     Every person, man or woman, has the right to make their own decisions. Often, we worry about how our choices will affect others, about the ripples we might make in the water. Because of that fear, either indecision is born, allowing for the situation to fester and become a larger problem, or we make the choice that causes us pain, but is the more "noble" from a group perspective. This, then, is the purpose of the Bro Code: To act as a system of checks and balances for men in order to preserve the unity of a social group where it is more important to maintain civility than to risk a collapse of the interpersonal infrastructure.
     I do not mean to imply from my earlier question that I disagree with the importance of the Bro Code's function. I do, however, believe that an inordinate amount of importance is granted to potentially biased interpretations of what is right or wrong between same-sex groups (Aside: Women have their own variant of the Bro Code, colloquially known as the Chick Code. From what I heard and read, infractions are treated much more harshly by women within their own social groups than men do in theirs.) Here then, I return to discussing that "gray area" between an obviously poor choice and an obviously good one. Sure, it's easy to recognize that sleeping with your friend's sister is wrong, but what if you're genuinely attracted to her and (in a perfect world) she feels the same way toward you? Is it worth the risk and the momentous transfiguration of group politics for the chance to have a genuinely fulfilling relationship? In my opinion, I'd say that it is, but that the man interested in the sister should talk to his friend/her brother first, give a little forewarning and maybe warm him up to the idea first.
     Moving even further into the nebulous area between right and wrong, the rules change dramatically when the proximity between two or more men is removed. In essence, when two men from different social circles (perhaps distantly connected through a third or even a fourth party) come into a situation requiring a close examination of the Bro Code for guidance...the Code fails to deliver. There is no clear answer at all, simply the opinions of those involved. The outcome then is decided more by personal morality than by social obligation. The logic sounds cold, but truthfully, any enmity created in situations such as these is far less problematic to handle than an equal measure of ire from a much closer friend. That logic applies beyond the Bro Code's purview to any situation involving social difficulties between individuals or groups.
    As I said, opinions on the gray areas can be incredibly biased. Reaching into my bag of personal experiences, my first real relationship was with a girl who both my best friend and myself were attracted to. As there were only three of us in our little group at the time, this was a big deal. For over a year, I remained quiet while he pursued a romance and was repeatedly denied the opportunity. Finally, it came to light that not only was I interested in her, but the reverse was true as well. Unfortunately, this information came out publicly...with my best friend in the room. (Second aside: This is also the reason I try very hard to avoid ever playing the game Truth or Dare, and if I do, I always choose Dare. Dare is safer, believe me.) I remember how awkward it was, he and I riding back to his house afterward, how when he thought I was asleep he prayed to God and told Him that he hated Him. *Apologies if the pronouns became confusing to follow* My friend and I were not comfortable with each other for the next three years. So, I ask, did I violate the Bro Code? Did I breach etiquette when I took my chance after knowing that my friend had had his? I know that I started off following the Code, but after so long, knowing all that I did, was I in the wrong? Personally, I don't have a damn clue. Thankfully, that time is years and miles away.

The Mandala and the Riddle of Worry

     I consider myself a fairly level-headed individual, but sometimes, I catch my fears sending my thoughts to places I'd rather they left alone. Worries are like stones. Wear away at them long enough and you always find a deeper layer of concern, some personal issue or trouble that you spend most hours of the day subconsciously filing away under the "Shit I Can't Let Affect Me" category. Some problems, that's how you have to address them; push the nagging doubts further down, relax the icy knot in your stomach and keep moving forward.
     Over the years, I've learned to trust my instincts in most cases. Intuition is the greatest provider of common sense that I know of, as long as you're willing to accept the truth of a given situation. Especially when talking with people, it's my intuition that clues me in when there's something truly important to be discussed. Hearing between the lines, I guess you could call it. And there is a part of me that longs to tear apart the obligations of formality and call people out when I can tell there is something on their mind that they're not saying. With my temperament, I'm more inclined to appreciate blunt honesty than any attempt at rhetoric.
     I've gone far enough in trusting my instinct that my own inner monologue has split to represent two distinct aspects of my personality. In my head, when working through a problem or trying to understand another person's perspective (how they might be feeling, how they might react in a situation, the likelihood of particular events occurring, etc.), I can hear my mind as if on autopilot, reading off cues and molding pieces together to arrive at a conclusion which fits the scenario. There is a measure of empathy involved in this; life is not a cold equation.
     The problem I'm getting at, however, is that my judgment is not infallible in these cases, particularly when the charnel house that is my subconscious throws open its doors and all my self-doubt and fears spill out to fight my rational mind for dominance. The intuitive leaps of logic normally made and proven correct when focused on others I am less emotionally attached to become stumbling blocks when amalgamated to my "Expect the worst, hope for the best" outlook. For the people closest to me, the ones I am invested in, this can be a matter of great stress. I have, in the past, convinced myself that my own worst fears were, in fact, reality, by using my instincts to find ways to support my expectations rather than relaxing and accepting that some answers would be uncertain without asking that the truth be given to me by my friends (which complicates the problem when I start relying on that external input as an emotional panacea).
     The term mandala is a Sanskrit word meaning "circle." To give credit where it's due, I ripped that line almost verbatim from Wikipedia for the sake of expediency.  Applied to rational-vs.-irrational thought, I think the mandala is an appropriate representation for the way my (and most) mind snags itself when caught in the gravitas of a worry that has no easy solution. Again, life is not a cold equation (I use that term in reference to a Tom Godwin short story from the mid-1950's. Highly recommended!), yet people-because I'm not the only one who does this-plug their own interpretations, expectations and cues in together as if their problems are mathematical in nature. But the problem with handling worries in that manner is, not only can we not be sure how to find the solution to every problem, but we can't even be confident in knowing every variable well enough to be sure the answers we do settle for are correct.
     Sometimes, it feels like my emotions are the hands shaking the Etch-a-Sketch showing me the whole picture.
     Another interpretation of the mandala is one of a spiraling circle. In true Buddhist fashion, following the path of that circle is meant to lead to deeper understanding. The purpose for my writing of this post tonight was to emotionally purge myself after several hours of co-mingling doubt and rationalization took me down that path, starting from my concerns over the well-being or activities of friends and family, ending finally with my being forced to acknowledge a lingering sense of worry as to my place in the world at the time of this writing. My final thought on the matter before turning to this site was "I am not where I want to be. I am not who I should be." Common enough thoughts, right? Like I said before, these are usually kept in a tightly locked part of my brain with a seal reading "Shit I Can't Let Affect Me."
     In the end, the only answer to the Riddle of Worry is found in waiting. Having patience, realistic expectations and the knowledge that nothing is certain until it's either confirmed by all parties involved, or mentioned on Facebook. The (mutilated) phrase "The journey not the destination" applies here also. In looking for the truth, putting our minds to the metaphorical grindstone and following the mandala's path, we learn to filter out the white noise created when our emotions try to rule our hearts and minds.

Hobbyists

I've always been bothered by people who talk about wanting to learn a new skill, or start a new hobby...and then quit after a short time when they lose interest. For a few days, maybe even a few weeks, people throw themselves into new and fresh activities, always talking to their friends and their families about how invigorating and important their new foci are. The problem with being the person who hears about all this is (and I don't think I'm the only one who feels this way), there's only so far I can go with the conversation before I start thinking "Okay man, let's change the subject here." I can respect the initial enthusiasm and making the attempt to practice new skills. That's what life's all about: opening new doors and cultivating knowledge (at least, that's how I see it). But it gets to a point where the zeal I respect changes into a cloying presence, like having an elephant in the room that won't shut the fuck up. First, I hear things like "You should join up," or "We could do  this together." And even that, I'm okay with. I understand that having similar interests is important in any social group-relationships, friends, etc. But the suggestion grows over time to a grating cacophony. I don't like people telling me how to spend my money or my time, and if I can respect your appreciation of learning, then I'd appreciate that courtesy being returned.

My real problem with hobbyists isn't so much the vacillating on activity planning--sampling, if you will-but just the incessant hype which people surround themselves with when they first begin learning something. Life places demands on our time, on our resources, and we do our best to fit our hobbies and interests in where we can. Odds are, most of the things we-and yes, I sample as well-pick up will be dropped in short order, since once the initial charm wears off and the real work of learning begins, life has a way of re-assigning it on our list of priorities.

Part of me despises hearing hobbyists talk because I recognize my own abortive attempts to become a modern Renaissance Man every single time I witness the early stages of the hobbyist-cycle, before one's mettle is tested.

There is a moment in every new life-altering choice where we must decide whether to continue in our studies or to let the first hurdles we encounter dismay us enough to let go of the passion we started with. We don't see growth in our own capabilities, giving time to the activity becomes draining rather than fulfilling, or life hits us in ways we don't expect, knocks the proverbial wind out of us and we have to reset to get our lives under any semblance of control again. There are a million reasons people find to quit, but  more often than not, it is a slow, creeping lethargy which unravels us. Practicing every day becomes practicing every other day, becomes practicing occasionally, becomes another memory collecting dust, one which you polish from time to time, only long enough to realize that you vaguely regret giving up in the first place, and tell yourself that you'll pick your old hobby back up again just as soon as you have enough free time...sound familiar?

In the past year, I have purchased an acoustic guitar, signed up for martial arts lessons, begun learning how to salsa dance and thrown myself into a self-planned exercise and nutritional program to get in some semblance of physical fitness. My guitar has gone unused for the last ten months, the martial arts classes turned out to be over-priced and uninformative (in this category, I have been studying off and on for years, when instruction was available to me), and because of dental surgery to remove my upper wisdom teeth, I failed to uphold the demands of my healthy lifestyle. All the gains I made over two months of regular and consistent dieting and exercise have been lost in the last month alone. So, of the four big activities that I "devoted" myself to in the last year alone, only one (and the most recently added, for the record) is still part of my weekly agenda.

I think we expect too much of ourselves in too short a time. Either we jump into a multitude of activities and hope to be masters in our fields within a few weeks, or we pick a small number of activities and expect to be able to plan out our own rate of progression in those activities. That's never how things are going to go and to demand anything beyond the natural rate of learning (different for every person) is to invite disappointment and bitterness. And I think part of that bitterness stems from the fact that we advertise our intentions to others before we're ready. We tell our friends "I'm going to learn to do this and by next year, I'll be this good at it." Never place that kind of stress on yourself. There's no reason to do that unless you're an emotional masochist.

Those who dedicate themselves to a particular craft, whether it's martial arts, music, or any of a myriad of other interests showcase their talents as a  means of perpetuating the skills they've cultivated, of spreading the value of what they've learned to others(or just plain showing off). And, of course, there is a great deal of pleasure taken in performing one's trade with some measure of finesse. I think there is a turning point reached, when the early hurdles are cleared and a novice at a skill becomes a regular practitioner honing their abilities. Then a simple hobby becomes a true art. That art is recognized when the practitioner forgets to worry about the obstacles he's overcome already, discards any lingering self-doubts and just gives into the passion they've nurtured to get as far as they have.

At the same time I decided to teach myself to play the guitar, a coworker and friend of mine was also becoming interested and purchased his own instrument. Earlier today, he spoke to me of the satisfaction he took in playing for his first audience. And you know what? The way he spoke, not trying to sway me on any argument, but of the sense of fulfillment he described, that made me want to take my guitar out of my closet and pluck a few notes, maybe pick up my old hobby again. Who knows if I'll stay with it this go around, but I'll take things one day at a time and make sure to just enjoy myself along the way.