Shortly before today’s five-mile hiking regimen, I applied a new (for me) pain medication, bathing my midsection from navel to right hip. Typically, I apply Aspercreme, but today I inaugurated the stronger, bolder pain treatment medication to my abdominal paunch.
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A brief explanation of my belly’s epidemiology is in order. Seven months ago, I moved my 101-year-old father’s couch, allowing him easier accessibility. I did it the “easy” way. Why bother moving the heavy end table before lifting the couch? Instead, my contorted right-arm-reaching-over-left-shoulder movement resembled that of a geriatric ballerina, hands groping for the little wooden block that had slid out of place, while simultaneously lifting up the entire end of the couch.
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The damage was done. X-rays, an MRI, weeks of physical therapy, a growing relationship with my neurologist and two epidural injections have all served to accomplish—exactly nothing. Tingling, numbness and pain have been my companions for these seven months, including the aforementioned abdominal discomfort, in which the nerve endings feel like they have been dissected and laid upon my belly. Aspercreme touches the pain just a little; today’s new salve would surely provide an improvement.
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So out the door I jaunted, anointed with my newly-acquired pain retardant. Half a mile later, I recognized the severity of my folly—my belly was aflame. Imagine an open wound into which you pour liquefied chili pepper. The active ingredient of my so-called salve, I soon discovered, is a chemical drawn from chili peppers.
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I pride myself in believing there is not a lot of retreat in me. The next 4-1/2 miles I walked aflame, throbbing, and desperate for a change of underwear, the circumnavigating elastic waistband rubbing and re-rubbing the blazing cream into my seared flesh.
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Trousers now loosened, my crimson belly reminds me that all ointments are not created equally. And like friendship, the mild-mannered salve of a trusted comrade can be a far better companion than a flamboyant acquaintance of uncertain promise.
Category: Character
Retribution
The slogan on these martial arts studio t-shirts declares, “Touch Me and Your First Lesson Is Free.”
We’re cautioned against inappropriate behavior. We’re reminded that the consequences of misbehavior could be costly.
Society is noticing. Unwelcome, patronizing physical contact is not acceptable.
They ought to make a movie about it, or pass another law against it. Unfortunately, some of the movie makers and law makers are themselves flawed.
There are truly outrageous transgressors out there.
Just when I get ready to cast the first stone against these offenders, I am apprehended.
Because if we widen the lens, we can all think of things of which we ourselves are guilty. Foolish things. Inappropriate things. Things having bad unanticipated consequences.
Maybe we were young and insecure and wanted attention. Maybe we were cocky, arrogant, and purposefully crossed lines, and knew better.
For whatever reason, we let ourselves go there, we are ashamed, and we ought to be.
There is a sort of underlying, guiding truth.
No matter what the offense, those of us who recognize the depth of our transgression and repent, get to start over.
Those who don’t, endlessly circle and snarl.
Aspiration: The Loudest Message
It’s hard to miss the message that is being sent.
From the leather crown on the head to the toe of the boot, that dude is a cowboy.
Did he actually play a guitar while riding the range? That’s hard to imagine. Probably not.
At least until Gene Autry, the singingest, stummingest cowboy, came along. After that, hats, boots and guitars defined our thinking about cowboys.
Hat and boots and guitar = cool, singing cowboy.
So what’s that called? The thing we are (the hat and boots), plus the thing that we want to become (guitar-stumming coolness) ?
It’s aspiration. Aspiration is the thing we want to become–the thing we most want to be known for, our greatest achievement.
Our aspirations can be our loudest message.
As in: She wants to be a millionaire by the time she is 35.
As in: He is fighting his way to the White House.
As in: She is the most generous person I know.
As in: He is the best friend a person could ever have.
The Color of a Thing
For Tootsies Honkey Tonk in Nashville, it’s all about the color purple. It defines the place.
For a dog, it’s all about his nose. Think dog: think nose.
For a person into superstition, it’s all about 13. No thirteenth floor, thank you.
For the homeless, it’s all about a safe place, a safe, impenetrable space.
For a shepherd, it’s about the sheep. 98…99… Oops. One’s missing.
For the hopeful, it’s hanging on to possibilities.
For each of us, we are known by the thing that drives us. If we’re not sure what that is, just ask your friend or neighbor. They will probably know.
Four Doors
I count four doors.
Door Number One was not my choice. Mom and Dad opened that one, my birth launching me into this world. Door Number One was all shock and some dismay.
Door Number Two was all about me. It was about my independence from those Door Number One parents. I chose my friends, dreamed impossible futures, fell in love, and found a career—actually, several of them. Later, I discovered it was also about others—my kids, my aging parents, and my friends. Lots of responsibilities and lots of decisions.
Door Number Four is the last door—the end of the trail and the beginning of the greater, Eternal Trail. A life well-lived finds its peace in God, beyond Door Number Four.
Wait a minute. Back up. I skipped Door Number Three. Door Number Three is the journey connecting Door Number Two with Door Number Four. It’s the door of today. It’s the door of now. It’s the door that lets in the neighbors. It’s the door that stoops to serve, and stands to acknowledge. It’s the door of endless, life-injecting possibilities.
At each morning’s dawn, Door Number Three awaits my choices, allowing each day to become an expectation-filled, God-pleasing pursuit.
The Yellow Zone
Recently, I’ve noticed that my Yellow Zone has been shrinking. Not overnight, but there’s been a long, slow withdrawal from the Yellow Zone. The Yellow Zone lies between the Green Zone and the Red Zone, as a sort of virtual buffer.
To help explain, let me introduce the Green Zone. It’s all the stuff that is enjoyable to me: the kinds of activities that I like, the people whom I find agreeable with my perspective, the brands I like, and the values I endorse. I’m comfortable here, in the Green Zone.
At the opposite end is the Red Zone. It holds everything that I know is wrong and that I find despicable: murder, thievery, dirty streets, phone solicitations, many politicians, and everything that is evil and vile.
The Yellow Zone is reserved for everything else. Things that are perfectly acceptable. Things that don’t deserve judgment. Perceptions that aren’t important. Words spoken in ignorance. Unintended actions. The Yellow Zone is a place of comfort.
The recent events are troubling, but true. Recently, my Yellow Zone has been shrinking, even as my Red Zone is noticeably bloating. More and more stuff is migrating towards the Red Zone because more and more things are aggravating me. “Why did he say it that way?” “Doesn’t she know better?” “They always act that way!”
I wasn’t always this way: over-correcting, under-appreciating, judging, strangling the tiniest, most unimportant and innocent details. Doggone it, I have the right to be Right, and to be sure that They know it!
But life in the ever-smaller, constricted Yellow Zone is now becoming miserable. The life of quick reactions, self-righteousness and hyper-criticism is pushing everything into the Red Zone. With so much leaving, It’s getting lonely in the Yellow Zone.
But now I’ve had enough of the Red Zone! Now I’m going back to the Yellow Zone. I’m going to renovate it. I’m going to make it more liveable, less conflicting, less judgmental. I’m going to put leaden weights all around the perimeter so the edges don’t roll in.
Then I’m going to set up some easy chairs smack dab in the middle of the Yellow Zone. I’ll send out invitations.
The Yellow Zone should now be big enough for us all.
Bending the Light
Neon signs are made of tubes which can be bent to create graphic images or letters. When electricity runs through them, their light can create bold statements.
They may direct us to explore a used auto dealership’s well-worn wheels where we could hope to stumble across a treasure. Or, imagine the red outline of a cross, beneath it, in gaudy, bold fluorescent turquoise, “Jesus Saves”. Down the alley, we may spy a flashing pink arrow directing toward a dim stairwell; a suggestive woman’s profile beckons downward.
When we were young, our parents tried their best to bend and shape our lives. They hoped to turn our lives, like neon light tubes, into things of beauty. Like all parents with young children, they were amateurs in this light-bending child-rearing project. At some point, they were done. It was up to us to add and shape more beauty into our lives.
Some people are good at doing this. In my old yearbooks, I can show you pictures of those who have done really well for themselves. Their lives are artisan work, really–a neon light panoply of synchronized flashing images in a tasteful palette of colors.
In a small classroom in a dingy part of town, I teach academic skills to folks who have felony records. They haven’t done so well. Their neon light tubes have become twisted, flashing feebly and erratically. A lot of restorative work is required.
In this world of relative luminescence, most of us are somewhere between these extremes. We may lack the peacock-beautiful neon displays of on-off, on-off, with flashing hues of purple and gold that some lives seem to exhibit. But neither are we in total tube-broken neon disrepair. Between these extremes, we have a few lighting flickers here and there, weak spots in need of repair.
Those flashing neon signs–they are intended to provide compelling and directive messages.
I am reminded of a song we sang as children. It goes like this: “This little NEON light of mine, I’m going to let it shine…”
The Clock Has No Hands
The alt-right doesn’t suit me. The alt-left is a figment of someone’s imagination.
For we who want to both change the way things are and the way things are going, there’s another option.
It’s alt-reality.
Alt-reality is an alternative reality in which we feed our neighbors and starve the television set.
Alt-reality chooses to sit at the foot of the table instead of at the head of the table.
Alt-reality judges sparingly and deflects hurtful adjectives.
Alt-reality possesses both patience and conviction.
Alt-reality listens before it speaks.
Alt-reality endures; it never stops. That’s why the alt-reality clock has no hands.
Support
I don’t know if the phrase “a life well-lived” is in your vocabulary yet, but I suspect at some point that thought enters us all. A young tabebuia tree stands at the edge of our patio. Without yet possessing a strong trunk, she relies upon the two poles beside her to support her until she gets stronger. The two poles are the trunks of two other once-living trees, now being used to train and bear up a new generation of trees. Perhaps, like these trees, our well-lived lives will strengthen others who will follow.
Rough Patches
If I speak plainly about what I do to earn my monthly paycheck, I will tell you that I work day in, day out, with folks who are on parole. They are all felons. I try to teach them remedial reading and math skills so they can move their lives forward.
They are the people with failed lives. Failed relationships, failed ambitions, failed life choices, failed vocations. Some have been incarcerated for as little as 18 months. Others have served more than 30 years for murder. The latter are the tenderized ones who have very little fight left in them. They want to simply live out their lives peaceably in some sort of decent housing; they can’t know where those resources will come from.