Buying A Gift For Me?

People have been asking me what I want for Christmas, which for the record, is a nice thing to be asked. That hasn't always been the case, but this isn't a pity writing, just an observation. Anyway, my first reply is usually something brillantly keen, such as, "I don't know." Or, "Um, boy, nothing that I can't think of." Yeah, whatever. I've been putting some thought into this the last few nights, though, and although Christmas is just hours away, I think my answer is "Time." I'd like more time. I'd like more time to do nothing. I'd like more time to spend less time doing things. I'd like more time to spend more time doing things I don't have the time to do. That's what I want. Too bad time isn't for sale. Someone would make a killing. It wouldn't surprise me if someone doesn't figure out a method for doing just that down the road, if they already haven't. But that's what I want. Time. You don't even have to wrap it. Just stick it in an old shoe box; the lid is optional.

Coming Full Circle

Tomorrow my baby turns 1. What a year. What a fabulous 365 days of exploration and discovery. What a fantastic journey it's been already. The joy has been immeasurable. The smiles she has generated I can never repay. The happiness she's invoked every single day I could have never imagined. She's not my first child, but she feels like it. Maybe because I was 40 and more ready. Maybe because I wasn't so easily distracted by matters that don't matter. Maybe because her innocence showed me again there's plenty left in this world that is innocent. I don't know. I don't fully understand her power. I don't begin to know how she could have such a profound influence. I don't really care. I'm content in knowing she's going to be around for another year. I intend to do the same. She's beautiful. She's adorable. She's funny. She's smart. She's resilent. She's everything I hoped. Happy Birthday, RJ. And thank you.

Always Climbing

Some days this photo is entirely how I feel: always climbing up and never really getting anywhere. So much climbing that it's hard to keep the details in perspective. So much climbing, it's hard to feel I'm doing the best I can. So much climbing, the days feel full of nothing but insignificant minutes piling on top of one another. Too many minutes of this nature creeping through. Too many distractions. Too many responsibilities. Too many of too many.

Focus. Breathe. Focus. Breathe. Focus. Breathe.

Keep climbing. Keeping moving forward. Keep in mind where I came from and where I'm moving to. Keep seeing the details in the light they were meant to be viewed. God is in the details. Keep seeing his work. Keep seeing his steps.

What Did You Say?

"People who listen to MP3 players for only five hours a week at a high volume may be doing permanent damage to their hearing. "
 

This from a new study from European Union researchers. I guess you can count me among those who won't be able to hear you sometime down the line. I log more than five hours in one day. The thing is, I don't really care about the risks at the present. Maybe I'm just feeling a little bitter this morning, but most days, I don't really care to hear much of what most people have to say anyway. "Heard it all before" comes to mind. But even when that phrase isn't the case, what newness someone might be saying doesn't interest me, either. I have a pretty good filter for channeling out the crap, but there's just too much of it to filter; it's impossible to get it all. Ah, unless I can't hear any of it.

Yeah, I know: Losing my hearing for the sake of not having to hear a bunch of monkeys recite the standard monkey lines time after time is pretty moronic. About as moronic as the monkey babble being thrown in my direction like little brown monkey wads of poo in the first place.

Election year, check. Monkey poo. Financial crisis, check. Gas prices, check. People losing their homes, check. People losing their jobs, check. All monkey poo. What the hell is there to listen to? Thank god for children. They are the only ones making sense to me these days. Hell, here in Nebraska, though, it's getting harder to even hear the kids speak. Don't like your kid any more? Drop him off at a hospital. Let someone else raise him. (Yeah, right.) Kid not making sense to you? Drop her off at a hospital? Not liking the way junior is turning out? Drop him off a hospital. Little sister not fitting into that peg you're trying to squeeze her into? No problem. Just drop the little myster off at the hospital and carry on with your day. Let someone else worry about the details. Isn't that the way? Hell, parents don't even have to do the dirty work these days. Somewhere along the line, we just started dropping our no-good offspring off at the grandparents. Hell, let grandpappy or grammy cut the ties for good. Nice. No sweat. No mess. Nothing like a little double-abandonment issue to saddle a kid's lifelong journey toward who knows what with.

Yeah, like I wrote, I'm feeling a little bitter and disillusioned this morning for too many reasons to even count, but I'm not so sure sticking a pair of headphones on all day to escape it all, even with the knowledge it may mean I eventually can hear even the positive, not a fair trade-off.

Summer Days, Summer Nights

Summer days, summer nights are gone
Summer days and summer nights are gone - Bob Dylan

What is it about summer coming to an end that sends me into a funk that seemingly lasts until April 21st? Well, living in flippin' Nebraska is one reason. The prospect of spending another winter skirting around in layers of scratchy clothes with sub-zero winds pounding my moral into bits of ice shards nearly makes me cry. The thought of blowing snow off my driveway every other week only adds to the torment. Mix in being cooped up in a house with five other people progressively getting on each other nerves, every-escalating heating bills, shorter days and longer nights, etc., and I'm on the brink of hysterics. Seriously, this dread of winter gets worse every year. 41 years spent with snow, ice, sleet, dirty melting roads, impossibly cold temperatures, frosted windows, cold fingers and toes, and roads unsuitable for driving. Too many. Far too many. For nearly 10 years, I faced this madness with a bald head. Brutal. What the hell am I thinking still living here?

Stay positive. Sledding with my daughter. Discovering new ways to injure ourselves by building ice ramps we shouldn't even consider jumping. Watching my daughter revel in her friends on her birthday. Looking forward to my baby's first birthday. My wife's birthday. Jesus' birthday. New Year's Eve and Day. Valentine's Day. Football. Basketball. Walks in the park with the dogs stuffing their snoots in snow banks, sniffing out some rabbit long since gone. Spying on the deer that live just over the hill and wondering how they're staying alive. Slipping outside at night long enough to witness the stars, knowing this is as close as they'll get all year to my eyesight. Pointing out the Big Dipper to my daughter. Holing up and gaming with my son. It's not all bad. Nothing is.

Still, I was born for the heat. It doesn't intimidate me. It doesn't scare me off. It doesn't send me looking for cooler quarters. I'd sit under a tree in the summertime doing nothing else is able. If I could find a job that paid me enough to work outside, I'd do it in a second. I was meant for being outdoors. Watching the nights shorten themselves depresses me. Feeling the temperatures retreat gives me sadness. Watching my trees slowly regress into skeletons feels tragically wrong. Watching my garden disappear is like watching an old friend slowly drive down the road, knowing it will be a long time before I see him again. Hearing the neighborhood kids raising a din outside less and less is like losing memories. It's still August and I'm already sinking in spirit. Fall, I don't welcome you in the least. I don't welcome you're "pretty" colors and comfortable temperatures. I don't welcome your crispness in the air. You're an enemy, and I will always treat you as such.

SnagFilms Looks Cool

I read about SnagFilms today at the WSJ, and the service/site looks very promising and cool. Grabbed this flick featuring the great Townes Van Zandt. Essentially, SnagFilm lets you grab any movie from its site and post it to your blog, site, etc.

Where Have All The Good Times Gone

Good lord, has it been more than six months since I've last visited the land of Buddha? Where did all the time go? Well, watching a baby grow up mostly, and what a time it has been. Who could have guessed that at my age watching her sprout up and extend all over would be so fulfilling? I would have guessed, that's who. I knew she'd be amazing, and she hasn't disappointed. What a gift. What a life lesson. What a treasure. What a six months. Thanks RJ.