We Are So Small

There are very few things in life that can deflate our egos. This is one of them. There is something about this video that rattles me. One cannot help but cry out for God when watching this devastation.

Humans have an amazing capacity to create. This gives us an amazing sense of accomplishment, as it should. We can build rockets that take men to the moon. We can travel thousands of miles in a flying tube. We can talk to humans on the opposite side of the globe through a handheld device. We are more connected than ever before. We are healthier and wealthier. We eat foods that grow hundreds of miles away. We have a universe of information at our fingertips. We have cured diseases and we are living longer than ever before. Indeed we are creative and resilient.

But all it takes is an earthquake to remind us that for all our creations, we are not powerful. All it takes is for our creations to literally crumble on their foundations around us to remind us that we are still flesh and blood. Still frail and weak. Still tiny.

We can inspire one another. We can overcome the greatest obstacles in our paths to forge peace treaties, to feed starving mouths, to communicate. The human spirit is indomitable. We go on living in spite of fear and terror. We are brave enough to stand for what we believe in. And yet, we still bicker about politics. We bully and cheat. We lust and want. We are prideful, we think that we deserve. 

But all it takes is a tsunami to remind us that for everything we are, we are not in control. All it takes is to see the ocean water wash away cars and buildings as if they were grains of sand to remind us that we should change. To remind us that that which we considered important, may not be.

We are so small. God help us.

[Keep following.]

Great Moments In My Life

Sometimes the stars align. Sometimes impossible things happen. Sometimes these things happen to me. I was reminded of these few times when one happened the other day. But first, a little commentary. It seems like more often than not, toast lands butter-side down, dogs have to sneeze right when your face is closest, toothbrushes seem magically attracted to the toilet, Lindsay Lohan doesn't overdose, and Justin Bieber's music keeps getting purchased--almost as if by some magical force. Along with natural disasters, I think these moments are God's little way of letting us know that we are not in control. I'm not saying God causes these things to happen, He just allows them to happen. (Because he definitely has nothing to do with Lindsay or The Biebs.) The most exciting thing about these moments for me is that I cannot wait to watch the replay in heaven. Or wherever I end up when I'm dead. It will be like youtube, but more personal. Maybe it will be called metube.

But onwards to my first greatest moment. Picture me. Six years old. White-blond hair. Cowboy boots. That is what I looked like the day it happened. I guess it was a day like any other. On this day we happened to be playing football in the street with the college kids who lived across from us. So there I was. On a team. Running around being generally useless, I'm sure. That is, until I went long. I clomped northbound on 200 East, arms outstretched. I wasn't even looking for the ball floating toward me in the air. I must have looked like a little cowboy zombie, running like that. And suddenly there was a football in my hands. In my little kid perspective I looked backward at the cheering students, and they seemed to be a hundred yards away. I had just caught a touchdown pass. I was a hero. I had done an impossible thing. It was the start of my amazing career as a pro-football player. The celebration lasted into the night.

In heaven the video will be short. Maybe ten seconds. It will be shot in that old-timey style that flickers and the people move too fast. It will show little me running for approximately 3.54 feet and catching a ball thrown right into my hands. Less glamorous. But hey, you gotta start somewhere.

Amazing moments in my life took a 10 year hiatus. I guess catching the pass of a lifetime filled my amazing quota for quite awhile. That is until one fateful night in the Bozeman Stake Center I was center court, holding a basketball. I gave the ball small toss with heavy backspin. The ball sprung backwards and I kicked at it. The heavens shook for my good that night. The ball soared through the air. Going, going, going. Time slowed. Emotions ran high. Swoosh. A perfect half-court shot.

The replay in heaven will be boring. It will show a bunch of awkward zitty teenagers kicking balls at basketball hoops for two hours. Shane and Chet and I all taking turns. And finally one will go in. The celebration lasts longer than is needful for the moment.

Fast forward 8 years. Monday December 20th 2010. I'm pushing carts at Costco. I'm waiting for a line of oblivious customers to get out of my way so I can stow my line of carts in the entrance. Suddenly a rogue cart comes careening into my peripheral vision. Pushed carelessly by some old dude, the cart is headed straight for a stray toddler. He stands like a deer in the headlights right next to my row. I don't have time to think, so I stick out my leg and kick the murderous cart towards the motionless lines of extra carts. The cart does an elegant spin and then lands right on the end of one of the rows. Perfectly stowed and interlocked. Disaster was averted. Not only did I save a miniature human from what surely would have been a most heinous death and/or dismemberment, but I stowed an extra cart without using my hands. I was super-human for half a second. This time no celebration was needed. I just smirked to myself and thought about how awesome I am. No thanks was necessary.

Yeah, right. Where was the mother?! She should have showered me with gifts and affection and different creams and lotions. But I didn't even get a, "OH thank you, you are so great, take this cash." Lame. There better be replays in heaven so I can show this mom what happened and get my dues.

[Keep following. There is more where that came from. Filler... fillerup... FILL 'ER UP PLEASE!]

Lifeguard... Duty...

Just look at him. All smug on his little tower. Some have called them aquatic saviors. Others have called them guarders of life. Be not deceived, for they are the fun killers. 

You may think they are innocent enough. They have a tough job. They brave the suns harmful rays day after day just to keep us safe. With their cheap sunglasses and billowing shirts, they are like Batman. If the pool were Gotham City. And the swimmers criminals. And after all, we pay them to stop us from doing dangerous things right?

Wrong. We pay them to save our lives if we happened to drink a bottle of Jack before swimming. We pay them to bandage toes and perform CPR. We don't pay them to be the fun police. Who are they to stop me from running? Who are they to put an end to my chicken fight? If I want to run amok and go down the slide backwards, it is my god-given right. And they better be there to save me if I happen to crack open my skull on the bottom of the pool.

The rules they enforce have been handed down over centuries. They are no longer relevant. The "No Running" rule stems from the before-time when Roman baths were covered in tile and running meant certain death to all toga-wearing patrons. This is outdated. Today's poolsides are covered in textured concrete that resembles course sandpaper. Let me run freely to the diving board. 

So to all lifeguards, I say, stop sucking the fun out of the pool. And take off those shoes. If I'm drowning, I don't want you unlacing your Sketchers and pulling off your socks before you dive in.

[Keep following because the summer has just begun. Also, more rants to follow.]

Catshavealoveformethatisnotreciprocated

Cats LOVE me. Sometimes I feel like this:

They SENSE that I just want nothing to do with them.
So they are all like, "Hey guy, like me."
And I'm like, "No."
And they are all like, "Here's my butt."

Then it's all over because I push them away and they think I'm being loving so they try to weasel their little necks under my palm as I am literally shoving them off the couch for humans with real feelings, when really, I just hate them. This an official notice to all cats everywhere: GO AWAY DEMON-SPAWN, I DON'T WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND. Go kill something that is not a human baby.

[Keep following. Do it.]

Also Old (But Applicable). I'm Too Exhausted To Be Creative.

I've always thought the verb “to pine” was an interesting phrase. The dictionary defines it as, “to yearn deeply; suffer with longing; long painfully.” Not often does one find a word that can be an inanimate object when used as a noun and mean something completely opposite when used as a verb. What does pain have to do with a coniferous tree?

Well, let’s look at the definitions more carefully: “To long painfully.” I guess trees are pretty long. That doesn’t connect unless the length described here does not refer to distance at all, but to time. Pine trees are evergreens. Forever green. Fitting, because when one pines for something or someone, it isn’t usually a short-term thing. Maybe the word suggests a pain and suffering that is continuous, just like the needles that tenaciously hold their color. Stagnant. Ever-green. Like a wellspring of hurt.

The word can also mean “to fail gradually in health or vitality from grief, regret, or longing.” This also seems to be a contradiction. Other trees look sickly and dead in the winter, whereas evergreens do not. Sometimes they seem like the only thing alive in winter. It turns out that that is also false. Evergreens are just as sickly in the winter as other trees, they just don’t show it. Photosynthesis stops almost completely but not altogether. They respirate and have just the right porous surface on their needles so as not to lose too much water. They survive, but barely. So I guess it’s just a façade. A dodge or hustle to throw off those who would put pines in the same class as ruddy aspen or cowardly oak.

Archaic: “to suffer grief or regret over.” What does a tree have in common with this definition? Does a tree regret? Is the mighty pine an optimist? Or a procrastinator? Maybe lingering green is not just resiliency but simple foolhardiness. Could these trees not just send their water and nutrient stores down into dark roots like other trees? Why so stubborn? Why waste the energy to keep creating food when the sky has clouded over? Maybe the needles that rescue its color in the winter suffocate the tree in the summer. Maybe it regrets this; not growing more in the summer and so forces itself to survive in winter. The green is more a funeral shroud of grief and regret than an indicator of life. A sign of a fool’s hope.

Before 900 AD in Middle English the word meant, “pinen: to torture, torment, inflict pain, be in pain.” This green is self-deprecating, a funeral dirge for hopeless optimism. An insidious form of self-torture. Certainly pines cannot be used for torture! you say? Unless the wood is fashioned into a cross, bored into to form a stocks, or cut down to erect a gallows. The needles even inflict pain. Some say to protect themselves. I say it’s to torture those who don’t understand the pine’s message.

Pining may be fitting indeed.

[Keep following cuz it's gettin' started in ha. In here!]

Masquerading on. And on.

What a difference a day makes. I think Annie was right. No matter what happens in our today, tomorrow still has an imagination. And it's better than yours. Way better.

Life tends to be a smug masquerade. We are all dancers on it's floor. We wear our ornate costumes, drape ourselves in exotic fabrics, and elegantly spin as if nothing were amiss. We have our masks; our self-deceptions, pride, and narrow pessimism. As if no new dawn could lavish hope.

Little do we know that around each spinning step slinks an opportunist fate. A met glance. Another chance. Or the audacity of romance. We simple fools. We dance on. Side-stepping our mistress luck for the gatekeeper solitude. We cloud our eyes with ethereal fantasy and drift past waiting out our lives as if it were some one-time-only movie showing.

The sun will come out tomorrow. Though you can't fathom its glory. The while we study the barbican moon. The haunches of its dimness. Shortchange those we love and whittle away the minutes. There is contentment but not joy. We experience a sort of damning lack of progress with contentment. We would have joy but for sadness. Fear whips us into hovels.

I for one am in a beaming moment. Warm-faced and blissful. Spirits akin to longing, now embrace like long-parted friends. Keep me loving and I get away from the dance and tear off my mask; and live.

[Keep following children. Happy days are upon us if you look hard enough. Who knows? Maybe you will wake up 50 years from now to a sterile gray dawn and short days filled with ashen snow.]

On Repeat In My Head

[Keep following. The end is near.]