My grandpa is nearing his 90th lap around the sun, and let me tell you, after several laps around the track, let alone the sun, people tend to get rather tired.
“Um… Hmmm…”, he’ll sometimes frown as he delves into his memory to collect his thoughts. I don’t blame him. It takes time to recall the name of a friend who shot the head off a poisonous snake at his farm, the night he drove nearly 240 miles for a first date with my grandmother, or standing on a podium to give a speech to his fraternity scolding his fellows for stealing sandwiches from the kitchen.
I remember eating lunch after a round of golf with him last year. As I set down my drink and began to express some of the more intricate details of life in another state, I was abruptly cut off by song.
“I know a lassie as fair as can be, and she dwells where the bluebells grooooow…”
Although lately he may launch into melody at inconvenient times, I can’t help but laugh, and love him for tenderly bringing up some experience from his past tied to a tune.
The older people in your life may fall into their idiosyncrasies occasionally, but don’t neglect their wealth of experience and wisdom. You might find some life changing advice behind a note or two.
The bus slowed, a large yellow fish in a sea of concrete. Shadows dappled the cracked asphalt, lengthening as the sun stretched lazily.
“Driver…. Er…. Mr. Ben, have you had chapati?” The little girl’s wide eyes gleamed with anticipation. “My mom makes the best chapati, just like when we were in Congo.”
“Yes, that is one of my favorite breads. I have had it before too, even when I was your age.”
“How old are you?”
“Wow…” The girl trailed off, looking to her right as the darkness passed over her face, plunging the school bus into a dim world under the shadow of the factory.
“Thank you, Mr. Ben!”
The girl jumped to the front of the bus and hopped down the steps as the hiss of the doors sounded the freedom of home. Ben smiled nervously and looked at his watch. 20 minutes late. This stop was not on his schedule. He sighed and glanced back out the window. She would most likely be opening her front door and slinging off her backpack, ducking under the TV screen as her parents scolded her for being late. His gaze met something very different.
The girl was running down the street, jumping over the gaps in the asphalt with her eyes fixed straight ahead. She jumped, but did not come down. The giant arms of her father lifted her into space. A pillar. A Rock.
As he rose he looked through the bus window and met Ben’s eyes. He smiled gently. Waved. Satisfaction. His daughter was home.
Ben broke his gaze and put his foot on the gas. These tiny homes could barely be called apartments. How many people lived there? Did the noise keep them up at night? Did the natural darkness of evening never fully exist underneath the glare of the factory? A tear surfaced and he wiped it away. The man and his daughter seemed so happy. Genuinely joyful, with what seemed like so little.
Wealth means many different things. Invest in what matters.
I’ve always been a risk taker. Growing up I relished every chance to fill my personal “jar” of adrenaline complementary to dangerous experiences. Some jars were large, and some small, but by my early college days I had accrued quite a collection.
It began when I was a wee lad. On the many family camping trips during childhood, for example, my parents would fruitlessly attempt to stop me from pinpointing the largest behemoth of a tree and poking my head above the highest (rather thin) branch. Nature called and I simply had to answer.
But, if my risky mentality was a roller coaster ride, it would come clanking to a halt one warm February day in 2019. This story begins with the very thing I’m dedicating my career to now: The ocean.
Where I’m from warm days don’t exist in February, so let me explain. Two years ago a small crew and I were sent to the lush island of Puerto Rico to assist local engineers with restoration efforts in the wake of hurricanes Irma and Maria. A rather exquisite perk of the job, outside of the wonderful people, fried pork, and cheap beer, was the opportunity to stay at AirBnBs during our operation.
One such abode was a quaint two bedroom house nestled against a thick leafy forest. This specific AirBnB happened to be situated mere seconds from a sandy beach, sprinkled with shy fish and the occasional hazardous sea urchin (warning: do not pet the animals). If you take a careless 5 minute meander along this beach, you will come to an abrupt halt, your way barred by an outcrop of limestone, like a larger than life hedgehog permanently keeping the sea at bay.
It was on this hedgehog’s back I scrambled as I made my way to a view of the watercolor blue horizon beyond. Have I sold you on Puerto Rico yet? So there I was, the bottoms of my shoes cut from razor sharp limestone, running up this rock to catch a glimpse of the oceanic expanse. As I summited and looked down, I noticed a rather large finger of rock jutting from the outcrop. This particularly bowl shaped cusp happened to be situated mere feet above a gaping sinkhole. The frothy chasm was the size of a large trampoline, but rather than bounce you back to safety, you would most likely get swallowed only to become quick friends with the ocean floor. The endless waves lapped at the edges of the overlying buttress as I made my way down. Oddly enough, if you sat in the bowl atop this horn, as I promptly did, not even the slightest salty mist would reach your outstretched hand. It’s like you’re on a stationary roller coaster, everything moving below you while you stay put. Soon I felt like that chick in Titanic, except without DiCaprio, of course.
After several minutes of bliss I decided to take the 5 minute jog back to the house and tell my coworker Gabe about the experience. Intrigued, he donned his flip flops and we ambled back to the site. He mainly took pictures of the limestone (see snapshots above and below) while we swapped turns on the “unmoving coaster”. After my rather large daily bottle of adrenaline reached the point of overflowing, we sauntered back to the house and switched on Netflix over plantains and chicken.
Fast forward to the next morning. After a quick breakfast I started packing food for the day, stuffing processed lunchmeat into my old backpack. As I washed my hands I suddenly realized one thing: It’s high tide. With a bolt I ran to the living room and asked if my compadre wanted to take one last ride. Through at least two full eggs worth of scramble I received a muffled, “Nah”. So off I went.
Now here’s what I did not realize:
One: Waves are loud. I could have screamed a slur of profanities at the top of my lungs and no one (save God) would have been blessed with my remarks.
Two: As I scuttled down to the cusp I don’t have the foresight to realize that a soaking wet horn of rock meant something more than rain the night before (which it hadn’t).
Three: Not a soul is there.
I’m sitting in the bowl as the waves surge and break underneath me. My adrenaline meter is off the charts. I’m on the moon. And then, just after I had settled into a divine euphoria, it hit.
In a split second I glanced up and saw a foaming wall of white. I hate to say I can now to some extent relate to the many poor souls caught in an avalanche. When it’s right in front of you there is nothing you can do but brace and hope for the best. My hands grabbed the slippery rock to my side as the impact hit me with full force. For what seemed like an eternity I was at war with the ocean, it’s watery claws successfully starting to drag me from my perch. Slipping. Soaking. Clinging on for dear life. And then…. It’s over. In that split second the ocean funneled back into the sinkhole’s greedy mouth. Like a tossed salad, I was utterly shaken and drenched. You know when people tell you they have an out of body experience? I used to snort, laugh, ask for further explanation. Now I’m quiet.
I sat there too shocked to laugh or cry as the next wave merely sent a gentle mist in my direction. Snapping too, I launched myself from the perch, and from a safe distance above, turned back to look at what may have been my doom. My emotions kicked in and I started crying like those kids who got their candy stolen on Jimmy Kimmel. Crying and thanking the Lord I am alive.
My perception of risk changed that day. As I looked down one last time to that sinkhole I saw a version of myself fighting, trying to escape as the waves crushed my frame against the sharp limestone. Would I have made it? Only God knows.
Next time you think about taking a risk, try looking around, assessing your situation, and knowing what you’re getting into. You may just look down in time to find that your seat belt is unbuckled before takeoff.
2020. What a year. I consistently hear people saying things like, “I can’t wait for 2021,” or, ” Next year we’ll get to the end of this tunnel.” I understand there is a time and place for this expectancy, but sometimes I think we lose sight of where we’re at. To give you a little perspective, I’ll explain below, but I must warn you, it’s not the most thrilling story.
Come back with me to the year 1348 in Florence, Italy:
You are sitting atop a crudely built wooden chair in a rustic second-floor living room. Indigo hues of dusk are slowly replacing the dim light of a setting sun, causing the shadows cast by an ashy fire to dance around the room. Eerie silence. The cries of your neighbor ceased this morning. You know why. As you rise from the chair your trembling hands tense around an empty stomach. The small portion of oats you ate this morning is simply unsustainable. You need more food. As you turn to look past the warped window of your room, you find a shred of comfort in the darkening horizon, which signifies you have lasted yet another day. Many of your family, friends, and neighbors have not. The Black Plague, unknown by that name to you at the time, is in the midst of ravaging Florence and greater Europe. As you rifle through your last supply of nuts and seeds, you close your eyes and simply hope to see the now charcoal horizon lose its fight to the next morning’s amber glow.
Whew, thank you for reading this far. I did not enjoy writing that insomuch as I wanted to prove a point by it. If you’re reading this you probably have a warm bed, a roof over your head, and most of your friends and family accessible at the touch of a finger if not within close proximity. Food is readily available. The world’s governments and advanced scientific communities are working on a sustainable solution to the pandemic as we speak. You have access to a wealth of information and entertainment from your home. Yes, life is more complex, but I’ll be darned if it isn’t more comfortable than it has ever been before.
So whatever fight you are engaged in, whatever battle you think you’re winning or losing this year, continue to fight it and don’t give up, because we have it good, and the odds of us waking up to the next sunrise are substantially higher than many a European in the 14th century.
Here we find ourselves on the brink of a much anticipated election. We are on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a precipice we need to overcome to reach the next step in history. Whether we land on solid ground, let alone take the leap united remains to be seen. Why is this gap so daunting this year?
My high school history teacher Father Justin Grose is worried for our country. Last year, I was able to visit him as he reflected on the polarization and unwillingness to listen that has affected all of us. “At some point the preconceived notion of what the opposing party represents clouds judgement and drives divisiveness to a breaking point.” He mused.
An example of this “breaking point” is illustrated in a classic childhood read of mine, Gulliver’s Travels, by Jonathan Swift. The main character, Gulliver, finds himself on the island of Lilliput during his journey. The tiny inhabitants are locked war with the neighboring island of Blefuscu that resulted from indecision on which side an egg should be cracked. War had been rampant throughout the land with no resolution in sight, and to the external observer, appeared a ridiculous position on which to stake a flag.
Please, don’t judge a book by it’s cover. If someone says they are a *buzz word* Trump supporter or a Biden supporter, ask why and listen! If we are not willing to discuss our differences as a nation we will remain locked in conflict, stuck on this side of a widening precipice before us, and unwilling to work together to jump to the other side. I don’t know about you, but that is not where I want to be.
Face to face interaction. It’s what humans need as a form of sustenance yet also what almost all of us lack. Lately I’ve been thinking about just how important this form of communication is.
The other day I had a wonderful time catching up with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. We snagged some coffee, sat down at a table and started talking. There was no direction to the conversation, nor was there a topic we had to discuss. We just sat down and talked.
When was the last time you took time to sit down with a friend (or foe) and allow the conversation to take on a life of its own?
In light of now being a quarter of a century old, I thought I’d share some lessons learned along the crazy, bumpy, and invigorating ride of life.
1. Learn to say no
This is a hard one for me. As someone who likes to please others, I tend to want to say yes to every invite thrown my way. I’ve learned that it’s just not possible to do that and be consistent with the people that mean the most to me. Learn to say yes to the important things and people in your life, and realize that it’s OK to sacrifice some ground in other areas.
2. Try something new
This is a typical one, but in all reality, the times I’ve tried new things have been quite enlightening and worthwhile. I’m not saying travel to Thailand and shake hands with a monk dwelling in a cave on the side of some snowy cliff. That’s just too far. But try to get out of your comfort zone. Do something that stretches you. We live in a world that continually seeks comfort. It’s time to swim against the flow and try something uncomfortable. Volunteer at your local homeless shelter. Strike up a conversation with someone on the bus next to you who seems lonely. Those things really count. You’ll feel better for it too.
3. Break some rules
For real. Some of you won’t be happy hearing this, but you can’t live by the book all the time. I’ve seen people that have, and they tend to live cut and dry lifestyles. It’s no fun. Do something on the edge. Once a year my brother and I sneak under a fence into a “no trespassing” area near town (no details) and bring a laptop loaded with a new movie we haven’t seen. We’ll chill and watch the movie out on a beautiful overlook where we shouldn’t be. But let me tell you, those are some of the most crucial times of bonding I’ve had with my brother.
4. Learn to give
Yes. My friends, most of you have been given extraordinary opportunities that so many people in this world would do anything for. Don’t take that for granted. Living in Kenya showed me circumstances in which people can survive and yet emanate a surprising happiness. You’ve heard it said, but I’ll say it again. The love of wealth will not bring you happiness. Learn to give some of what you’ve been given away while you’re younger, and you’ll thank yourself for it when you get older.
5. Learn to be yourself
This is a tough one to swallow for me. The above phrase is a staple in many self help books, discussed in many groups, and constitutes quite a bit of inspirational media, so it must be easy, right? Wrong. I still tend to fall into the trap of agreeing with everything people say, regardless of opinion. I’m continuing to learn that it’s OK to disagree with people and leave it at that. For example, I am a Christian, and hold certain values and ideas for a way of living that I believe works. This rubs many people the wrong way, but that’s all right.
So there you have it. The five things I’ve learned at 25. Thanks for reading, and I hope you got something out of this. If you want to add what you’ve learned or continue the conversation, please comment with your thoughts.
Right now I’m in Denver, waiting in line to submit plans for my company. As I write this post, the cluster of tired civilians accumulates like sand in an hourglass, while one person sits behind a granite desk attempting to handle the influx.
Have you ever been to the DMV? This situation mirrors its painful slowness. It may be hours before my name is called, so I’ve set up a make shift cot to get some shuteye in the meantime. When the sloths from Zootopia are finally ready my misery will cease.
Im being cynical, and in reality the wait is a good practice in patience. If your occupation demands waiting, find a way to be productive or creative while you wait. Patience is indeed a virtue.
I recently attained a new job at a company I’ve always wanted to work for (VERY exciting). They’ve got great people and wonderful opportunities to impact the surrounding community.
With this new transition came a desire to update my Linkedin account and reach out to some old acquaintances. As I was going through people to reach out to, my thoughts drifted to memories we’ve shared years back. I have had some good times with some good people growing up, and I don’t want to lose that in this new professional context.
Lesson learned: Don’t connect with people simply to make your profile look better. Connect with them because they have made a difference in your life or have shared quality experiences with you. Connect with people for who they are, not what they bring to the table.