The Cost of Living

Is the world more expensive, or did we come to realize that the cost of living is more than we are willing to pay?

A cave man sits in his rock-forged home thousands of years ago and ponders the stars. No city lights blur his vision. No sounds of traffic obscure the hum of nature, howling wolves, and frogs looking for companionship. All he sees is the unfettered night sky in all its glory. He does not get out a physics book to calculate its orbit or wonder how many lights years away it is. He only admires it for its aesthetic beauty, and possibly ponders what celestial artist created such an immutable tapestry.

Is it a modern problem to wonder and to worry? To wonder if all the furor and concern that comes across our eyes and ears every day is worth one ounce of anxiety. To worry that we have not made our mark on the world, as if the world cares how many heartbeats we have or road trips we take.

Now we worry each day about a demon we cannot see; a microscopic terror that seems to change everything about how the modern world operates. Does it care if we try to pray it away? Does it care if we are exercising our freedom to breath unfiltered air? Does it care if we miss human contact or are tired of staring at our omniscient virtual amusement boxes?

Now a modern man sits in his cave of brick and mortar, flipping channels until he lands on a commentator that thinks like him; proving his theory that the world is a dangerous and haunted place. That the microscopic terror is all in our minds and we should move and go as we please, as he rebuilds God in his own image.

The stars, blurred by the blinding lights of our confusion, no longer inspire us. We think the stars have lost their shine, yet they continue to flash the same brilliant show they performed when men dwelt in caves.

A thousand years from now, surrounded by a complex structure of unknown futuristic materials, men will gaze at the stars and ponder the same questions. They will never be answered. The generations will keep asking them, always wondering if life is worth it, always coming to the same lasting conclusion – maybe.

The cost of living will continue to rise until it evaporates like a mist, only to be inhaled once again by some future-enlightened generation of cave-dwellers.

 

She

She wears time like a shroud, gathers clouds for a winter coat.

What forces of nature convince her to hide her bravery in clinched fists?

What propels her onward when the end cannot be seen and purpose seems to hide its face?

When time drones on and on, one day melting into the other with no final destination in sight, hope begins to fade like the light in winter.

 

She builds a shelter out of straw, diamonds out of the fires of her daily hell.

What gives her patience when every problem seems to come to her at lightning speed?

What gives her the will to carry on when no one seems to appreciate the burdens of work, love, and sweat that she has carried for so many years?

When the days are shorter and the sunlight hides it’s face in the early evening, she lets down her hair and brushes out the debris and poisons that cloud her mind.

 

She brings money to the altar, offers a bleeding sacrifice in hopes that any god will hear her.

What led her to believe that having a child would take away the pain of daily living?

What gave her the image of motherhood as a shining beacon of light, a warrior wielding a sense of purpose that she believed would be cherished by the whole world?

When she brought forth her screaming children and endowed life into their lungs, she did not foresee the pain that would be returned to her tenfold.

 

She wishes on twinkling stars, lifts up a prayer of thanks for the gift of life, breath, and pain.

What calling can be more noble and what pathway can be more vital to a hurting world?

What can she give in return for the blessing of providing direction for small, lost souls in a world that seeks at every turn to lead them away from truth and goodness?

When she closes her eyes at night, she accepts the struggle as a willing sacrifice, trusting in her heart of hearts that there is purpose to this pain.

 

Re-Igniting My Passions

I have to admit, I thought 2020 was a challenging year, but 2021 has pushed the limits of our collective sanity. I changed jobs and moved to a new city, far away from my home town. I worried enough for a lifetime in one year, and doubted myself and my abilities as a teacher, researcher, and scholar. Through it all, my wife has stood by me as always, and the move has been a refreshing change for both of us. My life is good, even though 2021 has made me re-evaluate what is important to me and what brings me joy.

I refuse to make resolutions, but I will select a theme for 2022 that will push me in new and powerful directions. My theme for 2022 is “Re-Igniting My Passions.” These include (1) weightlifting and fitness, (2) mental and spiritual well-being, (3) reading for both business and pleasure, (4) committing myself to better learn qualitative methods to strengthen my research, and (5) develop new skills related to music (specifically how to play my new mandolin that is collecting dust). I have many other sub-goals and priorities for my work and professorship, but these will do for now. What passions will you re-ignite in 2022? Blessings.

We Are All Prisoners

Trapped in our thoughts that gnaw away at time; bound to a clock that never ceases to spin.

The sentences are all different, as well as the crimes. The cells are of our own design. Some are bleak and shady and some are brushed with an eternal sunshine that never fades.

Yet we are all serving a sentence of death; it is the fate of all human flesh. We cannot stop it even if we wanted to. We can travel, entertain, and spend frivolously on our many pursuits, but in the end the cell awaits and calls to us.

Are we guilty for these crimes? For the crime of choosing to live? For the crime of choosing to be wrapped in flesh, led through the maze of childhood, and given a menu of life choices? It is both our punishment and our reward. We deserve much worse, yet we also deserve much more.

Whether the cell is desolate or decorative, it always ends up to be a place within our minds. Should we choose to live out this sentence, we must confront the choices we have made, put aside the regrets, and come to peace with how we have curated each step.

I think often of those with a death sentence, earned or not, as they contemplate the rope around their neck or their arm strapped to the chair. All they have are their thoughts, and though they may be free of their prison soon, regret will always be their fleeting thought as they fade into black.

How will you serve your time? How will you spend those days as you wander toward the inevitable? The mind is the last refuge of solitude, for it speaks to us in our time of need. Call on the gods and saints if you will, and maybe they will hear you in your time of trouble. But most of all make peace with your thoughts, for that is the only way to release the chains of bondage and set your spirit free of the prison walls.

The Railroad Man

Thirst overwhelms me as I watch the blur from the heat swirl and bend the steel before my eyes. Distant tracks waver and dance, distracting me from the task at hand. I have abandoned the thought of cooling off, and my only desire is to feel the slow burn of iced water in my throat; how great it would be to take it in right now.

A steam engine rolls to my right, wrenching and filling the air with its soot. Like a ghastly beast it carries its quarry to distant destinations and belches out steam as it passes by. Not only do I see it, but I feel its vibrations; like small earthquakes but all resonating from these coal-filled cantankerous behemoths as they stomp their way through the mine fields of metal.

This is my lot, to tend the railyards and track the laborious cargo to points unknown. Among the supplies and rations are soldiers from a distant land, frightened and in shackles; much like us but their blonde hair and blue eyes give them away.

A twinge of guilt fills the pit of my stomach, but this is my destiny. While soldiers storm the hills in treacherous battle and risk their lives, I tend the tortuous fields of gravel and heat to do my small part. They say my job is essential, that future success in this war relies on my grit, sweat, and faithfulness to my job. But still I wonder.

Off into the distance the steam train winds and sways and moves onward to the next mass of essential workers. My day is nearly done. But the morning will bring a new set of rattling cars, the reality of a distance war, and the bittersweet sensation of a job well done.

Grace in the form of a beautiful figure greets my greasy visage at the door with a glass of cold, clear water. A warm meal simmers on the stove. Sleep comes quickly; the long day of toil drifts away like clouds of steam.