EnTrOpY

“Getting old ain’t for sissies.” ~ Sherry Sparks

Every day is a battle, a war against staying the same, letting gravity take hold, or fighting against the forces of time that drag us downward. The more I live, the harder it gets to make the choice to do better, to be the optimist in the room, and to push forward against all that seems to be holding us back.

It is a courageous act to roll out of bed in the morning, punch the clock or fix your tie, then head into a world that values youth more than any other commodity.

I don’t want to coast, to be the coffee-drinking porch-sitter than reminisces and shuns the forward view, who holds nostalgia in higher regard than progress. But the tractor beam of aging will continue to draw us in, changing our blurry view and making us reassess our goals in light of the inevitable course that we all face.

I will not continue to get in better and better shape, write my “magnum opus,” or regain my youthful health and vigor; those days have likely passed. But I can re-mold this sculpture into something that I can be proud of, if I will only fight the battles that I know I can win and acquiesce to the things I cannot control. But oh to know the difference.

The future is not likely to be the vision that you once had, especially if you are a product of the 1960s or 1970s, but with the right lens we can see clearly the path forward.

Is it time to start over, or start again? I am not sure if I am ready for such a commitment, but I know that there are many adventures yet to begin if I can only muster the strength to find them. Is there room for optimism in the last 1/3 of your life? I certainly hope so. For I cannot thrive on the crumbs of pessimism.

 

Robots

How do we know that we are not robots?

Sometimes the stories we hear and the tales we tell seem to loop and flow like they have happened in a previous life. We live in an eternal state of deja vu.

How do we know that we will make the right choices?

Sometimes the path forward seems as clear as a fall morning, and sometimes it drifts away in a hazy fog never to be found again. We are led astray by optimistic angels and determined demons that swirl and battle inside our troubled dreams.

How do we know that we have not been here before?

Sometimes I think about how flesh and bone sat where we now sit and eked out an existence, only to close their eyes in rest from flesh-eating demons yet to be discovered. We are on that same destination of corruptible flesh, held together by beeping machines and silent prayers.

How do we know if someone is writing our code?

Sometimes we read from the history books about the astounding feats of bravery and even greater episodes of evil and wonder if we possess the programming to write a different storyline. We share the same DNA and the potential for triumph and tragedy flows unceasingly through our veins.

How do we know that robots did not invent us in their image?

Sometimes a novel has an ending that we would have written and sometimes the conclusion is as perplexing as the conflicting stories that are carved inside us. We must create the future with the hands that we were given and use our minds to free ourselves from the viruses of anxiety, fear, and perfectionism.  

How do I know that I did not write this just to prove that I am human?

The Tightrope

The circus needs their entertainers…their acrobats…their death defy-ers. Those who have no regard for their lives, but nightly sway upon the rope, balancing their feet between life and breath.

The net looms on one side, safe and secure; calculated risk is a natural part of the act.  On the other side lays the hard concrete of the circus floor – certain death awaits and one untoward move is the beginning of the end. 

Either fall disappoints someone. The certain hard drop leaves those who you love in the cold, all for an entertainer’s wage. The net is the safe approach, but you have never been one for safety. Lately you have chosen the hard way and the possibility of the lonely sudden fall; the deathly drop is what keeps you alive and alert. The warmth and safety of the net scares you ever more.

An abundance of metaphors and imagery escapes me tonight, so I will reveal the plot...

The church in all of its safety is the net. There is comfort there. Years of routine and practice, traditions in many denominations and a heritage of faith. But my belief is a lie, one that clouds my every appearance on the doorstep. I am the worst of hypocrites. A spectator and an invisible man that warms a pew and then moves on like a ghost. I am a fog that add nothing to the discussion; a mist that appears for a while and slowly disappears.

The unprotected side is a life that depends on myself away from the church building. I must appear to be perfect, yet remain true to myself. But it is best for the faithful pew-fillers…they no longer have to hold on to the expectation of what they feel I might have possessed; what they imagine I would have added to the conversation. There is certainty that I will not fail anyone, because my presence will not cloud the proceedings. Without me they are no worse or no better. They trudge on without me in the picture, sing their hymns, “Amen” their sermons, and take their bread and cup in peace.

There is not a choice that leads to happiness. I choose to stay on the rope. Balanced between the soft and the hard; suspended between two worlds. There is security there but the exhausting balancing act cannot go on forever. The choice must be made.

The Wind

The wind is a force that knows no origin and does as it wishes; it continues to blow as much as I want to hold it back. I can scream at it, get mad at it, or curse it, but no one will hear me over its mighty pounding and aggression.

The truth is that wind is as inanimate as the concrete mailbox that absorbs its strength; it does not hate or fear or love, but only moves at the whim of nature and science. It makes no sense to seek meaning from the wind, yet I daily wonder what it is trying to teach me; like free-form jazz I try to decipher its rhythms and rhymes, but there is nothing there but our individual interpretations.

Maybe it is best to just sit back and be in awe of its mighty prowess to push ships around an ocean and its wizard-like ability to carve a sculpture in the desert that no man can recreate. It will do its work whether or not I believe in it, praise it, or curse it. It will continue to gust and bluster and throw its immeasurable weight around.

Perhaps I give it too much credit. I just need to recognize its work and its worth without making it into something that will benefit me in some selfish way, but something that is a constant, steady, and formidable presence in my life.

Where does it go when the air is calm and still and nothing can be heard but my own heartbeat or the cry of nearby bird? That I cannot answer, yet I know it is performing its show somewhere else. I also know it will return in its own time and perform its magical performance for me another day.

Dylan believed there was an answer in the wind, but I am skeptical. Perhaps the wind holds no rhyme, no reason, and no answer. Perhaps there is only its ever-present presence that swirls within my drifting thoughts as it molds and carves its way through my blustery life.

Legacy

Libraries make me sad…knowing there are so many books to read, so little time, and the fact that I will never read them all.

What mark do you want to leave when you are gone? A mark of change, love, and perseverance. Or a difference of indifference?

Stadiums full of people make me sad…knowing there are so many people I will never meet, and so many stories that will remain untold.

What stories do you want people to tell at your funeral? Tales of bravery, sacrifice, and patience? Or tales of confusion, revenge, and questioning of motives?

Restaurants make me sad…knowing that I will never taste and smell all the culinary creations that are produced, and I will never get to share that sweet and savory joy with the world.

What comparisons do you want people to make when they see your body of work? Stories seeping with selfishness and ambition? Or a competent and compassionate portfolio of hope, power, and confidence; a legacy that others can place on their backs and shoulders?

Airports make me sad…knowing that I will never visit all the places of wonder, beauty, and imagination in this world, and even if I travel for years and walk for miles, there is still so much more to be seen.

What feelings do you want to transfer to those you call your own? Reminders of failures, sins, and shortcomings? Or feelings of joy, laughter, and of self-sacrifice that went above and beyond the requirements of ordinary love and care?

Record stores make me sad…knowing that I will never hear every melody, chord, and story told in all the songs hidden in the stacks; as well as all the songs and hymns yet to be written.

What legacy do you want to leave when others say your name? A remembrance marked with titles, trophies, and prestige? Or memories of one who was enamored by books, laughed and loved with those he met, savored the seasonings of both fine and simple cuisine, never got over the wonders of the created and manmade world, and was engrossed with all the beautiful rhythms and melodies that graced his ears?

Life makes me sad…knowing that one person will never be able to experience it all. Yet that sadness is overshadowed by the joy of never ceasing to forget every second, every smile, and every breath.