Much Ado About "Nothing"

Once upon a time there was an overthinking professor, who spent hours trying to write witty prose that rhymed and hummed along, and also entertained. But alas, it was harder to rhyme than to sail the streams of his consciousness. So he just started writing…

Such is the brain of the scattered dreamer. Even when free time comes his way, and his work is caught up with no responsibilities breathing down his neck, he finds a way to write a poem that doesn’t rhyme about the pain of nothingness. About the pain of emptiness and filling that emptiness with chores and house work and turkey dinners and movies and popcorn and chasing dogs. Such is the reality of the holiday break; the vacation that is never a vacation from his tortured mind.

For if the professor relents to the pull of nothingness, he might find that he enjoys it and that it is time to start thinking about the “R” word, when unlimited time for relaxing will be both his reward and his curse. Many work all their lives for those days, to be able to do what they want, sail around the world, wear out the rocking chair or enjoy watching others worry about how the world is spinning and whether or not we have decided to blow it up, or if we will send a man to Mars. A younger man’s thoughts no longer fit his expanding waste of time.

The professor knows this is a trap. While simultaneously longing for the days of the future when he is in control and no one can tell him what to do, those days scare him for he will become his own boss, and he is a terrible self-manager. Yet there are still goals that he writes on sticky notes and pastes all around his messy office like wallpaper. It is yet to be seen whether or not those lofty goals will ever come to pass and if the sticky notes will be stuck on the wall like gold stars, crumpled in the trash, or frozen in their place like flypaper to serve as a warning for all those who dare to dream.

Music lines his mancave walls by the thousands, books overflow his bookshelves, and the word processor longs to see what adventures he will add to this digital storybook. There is always work to do, but it can wait until he enjoys this remnant of free time, even if it kills him. Choices like swatting flies buzz and pester his brain, breaking his already fractured concentration and nagging him to choose an activity or stare blankly into space. But the music does not please and the books are dusty and full of old men’s exploits. So for now he sits and ponders the future that squeezes him like a boa constrictor, getting tighter and tighter as it vanishes before his eyes. A crowd of younger faces take the reins of time and lead us forward; he knows the world he is preparing is not his own, it is only rented from his children.

Maybe he realizes time is a commodity that not all have, and many more every day lose the battle for control of their beating hearts. Maybe he knows that those few hours of leisure, or writing, or chasing dogs and putting out fires, are all eating into the time he has left. It seems that loftier pursuits should fill in those gaps of emptiness, but that is not his choice. It is out of his control. The down time is there to show him that time is a gift  that haunts him more every day as it ticks away and slips through his fingers.

Always the optimist, he knows he can’t end his ramblings on such a depressing note. So he concludes by looking around at his leisure pursuits, knowing the music contained in his walls will satisfy others after his melody is played out, that old men’s exploits are always going to be the fuel that propels us forward, that chasing dogs is something that is not just reserved for the young, and that love is never a waste of time.  It is time to love those who need it, taste the turkey and smell the dressing, and remember that although he is a professor, that is not how he started. Over 40 of his early years were taken up as a teacher, father, and part-time dreamer.

He ends the day with a deep breath, a smile, and a nod to the nothingness. Let’s dance.

 

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.