Blogtastrophe

Blogtastrophe . . . that’s what I call it when one of my entries receives not even a single view.  While this project continues to be something done for myself and my children, the ability to review certain statistics relating to the blog (thanks to the fine folks at Google) makes for a depressing reality check.  Pouring your heart into a written work, only to have it sit upon the bookshelf collecting dust, carries with it an appreciation for the old saying regarding the proverbial tree falling in a vacant forest.  If in fact it does fall and no one is there to hear it, does it make a noise?  The same is true of writing.  If words are written and no one is there to read it, did it really make a difference?  I suppose delayed gratification is the name of the game.  One day after I am dead and gone, I hope my children dust off my tired words and give them a read.  At the very least it should be good for a laugh or two.  Perhaps nothing more than the makings of a simple stroll down memory lane, to a time perhaps long since forgotten.  That is after all, how this all got started.  Now I seem to ramble on aimlessly, simply because I can.  Some form of emotional auto-pilot.  The day has long since come and gone when life seemed to throw an endless chain of curveballs.  Things have settled down and the pitcher’s arm is showing wear.  Lobbing taters over home plate is a fast track to the minor leagues.  We now easily make contact with the ball, and though we aren’t sending them over the center field fence with every “at bat”, we certainly worry less about striking out.

I still write what is in my head, but the theme to me seems repetitive.  Perhaps that is why I have shed the usual recap of daily events in favor of more philosophical content.  I suppose this could be considered another stage in the process.  My life has evolved so much since we made the decision to move to France, that perhaps it is time to move on to the next chapter.  I have come to the realization that this has all happened for a reason and I have a want to share all of the details, but my better judgment says that most would take me for a fool or a madman.  The jury is still out and for now a great number of “posts” that have been written will remain in my private collection.  As for the content of the publicly shared posts  . . . who knows?  I will likely slow down to a weekly or monthly recap and let the passing of time develop the storyline.  In closing for this evening, it is interesting to note that one of my most recent posts has received more traffic in a short period of time than any other I have written.  That post was the one dripping with the word “Fuck”.  Isn’t the internet great?  Apparently all one has to do to appeal to the masses is mix in a bit of the profane.  Perhaps in a coming post I will just throw in this four lettered friend here or there and see if the hypothesis is true.  If traffic increases because of an increase in profanity, then clearly the internet needs an ad campaign.  Maybe the “Truth” folks can shift their focus away from the tobacco industry and lend a hand.  Perhaps something like:  “The internet:  It’s not just for porn anymore!”  Until we meet again.  R.

On Your Mark . . . Get Set . . . Van Gogh! My Life on Sabbatical

Opting out of the requirement of cutting my own ear off, I spent a portion of the weekend staining a canvas or two . . . or three to be exact.  For any artist, the pursuit of their craft can best be described as plummeting helplessly into a black hole.  It is all consuming, a void in space and time.  If not careful, one can find themselves lost in a project, only to awaken and realize that the better part of a week has passed and they have scarcely eaten or slept for that entire period.  Perhaps not the healthiest of activities, but it has a way of leading to absolute brilliance and unsurpassed beauty.  It also leads to insanity, which is why you will find them lopping off an appendage or two throughout history.  Not to worry though, ole Jack Butler’s body will remain in one piece . . . for now anyway.  Obligations in the real world have a way of shaking you back to your senses and forbid your paint brush from becoming permanently affixed to your hand.  In addition, these days I find myself with so many of these artistic endeavors tugging at my shirt sleeve that I find it hard to deny one for the sake of the other.  This is probably why my painting, my writing, my musical ability and my linguistic aptitude all suck.  Jack of all trades, master of none.

Be that as it may, I continue each of these endeavors as they all bring me great joy.  Purely selfish joy, so I have to be careful not to make them my master.  The domestic arts mustn’t be ignored or my place in our little tribe will be questioned and I certainly don’t need or want to be cast off of the reservation.  The weekend was quiet and relatively serene.  The eldest hosted a friend for the day on Sunday while the wife sorted out a lovely supper.  Canard and Pomme de Terre.  For you hillbillies out there, Pomme de Terre is not a lake in the Ozarks but a Potato.  Loosely translated as “Apple of the Earth”.  Canard, of course, is Duck.  One of the byproducts of the Fois Gras industry now being dominated by the duck rather than the goose is that there is an abundance of very succulent duck breast available at your local market.  Having enjoyed all things “duck” over the past year, I am beginning to think that it might be right up there with my love for bacon.  Duck fat makes everything better.

With our hearth warm with vine driven fire and my belly quite full of fowl, I couldn’t help a moment or two of reflection.  Never very far from my next inquisition over what exactly I do for a living, I am beginning to re-think my “retirement” gag.  I am actually NOT retired as I feel that I work very hard during the course of a day.  Perhaps what I am, is “On Sabbatical”.  The current definition of this concept seems to be “any extended absence in the career of an individual in order to achieve something. In the modern sense, one takes sabbatical typically to fulfill some goal, e.g., writing a book or traveling extensively for research.”  After researching the origins of the word, I began to appreciate that this above all else best describes my current place in life.  I’m on Sabbatical!  I have taken leave from my profession, a profession that is still a part of me, in an effort to travel, fulfill a goal, and at page 294 . . . write a book.  Someone recently commented to me that they had a friend who considered themselves an “unpublished” author.  With the American work ethic being so brightly embroidered on the fabric of my being, I really struggle sometimes with the concept of being a writer (or an artist), when the end result is a house full of paintings that aren’t all that good and a computer full of words that will never see light of day.  And yet, I really identify with the concept.  An “unpublished” author, “undiscovered” painter, loving husband, and proud father of two.  I guess I could think of worse things to be.

Truth is, I spend way too much time looking at my life from the inside.  I get lost in my daily misgivings and forget what a storybook life I now live.  From the outside, it is certainly the most romantic dream anyone could possibly conjure.  Writing, Painting, Living and Loving on the Western Coast of France.  Living life in the shadow of the vines on a Chateau built before the United States was even a shimmer in it’s Daddy’s eye.  Traveling the world in search of my soul and living a pilgrim’s life when others deserve it more.  If my world came grinding to a halt tomorrow, I would rest easy in my grave knowing I have lived a lifetime in but a single year.  One day this adventure will come to a close and I know now more than ever that the impression it has left will remain forever tattooed upon my chest.  Take care, and Godspeed.  R.

Fireside Reflections on the “F” Word

Perhaps it is a caveman thing.  Something left behind from our knuckle dragging days.  I can’t help but find myself enchanted with a roaring fire.  It was a relatively low key day around the magnificent Butler Estates.  A short trip to the grocery store was really all that was on the agenda.  The pace of our lives these days is certainly not likely to break any land speed records, but who am I to complain?  We still feel quite restless at times and miss our love of labor and our labor of love back in the States, but we will have plenty of time for that in our lives.  On our trip back from the grocery store we received a call.  The owner of the Chateau wanted to know if we would be interested in a load of firewood.  I couldn’t help but laugh at the inquiry since we have been requesting wood for the better part of two months now, but that is the French way . . . no hurry.  We were pleased to accept the generosity and made arrangements to catch up with him when we arrived home.

The fire wood turned out to be a bit out of the ordinary and its procurement was as much of a favor to them as a treat for us.  They needed to clear out an old cellar to begin renovations at the house next to ours, so their youngest son and I set about transferring wheelbarrow upon wheelbarrow from one location to the next.  Seeing that my eldest son was wanting for some activity, I enlisted his help as well.  The “firewood” turned out to be an old stockpile of grape vines that had outlived their usefulness in the fields and provided for a great bit of conversation that turned into quite an education for my son and I both.  In an industry of “waste not, want not”, everything is put to use.  I have seen fences made of old wine barrels and beverages made from rotten grapes, so nothing surprises me.  As it turns out, the sale of old vines is as lucrative for some as the growing of the grapes themselves.  There is actually an export market for the vines for use in BBQ and evidently creates a unique taste that I will certainly try in coming days.  There is also a face cream that is created with this byproduct.  Who knew?

The conversation was charming and truly informative, perhaps even more so for my eldest than for myself.  I suspect he was paying little attention to the conversation about the vines, but his ears seemed to perk up a bit when the conversation shifted to our progress with the language.  The owner’s son is somewhere in his mid-twenties and as I have described him in prior posts, is something out of a print add for Armani.  He commented that my eldest was doing well with the language and indicated that we have done something great for our son.  “To know French and English . . . it’s perfect.”, he said.  “English is good for the business and French is good for the girls”.  I turned an eye toward my son and he was grinning ear to ear.  This was a confirmation of advice that he had already received from his father, but meant much more coming from this young man.  Dad is old and bald, but this guy . . . well just look at him, he MUST know what he is talking about.  I have repeatedly told my son that once he reaches a certain age, his interests in the fairer sex would certainly be furthered by his triumphant return to France.  I think he now agrees.

The conversation once again shifted to the young man’s recent trip to the US.  When asked what he thought, he seemed less than impressed.  He spent several months in our homeland, bouncing between Miami, Los Angeles and New York City.  His perceptions were fresh and interesting.  Certainly youthful in their sentiment, yet remarkably wise as well.  He commented that having been there for some time, he was having trouble ridding himself of the word “fuck” when speaking in English.  He said that everything is “fuck” this and “fuck” that.  I lost some of my lady like demeanor as a string of snot shot from my nose when I erupted into laughter.  He puzzled over it a bit and said that he had a very hard time at first understanding what people were trying to convey to him when they used the term “fuck”.  This revelation transformed my prior snort and chuckle into a fit of laughter I found difficult to control.  His second impression was a bit more depressing.  He was curious if American’s ever read.  “Do they read things?” he asked.  “Everything is the Cinema, no culture”.  Geez, this guy is twenty something and complaining that America is lacking in culture?  A playboy wine maker makes landfall in South Beach and his comment is “Sure, it is good for partying, but no culture.”  My laughter grew quiet and I suddenly felt embarrassed.

Soon our labor was at an end and we bid each other farewell.  Ordinarily, the sting of this type of criticism of the land of the free and home of the brave would leave a lasting welt on my American ego, but recent experiences of my own here in France deflected the blow a bit.  I have encountered an ugly side effect of the French system.  What do you get when you tell your people that they are “entitled” to certain benefits by nature of their citizenship?  You get a good number of people whose sense of entitlement knows no bounds.  Let me give you a couple of examples.  While in the grocery store, we were patiently waiting in a very long line and watched as a couple (that I would have guessed to be in their later sixties) cut in line in front of us and two other patrons and simply started unloading their cart onto the counter.  They in fact shuffled someone’s articles to the back to make room for their own.  Not so much as a word was spoken.  Not knowing the proper response I kept my mouth shut.  I wanted unleash a fury of good old American “fuck this and fuck that and fuck you’s” on them, but instead I held my breath.  In looking around at every other shoppers disgust I caught sight of the sign . . . we were in the handicapped line.

It is an unwritten rule here in France that those with a handicap (advanced age being a handicap) are entitled to a place in line ahead of all other able bodied clients.  I can’t argue with the concept.  I would gladly give up my spot to anyone in need and certainly have a better chance of standing for half an hour in line than an elderly person walking with a cane.  I do, however, have an expectation that if such concessions are expected, the person moving to the front of the line would at least indicate their desire to do so and provide their fellow shoppers with a nice “thank you”.  These people didn’t thank a soul and were not so elderly as they had any mobility issues at all.  They simply were old enough to qualify for the advancement and took full advantage without the slightest remorse.  It was like watching people parking in the handicapped spots at Wal-mart back in the good old USA.  Their only handicap being rampant obesity that would only be assisted by a long walk through a parking lot.  These folks were old, that was their only claim to fame.  And still I thought to myself, who am I to complain.  I am half their age, so why not?  A thank you would have been great, but the rule is the rule.  Why let this ruin my day.

For a split second, I was proud of myself.  Real emotional growth!  Then it happened.  I looked to my left and there in the able bodied line stood a woman who was easily 10 years older than these folks and walked with a clear limp.  She was smiling at me with one of the sweetest grins I have ever seen.  Her look said it all.  She felt for our plight and found the other couple’s behavior as deplorable as I had.  Once again my anger began to grow.  It grew to the point that the wife and I pulled ourselves out of line and took up real estate behind the woman with the nice smile.  She immediately turned around and commented that it drove her husband crazy to see people like this as well.  She had clearly been standing there watching my emotions play out on my face.  Evidently I shouldn’t head to Vegas any time soon . . . my Poker face sucks.

 The second example I would like to share occurs every time I get in my car and pick my kids up from school.  I will inevitably run across someone that thinks they own the road.  The French have an uncanny way of gumming up the works.  They will block lanes of traffic to carry on a conversation.  They will make it nearly impossible to enter a building while they kissy face with an acquaintance in the doorway.  Entitlement . . . if left unchecked, it is easily as evil as the fattened bigotry found in my own homeland.  And yes, this is as much of a generalization as saying all American’s are movie loving fat fucks (there’s that word again).  Neither society is perfect.  We all have room for improvement.  “Societal warts” is how I like to refer to them . . . kind of like genital warts with less inflammation.  Like a hairy mole on your face, it is a blemish that you can’t disguise.  Everyone around you pretends not to notice and yet can’t take their eyes off of it either.  I love the French.  They have my number and I have theirs.  They can clearly see my faults as they are awfully hard to hide and at the same time they make no effort to hide their own.  I respect that.  Oh say can you fucking see, by the dawn’s early light . . . What so proudly we hailed at the Twilight Movie’s last screening?  Whose broad ass and bright stars . . .  Not such a pretty way to face the world is it.  Indeed our perceptions of each other are biased, but there clearly is an element of truth in there somewhere.  Perhaps the owner’s son was right, we have the opportunity to take the best from both worlds.  Extract that which is good for business and good for the girls and leave the rest behind.  Now those are words to live by.   R.

Tale of the Broken Compass

Lists have been made and packing procedures meticulously practiced.  There is an adventure afoot and thoughts of it have become all encompassing.  Details must be sorted and tickets must be purchased.  The commitment is more than one of mindless detail, however, and I find myself dizzy with contemplation.  It has drained me of most of my reserves and I am battling to rally myself around my daily routine.  I have paintings half completed and ideas brewing for ones yet to be sketched.  My only constant seems to be my writing and even it seems to be suffering as a result of the overload . . . confused and disorganized.  The callouses from repetitive strumming are becoming soft and fragile.  The very fabric of my being seems to be torn into a million fragments.  I have intense desire, but no focus whatsoever.  The compass with which I steer my days seems to be broken.  These days it only points southward.  Locked on a destination that seems vague and foreboding.  It is time to do something rash,  something to distract my weary mind.  Time to make a schedule and stick to it.  With miles left to run and only tired feet to carry me I feel utterly exhausted, yet I feel the need to push forward.  I am beginning to appreciate what those with ADHD have to face day in and day out.  With all of these distractions, who has time to sleep?

The blog has become afflicted with a split personality.  I now write two for every one being posted.  I worry that the overall picture will become blurred, and the work that goes with it, can fill a day all on its own.  I must remember that I have songs to play and paintings to paint.  Things to accomplish before the journey can be completed.  And so, I will endeavor to seek distraction in these activities and pray that it will return some sense of order to my everyday life.  The monotony of the mundane feels meaningless and I desire to get lost in philosophy.  The only thing keeping from doing so is a sense of responsibility.  The realities of life feel as though they work with the exclusive purpose of denying discovery.  A day spent in bureaucracy dampens the spirit even further.  And yet, it was this day that additional discoveries were made.  Discoveries born of the mundane?  Is it possible?   Could it be that the two are not mutually exclusive and indeed foster each other without our recognition?  The answer must surely be yes. 

The day was spent in Bureaucratic hell.  Another trip to the prefecture to ensure that our driving privileges would not be revoked and that I may be allowed to stay abroad for another year.  For everything sterling that I could say about the French healthcare system, the opposite is true for their need to over complicate their bureaucratic process.  An entire day was spent on a process that would take at the very most an hour or two in the US.  The end result of which was not a completion of the project, but merely the beginning.  In the US, we are used to instant gratification with our bureaucracy.  We have a need to leave the office bearing the fruits of our labor.  After a painful four hours in line and the completion some needless forms, we were informed that it would be 6 months before our license would be ready for delivery.  6 months?  For a piece of paper no less.  Not a laminated wonder that fits in the sleeve of one’s wallet, but a bulky chunk of folded paper with one’s picture seemingly glued to the front.  A picture that was not taken on site, but rather procured under my own power at a booth in a supermarket.

To add insult to injury, despite an arrival at 9 a.m., we were informed that the line to get my residency credentials had been closed and I would have to conduct this business elsewhere.  With some assistance, we were told that this could occur at the commune just down the street from our home, and we were off again.  Upon arriving at the local office, we were informed that we did not have the necessary supporting documentation with us and we would be required to take additional photographs.  Back to the supermarket we went.  More photo booth photos in hand, we needed to obtain stamps.  Stamps?  Yes, stamps.  You don’t pay for such items though local government, rather you have to go to a Tabac to purchase stamps in the amount of the transaction.  85 euros worth of stamps to be exact.  An absolutely bizzare process made even more surreal by the fact that a Tabac is the only place these stamps can be purchased.  The best way to describe a Tabac is to liken it to a convenience store.  It is a place to purchase cigarettes, newspapers, curios and a glass of beer or café.  To confuse the process further, a Bar or Brasserie and a Presse have a very similar motif.  To differentiate one from the other is next to impossible unless you know what you are looking for.

We decided that for the sake of variety, we would try to wedge a doctor’s appointment into the mix for my youngest son’s infected eye ball.  Looked like pink eye, but as it turns out was a simple virus that seems to be on the mend.  With a doctor’s appointment under our belt and the appropriate stamps, photos and proof of employment in hand, we returned at the end of the day to finish the necessary paperwork for my residency permit.  I was handed a receipt and told once again that we were looking at a solid month before the official card would be prepared.  For now, we are living our life by way of receipts.  No official documents, just simple promises that we have taken the appropriate measures to ensure our compliance with the law.  Absolutely exhausting, yet enlightening at the same time.  In our daily lives we are forced to make a trade off.  It takes no time to get x-rays and a proper physical, but takes months to complete simple social paperwork here in France .  In the US, it takes months to get the results of your physical and to have x-rays developed, but you can walk out with a driver’s license in hand inside of an hour depending on when you arrive at the DMV.

So, aside from another lesson in perspective, what did I learn?  I learned that while certain processes in life may be a “trade off”, life itself doesn’t have to be.  I don’t have to trade between philosophy and daily monotony, making either my master for a day.  While waiting in line after line, I found myself quite capable of letting my mind wonder into more profound thoughts.  Thoughts of what I now consider omens that others dismiss as mere coincidence.  What is the difference?  I believe there is an order to things.  A path that we all must follow.  The route we are to follow is clearly marked if we simply take the time to look for the signs.  Repetitive themes that follow us throughout our days, leading toward enlightenment if we have the courage to follow them.  When one dismisses these signs as coincidence, we are doing so only because we are spending our days without truly listening.  Letting the daily become our master, we often miss the forest for the trees.  Even worse than that, some of us seem to miss the trees for the leaves.  And then we have the audacity to wonder why we find ourselves lost.  Even on days that feel as though the routine will surely be our end, we have a choice.  We can blindly accept our perceived reality, or we can open ourselves up to ALL of life’s experiences.  For many of us, the scariest thing in life is to admit that there is a place we are meant to end.  The very concept seems to negate our autonomy and our free will.  We want to choose and believe we have the ability to do so.  The truth is, we do.  We can chose to follow the path or go a different way, even if doing so means that we will forever remain lost.  Often times that choice is the easiest to make, and leaving the path far more gratifying that staying on the road.  I see nothing wrong with a diversion as long as you keep your bearings so that you may return to the path.  Remembering always that you have somewhere you must reach . . . a destination.  Perhaps I have already learned a lesson or two in preparation for the Camino.  Thought for the day:  You don’t need a compass if you follow the signs.  They may not always be easy to spot, but if one does not look for them they will certainly find themselves lost.

I know that the contents of this post are somewhat kooky and laced with one man’s search for meaning, but just imagine the content of those that I have kept to myself.  In the end, I seem to have found myself back to where I began with one important difference.  I still have a lot to accomplish, but now know where to find the balance point.  Writing has a way of doing this in my life and it is really the only reason I continue with this project.  This is my counselor, my psychologist, my place to figure shit out.  And with this too, I will find balance.  A balance between a description of our daily adventures and my personal search for meaning.  Both can be a struggle, so bear with me as I sort is all out.  Take care.  R. 

The editorial staff is on strike, never a black belt be

Having spent a wonderful weekend with kindred spirits, I feel mentally nourished.  Enjoying long adult conversation over a variety of topics is a nice change of pace from my usual primary school banter.  This project received some attention and the ensuing conversation was an eye opener.  It was commented that the content of this blog does not often seem intended for the general public.  That much I know to be true.  It is personal and unedited . . . exactly as I hoped it would be.  The notable lack of an editorial process and some dinner conversation to that end shed some light on my recent bout of “writer’s block”.  The truth is, despite my assertion that I write for myself, there are times when the audience becomes my sole concern.  It is an audience of one, and their perception of what is being written matters to me a great deal.  That “one” is my wife.  She is an avid reader of this crap, for reasons I still cannot conceive, and when she is away the process changes a bit.  When she is home, I am in the habit of reading to her what I have written.  In doing so, she receives the message as the author intends it.  Inflection is heard and meaning is inferred from my tone.  I know that despite the skill with which any author crafts the written word, cold words printed on a page can never provide the tone of voice necessary to completely grasp the writer’s intent.  Because of this limitation, I tend to choose my words wisely while she is away and reading this on her own.  How she receives the “news from home” will certainly impact her greatly from afar.  Being a captive of circumstance, there is little she can do to help if my words carry even a hint of anguish or the slightest misgiving.  And so, the editing room floor begins to fill.

Having her back with us after a week of separation means that I can collect the recent out-takes and blooper reels in hopes of composing them into a “best of” compilation.  Just as suddenly and staggeringly as this bout of “writer’s block” arose, so too has it subsided.  The three of four chapters worth of content are finally making it to print and the burden I felt over carrying around this excess baggage is starting to subside.  So, I apologize in advance for the multi-post days that will likely follow as I “take out the trash” so to speak.  In an effort to get a head start on that project, I want to leave you with a piece from our day today.  Not wanting to favor one child over the other, I will share a little from each of their days.  I find myself humbled by both and proud beyond compare.  The youngest will receive applause this day for his mastery of the language.  He has spoken more French in the last day or so than he has in the entire year we have been living here in France.  The one notable exception being our trip to the US, but I think he was just trying to pick up waitresses with that crap.  His counting has improved as has his vocabulary.  It has been my concern that perhaps he wouldn’t ever get it and that all we have done by moving this boy to a foreign country is stunt his intellectual growth and regress his progress with his native tongue.   Having parents that don’t speak the language well, means that both boys are not privy to reinforcement of what they learn at school.  We try to use French when we can at home, but it is rudimentary at best.  The eldest absolutely speaks with more proficiency than his parents and the youngest will apparently be rapidly following suit.

The eldest’s accomplishment for the day was less academic and more soulful.  I feel very comfortable in referring to him as a “martial artist”.  He has been training for several years and has had the opportunity to do so in two different schools on two different continents.  Becoming well accomplished at something, only to be told that you must start again is a difficult pill to swallow for anyone, let alone a 9 year old child.  He left the US with an advanced belt (Senpai) that would not receive recognition here in France.  He would have to start again . . . Kohai . . .back to white.  His years of training are self-evident and he is already eligible for his first test, a test he has chosen not to take.  This is the way of the Warrior.  The color upon your belt is meaningless and does not bestow ability.  It is a trophy, a symbol.  Warriors do not have time for trophies and symbols.  He trains for the sake of training.  His accomplishment measured in skill, not color.  The maturity of his decision astounds me.  In an age where children get a damned trophy and ribbon for everything in life, my son selected the path leading to enlightenment, not hardware.  I rest easy tonight with the knowledge that despite my many failings as their father, both boys are succeeding all the same.  R

Irons in the Fire

I have been completely absorbed with writing a number of different pieces that have all come to a grinding halt as I find myself chasing my tail a bit as to the sentiment I wish to convey.  The only way I can think to break free of this “writer’s block” of sorts is to write about something else.  My mind is full to the point of overflowing, and if I don’t start processing some of the data, I am afraid I will find myself face to face with the blue screen of death.  We are currently warming a lot of irons, the bounty of which can only be grand plans for the future.  We had old friends stay with us for the weekend, a dinner arranged with new friends in a week or so (that apparently has me dressing for my profession in an effort to compete in a photographic challenge . . . don’t ask), a ski trip in the Pyrenees, and a summer cruise through Italy, Greece and Croatia.  These have now been overshadowed a bit by a very busy Fall that will have the wife and I separated for the longest period since our union some 12 years ago.  At this point, it would appear that we will be apart for the better part of two months.  I would love to point fingers and blame the wife for an overly busy work schedule, but that would only be half true.  A month of this absence will allow me a diversion of my own.  One which will likely end this project as it is currently written.

I believe there to be a journey that I must continue and I have been fortunate to have my wife’s blessing.  In September I plan to walk the Camino de Santiago.  It is one of three well known Christian pilgrimages that traditionally starts in St. Jean Pied du Port, France and ends on the western coast of Spain in Santiago de Compostella.  Santiago is fabled to be the final resting place of Saint James the greater.  That being said, I am not going to argue that I am a devout man in the traditional sense and my experience with the Catholic Church is minimal at best.  The promised absolution to be received at the end of the journey means little to me and is certainly not the reason for my travels, although I could certainly use the forgiveness.  While the words “organized” religion make me terribly uncomfortable for a number of reasons (all of which I will keep to myself as I believe that everyone’s faith is personal and as such should not be questioned by others), I do have an intense belief in God and it seems he has come calling.  I don’t know what I will find along the way, but I know that I must go.  For now, that is all I can comfortably share as I am still in the process of sorting it all out.

For now, I am doing my dead level best not to let my obsession with this topic consume my daily life.  Actually that is not true.  I am letting it consume my life, for I feel it is that important.  What I mean to say is that, this is a personal event that I will share portions of, but have no intention of sharing all of it.  I will continue my writings until the final chapter concludes in Santiago at which point I will reassess the direction that this little blog of mine will take.  For now, it will continue on its semi-daily schedule and will contain as much of the mundane as possible to keep this from getting too . . . hmmm . . . “trippie”.  On that note, my final thought for the day falls toward the trivial.  I can’t help but notice that my daily drive to pick up the boys from school is turning into an episode of Ice Road Truckers.  It seems that narrow misses and near death experiences are becoming all too frequent for my liking.  I don’t know what has changed, but I am certain that my loyal 206 is as concerned as I am.  Perhaps it is simply post-traumatic stress from our trip into the ravine, but each day I feel it necessary to flatter my little Peugeot with loving words and thanks for her diminutive stature.  I don’t know that this lessens the insults placed upon her by abrupt curb jumping to avoid catastrophic collision or nearly running her head long into a trash man who had to jump out of the way from becoming a hood ornament, but I give her my praise all the same.  Thankfully, my passengers never seem to notice as the exertion from their academic endeavors usually has them asleep in the back seat before we turn into the driveway.  I do have one request for those that might one day encounter my little compact turtled on the side of the road, please don’t judge us harshly and save us from insult by flipping us back upright and sending us on our merry way.  Until tomorrow, R. 

Activities Born of Retirement, or is it Bored of Retirement?

It would seem that the modern age is capable of assimilating the concept of a “stay at home” father, however I continue to face two questions time and time again.  The first is an inquiry as to what I do for a living.  Rather than place them into the wonderland that is our family’s concept of gender roles, I simply respond that I am retired.  Strange though it may seem, for most people, the concept of a man being retired at 37 seems less confusing than a man of the same age making the decision to abandon a legal career and stay at home to raise two children in favor of a change in his wife’s career.  The statement regarding retirement isn’t met with the same awkward silence as the alternative and I have found that it often garners a moment of envy from those I speak with.  The question that follows is the same regardless of my stance as a stay at home father or a retiree, and in turn my response is the same.  They inevitably ask how I fill my days.  They ask this very forward question and it invariably causes me to marvel at each person’s concept of time.

I typically reserve my editorial comments and simply respond with the laundry list of activities that any stay at home parent is well familiar with.  Between these duties, I do my best to endeavor into the arts whenever possible and that passion is causing me to need an agenda book to organize the sheer number of activities that I now try to jam into a “working” day . . . language lessons, guitar lessons, writing when I can, painting when I can and contemplating the meaning of life when I shouldn’t.   This description meets with the same mixed response I receive when I fluctuate between retiree and stay at home dad.  Those that believe me to be retired are interested and greet the answer with a kind smile.  Those that believe I have abandoned a career turn a cold shoulder and treat my current calling with less respect than my prior endeavors in the legal profession.  Those that hear I am a stay at home father inevitably ask if I miss working (there is a notable lack of perspective there if one believes that staying at home is not “working”).  Those that hear I am retired never ask such a stupid question as the answer of “no” is implied by the act of retirement itself.

Sure, if I gave it any thought (which I don’t), I would suppose there are things to be missed about my lost profession.  That being said, I am reflective enough to know that there isn’t a force on heaven or earth that could cause me to regret the latter for a loss of the former.  Time is a gift, and regardless of my current concept thereof, I choose not to waste it with contemplation of the road I did not travel.  Perhaps I will pass this way again someday and see where that other road leads, but for now, it is not the path that I must follow.  Although I have so much to say that it boggles my mind, I must cut this entry short in favor of other endeavors.  I have a new found joy in the words of others and have released my death grip on the concept that the only words worth dissecting are my own.  That being said I have a book to finish, laundry to fold, toilets that need cleaning and calloused fingers that need to remain calloused for Stevie Ray Vaughn’s sake.  We will speak again soon.  R.

Aristomatic Car Audio Installation

Having been back in France for a whole week, my wife seemed to feel the need for social engagement.  Not yet being completely steady on my French feet, I must admit that I was none too keen on the prospect.  As is usually the case in my life, my wife knows best, so I reluctantly agreed to the evening out.  Though my heart was not initially in it, I thoroughly enjoyed the evening among new found friends.  The cast of characters was eclectic.  Our hosts . . . wine makers.  Location . . . their lovely chateau in a well-known neighboring village.  Two other couples would join in the festivities and for once, I would not be in the minority.  This would be a meeting of legal minds . . . sort of.  I am not sure I would call mine a “legal mind”, but two of the other invitees were also attorneys.  One was French Canadian gentleman who personality so agreed with my own that we are now in the process of setting up a second meeting of our own.  The other was a Parisian woman who practiced in the criminal arena and seemed to miss the faster pace of the big city legal game.  She was very pleasant in her own right, with a very expressive manner, but not as easy to get to know from first impressions.  We ate, drank and conversed until the wee hours of the morning.  Well, they conversed.  The wife and I just sort of smiled and nodded as though we understood.  The further into the evening we got, the less I understood.  A liberal application of libations has a way of turning very considerate slow French and occasional English translation into a blur of babble that I could only catch a word of two of.

Our hosts were tremendous and I learned a great deal from the evening.  I had a nice conversation with the lady of the house regarding the state of the wine making industry that made me feel sad for the direction it seems to be heading.  What I love most about France is the preservation of the artisan nature with which all endeavors are carried forth.  It would seem that this is seeing its final days here to some extent, and to hear that from the horse’s mouth was a sobering experience.  We have murdered this sentiment in the US and are NOT better for the killing.  Automatic for the People huh?  Uniformity and automation for the sake of uniformity and automation.  That kind of homogenization has killed small business in the US and makes it next to impossible to get a nice loaf of Brioche . . . I know from experience.   That being said, I don’t want to get too political here.  I have had enough of that in the past.  It was a pleasant evening with brilliant people (whom I will describe further as relationships develop) which gave way to a weekend full of preparations for future travel and a week without mom.

We used the Nationwide soldes as an excuse to outfit ourselves for our upcoming ski trip into the Pyrenees.   As the saying goes . . . “as long as you are taking the cow to market . . .”, so against my better judgment I purchased a discount car stereo to fill the gap in the center of the dash of the now famous 206.  Handling installation myself, I learned a very valuable life lesson.  Self-sufficiency leads to lacerated fingers.  A good friend recently tried to relieve himself of several digits at the hands of a circular saw in the name of "do-it-yourself", and though my injury is a scratch in comparison, the SpongeBob bandaid adorning my middle finger doesn’t make me feel terribly “handy” . . . pun intended.  And so, the weekend melted away like they always do, and the dawning of the new week has me back at the helm of our ship without my usual co-pilot.  The wife is setting up shop in Portugal for the week, so just the lads and I are holding down the fort here in France.  I realize that I have become so accustomed to this way of life, I hardly notice her absence anymore.  That is not to say that I don’t miss her tremendously, but the day to day must carry on as it always does.  Trips to and from school with homework to complete and bedtimes to be observed.  The only notable exception was that I used a late bedtime and early rise to see the wife off on her trip as an excuse not to do a damn thing today other than the absolute necessities.    The boys prefer simple food and could give a damn whether their bed is made or not, so I took the day off with the exception of a few dirty dishes that needed some serious attention.  Though the relaxed pace felt good, I know it did nothing but create at mountain of work for tomorrow, but what the hell . . . tomorrow is a new day, right?  R.

Smells like Hubris or is that Teen Spirit?

If it feels like Hubris, sounds like Hubris, looks like Hubris and smells like Hubris, then it must be Hubris . . . Right?  I am going to attempt a gross rationalization in the negative, but self-doubting has me questioning the truth.  Upon reading over my last few posts in as objective a manner as possible, I come away with a feeling that perhaps they stink of the sort of Hubris found in a braggart’s mouth.  Could this all be the halitosis of my soul rearing its ugly head?  Again I choose to fight the good fight and answer in the negative.  In these past few writings, I have been attempting to convey a philosophy.  Perhaps not so eloquently written and bordering on a maniacal self-love that I wouldn’t be proud to call my own, I find a need to clarify my thoughts a bit further.  It is important to note that I believe certain activities to be quite sinful.  To hide behind one’s insecurities or to pretend to be something you are not by putting forth a false face are but two of these sins that seem damning to one’s soul.  Neither one claiming a stronger hold than the next, but both are well obscured by what is in my opinion the mother of all indiscretions . . . turning a blind eye to one’s full potential.  Over the course of my life, there have been times when I have often done just that.  It is fear that has driven me to such ends.  Fear of judgment, embarrassment, and in the end . . . failure.

I think we all struggle with this in our lives from time to time.  Whether it be a decision not to complete one’s education or something as simple as saying "no I cannot" when there isn't a single reason for not saying "yes I can".  We let this fear determine our path and deny our true potential.   My desire for myself and for my children to fulfill this potential is not to gain adoration, though I think prior posts make it seem this way.   So, perhaps becoming “fascinating” is a poor choice of words.  In the end, if one’s acts serve any purpose other than to garner them some shred of enlightenment and self-fulfillment, it is to be an inspiration to others in their own pursuit of the potential that lies within them.  Perhaps I should tell my children to be inspirational rather than fascinating.  Based upon Sir Anthony Hopkins’ “what one man can do, another man can do”, perhaps feeding the soul of the world with what seem to be self-indulging achievements will inspire others to know that they too are capable of the same.  To waste this potential is a crime.  Whether it be for gain or simply for the sake of saying one has reached the end of a chosen path, the completion of the journey cannot be hindered by an excuse driven by fear.  If not for the fear of falling, why wouldn’t we reach for the summit regardless of whether the outcome is what we had hoped for in our dreams.  Again, it is the road that we travel that defines us.  Our ability to continue walking forward when the journey seems foolish and others begin to doubt us that defines success and offers the inspiration necessary to feed the dreams of the world.

So, I shall tell my children to reach their potential not for the sake of adoration and certainly not for vanities sake, but rather to inspire others to do the same in their own lives for the good of their own soul.  Denying one’s God given gift is an insult to his/her name. For the sake of beating the proverbial dead horse, I guess I am attempting to accomplish all that I can in this life, not for the sake of being an idol, but rather to one day die without regret and serve my purpose while I am still alive.  If anything is served by outside observation, I pray that it is that others will be inspired by these acts and attempt to chase down their own purpose no matter how absurd it may seem from the prison of their daily grind.  I don’t know if this has served as a clarification or has simply clouded the waters even further.  These are thoughts that I am still attempting to fully understand myself, so if you feel completely lost don’t despair.  Simply skip to the next entry and dismiss this as a bout of delusional ramblings brought about after a helping of bad shellfish.  R.

Rhythm of Life and the Return of the Mack

Life in the Butler household now carries forth to the rattle and hum of an 4 beat rhythm alternating between Open E and A emanating from my eldest son’s second hand electric guitar.  I say second hand because we are not the first owners, however, I would scarcely say that it has ever seen much use.  If anything, I believe in being well rounded.  I have made good on my promise of a few posts ago and have taken up the guitar.  As with many of my most joyous endeavors, the parity of my soul with that of my eldest son means that we will be learning this craft together.  I have opted for the acoustic where he has chosen electric, but perhaps that is just a comment on our age.  I feel very fortunate to share this time with him.  As a parent, I have noted the joy in actually sharing an activity with your child.  Simply coaching their little league team or sitting in the stands at their next basketball game will never compare to actually participating with your child.  You learn a lot from each other and learn to play on each other’s strengths and weaknesses.  Be warned however, criticism of performance is a two way street, and children can be brutally honest with their assessment.

The truth is, I couldn’t be more pleased that he has taken so keenly to an instrument despite the fact that the roar from his axe woke me up in the wee hours of the morning.  He spent the better part of the day playing it and blistered his fingers in the process.  Dedication . . . the mark of an artisan.  Ultimately, and like everything else in his life, I wish to give him the opportunity to be better than I in every way.  I will proudly note that to be a pretty tall order.  That is not prideful boasting you hear.  I believe myself to be ever evolving and still growing at a prodigious rate myself.  My laundry list of achievements and abilities will one day nullify the need for a bucket list.  No time for regrets, life is too short.  And so, one of my deepest desires for my children is that they are able to take all of my progress and build upon it in their own way.  Where I end, that is where they will begin.  If I am the best I can be and they are better still, I have done all I can for their future.   Perhaps the best way I can describe what it is that I wish for my heirs is this . . . "I have a fascination".  I have a fascination with fascinating people.  Those in life that have a story to tell.  Those who have been on adventures I would dare say came straight out of a story book.  Pirates and Poets, Writers and Musicians, Artists and Adventurers, Scientists and Soldiers . . . these are the things I hope someday to be.  And this in turn is the hope that I have for my sons . . . to be FASCINATING.   I tell my eldest these things and his eyes glass over and the lights go out.  And so I have changed my approach.  I now tell him that being fascinating will help him get girls . . . he seems to understand that concept and is pleased.

Wednesdays are our days together, the boys and I.  Weather and life often get in the way of grand adventures, but even the mundane everyday stuff has a way of putting a smile on my face.  Don’t get me wrong, I am pleased as hell when they return to school on Thursday, but letting them set the rhythm midweek is a nice change of pace from my daily routine.  As the dull hum of electrified riffs fades into silence, it is replaced by a more familiar beat . . . that of our life here in France.  This recent focus on acoustics and notable silence that seems present this morning reminds me of a thought I had recently while sitting in my parked car along side a very busy street.  I closed my eyes and simply listened as I often have a want to do.  Everything in the world sounded vaguely familiar and yet still so foreign.  The murmur of passing voices, a dog barking in the distance, a honk from a passing motorist and the scream of a supercharged Vespa barreling toward its final destination (likely to be a fiery accident a mere block or two from my current location).  When I opened my eyes again, I felt deeply troubled.  While we have achieved a certain comfort level with our lives here in France, I still feel as though I am a stranger in a strange land.  A feeling of shame swept over me for a moment and in the next instant it was gone.  I realized something today.  I will never be French, nor should I aspire to be.  I have so busied myself in the past year with trying to acclimate and to a certain degree blend in with my surroundings that I have lost sight of what makes this experience important in my life.  I have hidden from my cultural heritage and felt shameful for being American when I should have shown pride and been less apologetic for my inadequacies.  It is my unique status of being an American living in France that makes me someone worth getting to know.   I will never be judged harshly here for my heritage because I am wise enought I pay great respect for their culture and do my best to comprehend and utilize their language.  So, why should I feel so apologetic? 

The short answer is, I guess I shouldn’t.  As I have said before, the best part of this experience has been getting to know those who share in the Ex-patriot experience.  They are truly fascinating people and perhaps in the end, so am I.  I have been trying to teach this lesson to my eldest son (becoming fascinating), but perhaps it was I who should have been learning from him.  I discovered this morning that he already has it figured out.  He doesn’t hide himself or his identity.  He is proud of where he comes from and comfortable with who he is.  His vast life experience at the age of 9 and amiable presence make him fascinating all on their own.  Speaking a second language, playing an instrument, participating in every sporting event under the sun are just the trappings of what make one fascinating . . . just the shiny veneer.   It is the mystery of their soul that supports this, and that is what people truly find fascinating.  As I dropped him off to school this morning, it is apparent that this is a fact that has NOT been lost on the young ladies in his class.  Upon entering the school yard he disappeared into a mob of 6 or 7 girls, the most brazen of which had the audacity to grab him by the hand and lead him away from me as we were saying our goodbyes.  Now that my friends is Fascination for you . . . or is it Infatuation?  We will leave that as a topic for another day.  Take care . . . R.

Bad Cop, Worse Cop . . . Absentee Cop

Before I typecast myself as a lunatic, I thought I would bring this project back to the mundane for a moment.  If a person spends too much time tending to the soul of the earth, they miss out on the details that make this all worth writing about.  The wife and I aren’t unlike any other set of parents out there.  We do our best in guiding our heathens into adulthood and each play our designated role to that end.  This good cop/bad cop routine is hard coded into our DNA.  There are notable exceptions of course, but generally the great mass of humanity falls into the same categories and as such I will endeavor to make massive generalizations where I would otherwise retreat in disgust.  


Men and women are different.  There is no denying it, and the differences don’t stop at the need to sit or stand while urinating.  Men are simple creatures.  Not a lot of bells and whistles, essentially just an on and off switch.  Women on the other hand are far more complex, with a series of buttons, switches and levers that must be adjusted in just the right way to ensure proper function.  More often than not, our simplicity as men naturally lends itself to the “good cop” role.  We never cease to amaze our better halves or our children with our ability to maintain the emotional growth of 5 year old.  This fact alone is the reason we make a great playmate and a rather poor guide for proper social behavior.  Ever met a father that wasn’t a horrible embarrassment to his entire family when allowed to venture outside the confines of their own backyard?  Didn’t think so.  Despite the fact that I tend to be the primary disciplinarian in our home, the kids still view me as the guardian of fun.

Just the other morning, we broke with routine and I was to be transporting the children to school both ways instead of the usual division of mom dropping off and dad picking up.  That news received a hearty cheer from our youngest.  I worry that the wife felt slighted and that their often times poor reaction to her presence weighs heavily on her mind.  The kids know how to push her buttons and I am constantly asked if they behave in this manner when it is just they and I.  The answer is no, of course not.  When I respond in this manner I can see her heart sink.  What she doesn’t witness however is the plethora of occasions when they call out for her when she isn’t here.  My less than gentle nursemaid hands are not as practiced as my wifes in the healing arts, nor is my cold heart warm to the idea of cuddling after a scraped knee.  My response is not to scoop them up in my arms when they have fallen down, but rather to demand that they stand and blame them for falling in the first place.

I was reminded of this on this very morning when my eldest was not feeling well and called out for “Mom” . . . never “Dad”.  I am a last resort in these matters.  Like I said, we have our roles, and just because I selfishly gobble up the “fun” doesn’t mean that the boys favor my presence over their mother’s.  They don’t act up on my watch because I am demanding and can be the least fun person they know.  Once again I am humbled by the single parents of the world that must man both sides of this coin.  It is tough duty, and I have been fortunate (that’s right)  . . . fortunate enough to have had glimpses of this lifestyle while the wife is away for weeks at a time.  The experience creates emotional growth in a parent that is invaluable and I wouldn’t  trade those times for all the riches in the world.  I was reminded of some of the more trying moments when recently commenting to a friend regarding an upcoming 4 day stint during which he must act as a single father to his two young children.  I wouldn’t say that I remember these times fondly, but my survival of them certainly causes me to beam with pride more than all other accomplishments in my life.  Thinking of these times almost always makes me appreciate the “easy” days when all is relatively well.  It serves as a good reminder that we should never sweat the small stuff.  If only I could remember to relive these moments with a little more frequency.  Here are just a couple that I think worth jotting down for prosperity.

Due to my wife’s international travel schedule, it is important to remember that during these moments the wife is a continent away and often not available by phone.   The first occurred while still living in the States.  These were complicated times.  In addition to the daily care for two young children, I was tasked with a career of my own and the care for a growing farm full of livestock.  It was early . . . I mean EARLY as I wiped the sleep from my eyes and greeted the day.  Like UPS, I needed to get more done before 8 a.m. than most people get done all day.  As I stood from my bedside I felt a slight pain in my side.  “It’s hell getting old” I thought to myself.  With the boys still asleep in their bunks, I pulled  on a dirty pair of jeans and clad my muddy work boots so that I could head out into the cold to tend to a needful calf who was waiting in the barn to be fed his morning bottle.  About half way to the barn, the slight pain I had felt in my side returned and caused me to pause for a moment or two.  Still focused on the laundry list of things I must accomplished, I forged ahead.  With chores completed, I headed back for the house.  Half way home, what started as a mild pain in the side turned into a sweat inducing stabbing the likes of which I had never experienced.  Certain that death was imminent I was forced to take a knee.  I staggered to the house and woke my eldest.  I informed him that Daddy was sick and that he needed to look after his younger brother.  A lot to handle for a boy at 6 or 7 years of age.  I grabbed the phone and called 911 for an ambulance and then a close friend to come and take the boys to school and daycare.

By this time I was laying in the kitchen floor in agonizing pain.  The youngest was still not awake and I was doing my best to keep my eldest from hitting the panic button over my condition.  The wife was not due to return from overseas for another day or so and I was uncertain if my hospitalization would be a passing fancy or a long term event.  A lot goes through your head when you go from a healthy and active thirty-something to feeling like a crippled 90 year old who has just fallen with a broken hip.  Fortunately, this friend of mine didn’t live too far away and made the 20 to 30 minute drive out to the farm to arrive just moments before the ambulance.  She took care of the children and promised to try and contact the wife while the paramedics loaded me onto the gurney.  Off to the hospital, now wailing as loudly as the sirens, I was informed by a rather beefy fellow that it was probably a kidney stone and that I was to squeeze his burly hand when the pain became overwhelming.  Being close to tears, I would have given the big fella a hug if it would have lessened the pain.  He advised that he had seen such a thing make men much larger than I cry like babies, so I didn’t feel as bad that I wanted him to cuddle with me.  True to his word, the diagnosis was a kidney stone, which they liken to child birth.  Damned glad I am not my wife and I am absolutely amazed we have TWO children.  One time of that would have been plenty for me to call it quits.  A day or so removed, and uncertain whether my children were OK or not, my friend contacted me and let me know everything was fine and that the wife would be home soon.  I spent the next day in a morphine high and when I woke that evening I found my wife and two sons at the foot of my bed.

The second story I related to my friend (in brief) occurred in a similar manner.  The eldest had fallen ill and the wife was forced to leave him in my care when she left for a week of business travel.  For the week or so prior, he had been battling with fever and a wicked case of the hives, neither of which the doctors could explain.  Now, I was concerned at the outset, but knowing that Mom is a better caregiver than Dad, must have had my eldest shaking in his proverbial boots.  To add to his problems, he quickly picked up a secondary staph infection in his big toe.  Now I had two problems to treat throughout the course of the week.  About half way in, both conditions worsened and in the wee hours of the night, I was forced to take him and his 2 year old brother to the Urgent care at our local children’s hospital.  He was in bad shape and the 4 hour wait to be seen began to test my patience.  Eventually the youngest became tired of the scene and was on the verge of emotional breakdown along side his weary father.  We were finally seen by a doctor who cut open the eldest foot to relieve the infection and treated him once more for the fever and hives.  We made it home in just enough time for me to have a shower and head to work the next day.

These are but two of the examples of how thrilling life in the trenches can be, so rest assured my friend . . . 4 days is a cinch.  Just learn to be thankful when you are not alone and appreciate your spouse for all that they do to allow you to be the “good cop”.  That is about all I have time for today.  Take care.  R.

Becoming Bruce Banner

Anger is a vile thing.  When turned loose, it consumes everything in its path like an F4 tornado.  Controlling it is not an easy task.  And it spreads.  It spreads like a virus, spoiling everything and everyone who dares to approach.  Don’t get me wrong, I find great joy in the Black and the White . . . The Yin and the Yang.  I have stated this many times in the past, without a dark there can be no light.  Without anger, one cannot understand their happiness.  Still, those times when darkness descends upon my heart, I feel lost and need for escape.  There has been a dark cloud over our household for the better part of a week and this feeling of being lost at sea is starting to takes its toll on my withering soul.  I know there to be many factors at play, but it does not seem to lessen the sting I feel from the negativity that surrounds our family like a fog.  If I were to be completely honest, at this point in our journey, the joy from the peaks no longer quells my hatred for the valleys.  All I desire is to stay on top of the mountain and I know this to be a selfish wish.  In truth I know that there isn’t enough oxygen at that altitude to support us, but the view is a hell of a lot better than at the valley floor.  On occasion I think to myself that somewhere in between would be nice, but then I remember I hate the Mall.  Constant climate control and teaming masses of “satisfied” mall walkers make my skin crawl.  Stasis . . . death for the growing soul.  To be satisfied with middle ground is to admit defeat.

For now, I climb the mountain to enjoy the view, knowing it cannot last and living with the inevitability that I will once more be cast down to the valley below.  I know that the amount of time I can stay on the peak will never change.  It is fleeting at best and to linger too long will have even the best of us gasping for air.  The real challenge occurs on the valley floor.  How long it takes me to scramble to my feet and begin to climb again is the true measure of my growth.  I have realized that the climb itself is where life is lived.  This is the journey and where I am at my best.  Happier to climb than to rest at the top or regret at the bottom.  My wife recently pointed out that I am not as smart as I think I am and that I don’t have it all figured out.  Touche!  This much I already knew.  And still I climb.  I now climb with no intention of reaching the summit.  Knowing that this is not my goal, reaching the top seems to lack the importance of fighting and scratching my way upward.  Just as remaining in the valley is an unhealthy act, so too is obsessing over an eventual summit.  And so I climb, making the journey my aim.  It is that forward progression through good weather and bad that makes life worth living.  She is right . . . my wife I mean.  I know I don’t have it all figured out, which is why I climb.  It is why my passion stays with the journey.  Pushing into the storm when others run for cover.  Is that wisdom or foolish bravado?  Time will tell.  The one thing I feel certain of in my life is that I am meant to climb and not meant to watch life unfold from the bottom, the top, or the safety in between.  I am not meant to cower by a warm fire while the storm rages outside my door.  My death will come when I decide to sit behind the picture window and watch as other travelers pass me by, afraid to continue my journey because of the storm.

And so, like the completion of an elaborate jigsaw puzzle, I am trying to understand the big picture.  I think perhaps I have completed the top and bottom boarder.  I understand them and know where they reside.  Perhaps now that they are complete, I can begin filling the void in between.  It would seem that I have ample time to create this picture as the prolonged forecast of light to moderate rain has me all but homebound.  Perhaps in a week’s time, our collective outlook will have changed and the clouds will clear from our mood as well as our skies.  For now I will be content with my station on this leg of our journey, knowing that change is inevitably around the corner.  I shall sign off for now before my philosophy leads into depression and anger . . . You won’t like me when I’m angry.  R.