The Departure

    The last three weeks they had gotten no sales. In the countryside, tractors tilled the earth; to the west of town, a chemical plant poured fumes into the air and pumped waste deep underground. At night its lights glowed like an alien insect of glinting metal and light. Years before it had fouled the water, until everyone in town had to pump in their water from miles away.

    David Westron sat on his bed in the hotel room, his home away from home, staring out the window to the emptied parking lot just outside. The morning was still cool, but within a few hours waves of heat would rise off the asphalt, and the air would shimmer and bake the grass at the edges of the lot. Hunter Thomas sat in a chair nearby, writing something in his journal. The silence stretched between them. Both were spent, both had little to say after three weeks of knocking on doors, finding no one home, or worse, condescending smiles and nods that ended in sage predictions of "times being tough." Those left in the town who had not fallen to the plague were convinced that they were immune, that they would beat it, even though six in ten in the town had already succumbed. Or worse, a farmer or businessman would nod in sad resignation, knowing it was just a matter of time until the disease came knocking on their door, too.

The bed creaked beneath David. The springs were uneven and pushed into his back and sides during the night, and the blankets were rough and had a strong chemical smell. He had grown used to it over the last couple years on the road, sleeping in hard beds in strange towns across central Illinois.

At first it had been new and exciting, a sense of adventure as he and Hunter moved from town to town, arriving on a Monday morning, hanging four shirts and three pairs of pants each on hangers, tucking away pajamas and books and toothbrushes and shaving kits into dresser drawers and bathroom corners, and then driving out into the country, or into whatever town they were staying in, knocking on doors, selling their wares. By Thursday they would reverse the process, pulling out the clothes from dressers, the shaving kits, the dirty pants where mud and paw prints and rain had splattered them, and where sweat and rain and coffee had stained the shirts, stuffing them into suitcases that they would place back in the trunks of their cars, to go back to their other life, sometimes having met success, other times coming home empty handed.

It was now nearly two years since the beginning. The July heat had shimmered off the golden fields baking in the sun, the rain and thunder had rolled across the plains more times than they could count, drenching them as they slogged across a muddy field to another farmhouse, or waited for the rain to pass on a quiet country road. The snow had come, and the ice and the freezing cold, and the dark nights, and the wandering aimlessly beside icy rivers to gas stations where they could warm themselves with a cup of coffee.

But then they had their dreams to keep them warm. Someday this would all be worth it. The houses with the large fields and long driveways would be theirs. They would escape the dark nights and cold days of winter by taking trips to Cancun, the Caribbean, or to their vacation homes in Europe. One more sale, and then another, it was just the beginning of building their dreams and opening a life they had never known and leaving behind the bondage and fear they had known.

There were the beautiful moments as well: the clean smell of the world after a spring rain, the beauty of a giant buck standing in the middle of the woods, challenging anyone it saw before it stamped and blew and sprang nimbly off the road into the deep forest, the surprising moments of hospitality and kindness and friendship in the homes of strangers.

Hunter closed his journal, and turned toward David, casting a brief smile before it fell away into grim melancholy. "Well, anything to talk about?"

"No," David said, "guess not."

Hunter leaned forward and rose from his chair, grabbing a clipboard, business kit, and notes. "Well, that's it then," he said. "Good hunting."

Fear . . . and Courage

Fear is healthy. It's wired into us, and sends adrenaline pumping through our bodies, which then helps us to either "fight or flight", or even posture (act strong) or submit (show helplessness). It warns us of dangerous situations, of risk, that we might get hurt or lose something. It shows up in different places: a fight, a job interview, asking someone out on a date, learning new things, pursuing goals and dreams.

Strength isn't the absence of fear. Strength is recognizing the fear, looking at it, but then not giving into it. If I fight this person I could feel pain, I could break bones, get a concussion, get my teeth knocked out. If I ask this girl out and she says no, I might feel stupid, my feelings could be hurt, I might feel rejected. If I go in on this business deal I might lose my retirement, lose the money I invested, might let down the family members who are depending on me. If I try out for the team or for my dream and don't make it, then what? Am I still me? How do I redefine my identity?

When we take risks, all of these things are possibilities. But often there are other possibilities as well. If I fight, I might win, or, I might get hurt but that's a small price to pay to avoid watching someone else I love get hurt. If I ask this girl out, she might turn me down, or she might say yes, and we may have a great relationship ahead. If I risk on this business deal, I might go bankrupt, or I might make millions, or at least learn something that will improve our life situation. If I pursue this dream, I might actually make it.

We fear failure. Sometimes we fear success. If I win this fight, does that make me a fighter? A bully? Can I be strong without it overtaking me? Will I know how and when to use this strength? If I date this girl and we really like each other, we might get married, have a family. Am I ready for that commitment? How will it change me? If I make millions, will I still be the same me? There are so many rich people out there who are jerks; I don't want to be one of THEM. If I fulfill my dream, will there be any other dreams out there to achieve?

We either let our fears cripple us, hold us back, or recognize what they tell us about ourselves, where we come from, how we've come to see ourselves and the world around us. When I was younger, I had teachers who said "It's never okay to fight. Fighting never solves anything." Yet on the playground it was a different story. Some things are worth fighting for, it's knowing the difference. We should fight poverty, oppression, abuse, slavery. When we don't fight these things, it is not an act of strength, but of weakness. Our fears have overtaken us, and we assume someone else will take responsibility, meaning we're too afraid to step up ourselves.

At home, my parents would get in arguments and Mom would say, "Never treat a woman like that." Sometimes the fear is, "Fighting in a relationship is always bad." And so we shy away from confrontation. Yet sometimes in the relationship, confrontation is the thing that is healthiest and most needed. When done well, it says "I care enough about you and this relationship to speak truth, even if it is hard, or even painful." It says, "I'm passionate about you, about us, and I'm willing to do the work to fix things rather than hope they'll get better or go away." There are healthy and unhealthy ways to confront, and I'm not advocating abuse, but sometimes we fear confrontation so much that we don't step up to fight for the relationship.

I grew up in the church. In addition to the flannel board Jesus with perfect hair, manicured nails, and clean clothes, my Sunday school teachers would often say, "Good Christians are nice. Turn the other cheek." The men and women would shake hands, talk about weather, how glad they were to be there, and stumble and stammer over the words to say. Everything was fine. People were blessed. There were no problems here, thank you. You don't talk about those things in church. Yet I've looked into the eyes of the men, young men and old men, and they've lost something real. They've become emasculated, they lack passion, lack honesty. I've looked at the women beside them, bitter, waiting, looking for some sign of life and shouldering responsibilities that they resent.

And then someone would come in, they couldn't take it anymore, and tears would burst open the gates of their façade that everything was put together, that everything was all right. In fact, everything wasn't. In a moment of "weakness" they would admit that their lives were broken, falling apart, that they needed God, they needed community, they needed something more than they were getting.

There would be different reactions. Some people would come alongside and simply love on the person who was hurting. They would listen without judging, yet challenge them if they needed it. Others would cluck like hens, patting the hurting person on the back, but saying that "They shouldn't feel that way," or "everything happens for a reason," or even "God has a plan." While some of those things may have been true, seeing someone else's pain and honesty was too much. They had to keep it at a distance by spouting cheap platitudes. Then there was a third group who would come alongside, offering comfort to the person who was hurting, but then later say to each other, "I knew Joe had issues. See, he's not so strong after all. It's a good thing I'm not like that."

There would also be the response of the person who had "broken down." Sometimes they would come back, a week later, somewhat embarrassed over their "emotional outburst," the mask once again firmly in place. I'm good, thanks. How are you? Yes, I think it's going to be another warm day. How about that?

For others, it was the beginning of a deeper truth, that there's a paradox in "strength through weakness." Sometimes the scariest, riskiest, and strongest thing one can do is admit they don't have it all together, that they're broken, that they need God, need community, need to be saved and the efforts they've poured in by trying to do it themselves just don't cut it. They recognized they had fears, and yet they faced them, trusting not their own strength, but in a much deeper strength, the irony of the cross.

Fear is inevitable; it warns us of danger. It confronts us in our ethics, our relationships, our life dreams, and our honesty with God. Jesus agonized in the garden, knowing the ordeal that was ahead, begging that it be taken away if there was any other possibility. Did he feel afraid? Yes. Maybe he could have walked away, the option was available, he could have hidden, yet he submitted in strength to the cross. He wasn't caught, wasn't discovered, wasn't found out, crippled by fear, or sent kicking and screaming. He went knowing the cost, the pain, the risk, and went in strength.

Tournament

Sunday, 4:15. December 7^th.

I stepped into the ring. A Hispanic man about my height stood a foot away. He was younger, faster, fifty pounds lighter, but I had seen him minutes before; he looked frightened. I didn't look into his eyes now, but at a point lower, the blue field marking his chest protector. I had visualized this moment during the prior two days, had fought down the building fear and sometimes panic, but now that the moment was here, I only felt the beating of my heart, the filling and emptying of my lungs. My head and body were encased in hard foam padding, my arms and legs covered as well. I wondered if this was how the knights felt inside all their armor. I was standing barefoot in front of a crowd of spectators who were now nothing more than noise in the back of my mind, except for the voice of my coach.

"Stay loose," he said, knowing my tendency to stiffen up when I sparred. A woman (the referee) held her hand between me and the man I was standing across from, creating a natural barrier between us. "Shijak!" she yelled, lifting her hand in the air and taking a quick step back; it had begun. The man I was fighting was fast. He kicked me twice in the chest with a combination roundhouse kick within the first few seconds. I felt the blow and hadn't been hit that hard in a long time. I tried to respond immediately with a kick of my own, but he had danced away, staying out of reach. I punched, made contact, kicked at the air, and sometimes landed a kick. Most of the time I was just a little behind, a little too slow.

The first minute ended and we went to our chairs. My coach handed me some water and told me to sit down. "You're doing well for your first tournament," he said. "He's up on you in points, but you're doing well. Now here's what I want you to do. When he comes at you with a kick I want you to raise your knee and block him. Take out his leg, take away his tool. Then, follow it with a punch and kick of your own." I nodded, trying hard to catch my breath. "You want me to block, punch, then kick?"

"Yes."

I nodded again, put my mouth guard back between my teeth and ran out to the floor. Round two would soon begin.

This time when my opponent threw a kick, I lifted my knee. Bone collided on bone, and I saw my opponent step back and wince. I charged, trying a kick of my own, but he danced out of reach. He kicked again, and again collided, and then again, and this time I saw him clearly limping. "Close the gap!" someone shouted, and "lead with a block" my coach yelled. I started a flurry, running forward, trying to kick his stomach, his chest, but the time was up. I had hesitated too long.

I lost the match on points, but knew I had won something. I hadn't given up; I had faced my fear. Later my coach said, "You got inside his head. You stayed with it, you did what I told you to do. If this had been a street fight, you would have won. If the match had gone one minute longer, you would have had him."

I'd heard the talkers. "Yeah, if I was in that situation, I would . . ." They talk about the things they would do, the way they would humiliate their opponent, dominate, and come out without a scratch. I'd never felt that way. According to David Grossman in On Killing, In the Civil War to WWII, 85% of the soldiers with weapons either didn't fire their weapons at all or misfired them, often shooting harmlessly over the heads of their opponents, assuring that they would not kill another human being. There's something deeply ingrained in us that resists harming another human being, even if our own lives are at stake. We feel less hesitation when it comes to harming or killing an animal, but for most of us we draw the line when it comes to another human being. This resistance is a good thing, most of the time.

I didn't know what I would do. I'd been in fights before, and they weren't the glamorous things that others made them out to be, at least not for me. My last fight was in high school, between me and a guy I rode the bus with, over some girl that we both liked. Anyway, we fought, and it was like two terrified animals fighting to stay alive. We threw a few punches and kicks, but it was over shortly after it started, both of us agreeing to a truce. The next day the other guy said he'd won, so I challenged him to a rematch, this time with others watching. We punched, and kicked, stepped back to let cars go by, and then punched and kicked some more, and danced around the street. The people who had come to watch both thought we'd exchanged some shots, and couldn't tell who had won. I went home and put a washcloth on my bleeding lip while my mom was giving piano lessons downstairs, sneaking by so she wouldn't see the blood, and the next day the other guy told me he was sore where I had kicked him. That was my last fight.

The day before the match I felt fear begin to rise up inside me. What would really happen? Would I be able to keep my head, would I panic, would I back off, or would I fight back? I visualized what it would look like to be in the ring. I'd trained, lost weight, become better conditioned, and felt ready to fight, win or lose. I wanted to test myself, to see if I had strength. What if I was in a real fight, on a street, or saw someone being beaten or raped? Would I continue walking, not wanting to get hurt or killed, or would I risk getting involved, jumping in and pushing past my own need for self-preservation for someone else? If someone broke into my home and attacked my wife, my kids, what would I do? Would I have courage? Would I have strength? Would I be able to overcome my fear and do what I needed to do? These were the big questions for me.

I learned something that day. I learned about strength.

I might do another tournament soon, but more than that, I'm not as afraid. I'm not afraid at work, I'm not afraid in relationships, I'm not afraid of making hard choices or possibly getting hurt. There's a heart beating inside my chest. I feel more alive.

 

Recovering, Uncovering

Living with half a heart, part of a soul,

While another carries around a piece of you.

Meanwhile walking in shadows, the world moves . . . on. Leaves fall, seasons change. The winter winds breeze their icy

breath, whispering death.

And you have to keep moving, walking dead, waiting for the intake of breath and the coming spring, or hibernate in a cocoon of spent hope.

Beauty in pain. Growth in sadness. Many are afraid of it, shy away from it, run from it.

Take a pill, hide it, mask it, shoot it up, make it go away, they say.

Or feel it, swim in it, turn the memories over like a precious stone, grow from it, appreciate it, and become wise.

Punching hands, kicking feet, hammering down blows, just to feel . . . something.

Sweat, blood, muscles ache, jaws hurt, and sweep the wound clean.

Tears rain down, screams scrape heaven with their cries.

And then silence.

No answers, but peaceful nights. Sleep. Hope. Learning to value, to see. Abandonment of pride, and past pain.

Fighting to hold it close, letting it go, dreaming of days gone by and not yet come. Will this wrestling match ever end?

Laughing again. Silent peace. Trust. Healing.

Finding our Voice (and our heart)

This summer I wrote a story based on a dream I'd had, about a dragon coming to a village seeking sanctuary, initially as a small dragonling and then quickly growing, getting out of hand, and taking on the nature of a dragon (naturally). I was dating a woman at the time, and told her the idea. "You haven't found your voice," she said. "You're trying to be someone else. Your blogs are real, I can here you there, but not here."

I lost my voice. Somewhere along the way I stopped being alive. My closest friends have said I haven't been alive or real for a long time. "You have to start living again."

Here's where I lost it:

My job teaching in Michigan. I lived in one city, had an office an hour away, and taught in four different cities. I met students for six weeks, four hours a night, then drove home in the dark. No sooner had we met than we were saying goodbye. Again, and again . . . and again. After a while I disconnected, graded piles of papers in coffeehouses, drank more than I ever have in my life, and worked out hard just to feel something.

My friends' divorce. He was my brother. I was living at their house when they divorced. I watched as a "family" I knew fell apart before my eyes. I pulled back, isolated, didn't share what I was feeling and buried myself in trying to do well at my new job teaching. I lived out of the office, sometimes literally, sleeping overnight in the lazyboy.

My family. We were on the Oregon coast in a gift shop. I was in high school, my brothers were 5-7 years old. My aunt saw that my stepmom had bought my brothers gifts, and yet something for me was conspicuously absent. "Aren't you going to get Clifford something," my aunt asked.

"No," my stepmom replied. "He doesn't need it." My aunt was furious. She came to me and told me the conversation. I replied, "It's okay." I had gotten used to it. I no longer expected it.

Relationships. I can sweep a woman off her feet, I just don't have anywhere to take her. I pay attention, listen, meet her needs, and get lost in the process. I lose or forget who I am.

 

How I get it back:

Boise. I lived with my aunt and uncle for six months. My aunt (same aunt) confronted me. "It does matter what you think."

Martial arts. I'm physical, and passionate. Martial arts is something I do because I like to. I like to push my body to the limits (I've thrown up in class). I do it because I want to. I may teach at a college, but in class I'm just another student.

Riding a motorcycle. I'm learning to ride, and loving it. I don't care if some say it can be dangerous. The freedom is worth it.

Being honest. Some things do make me angry. I'm more honest now, but getting better. When my girlfriend became too controlling I told her. We almost broke up that night. Maybe we should have then.

Going skydiving. I've talked about it. It's time.

I want to go to Ireland. I want to visit, and maybe live there. I love going to Irish pubs and listening to music, or Irish fests. I love to dance when the music is compelling. I love music that gets inside your blood, makes you feel, makes you want to weep and sing at the same time.

I want to stand up against injustice. When the woman I was dating was dismissed from her job, I caved. Could I have said something? Should I? I might have lost my job, but I wouldn't have lost myself. Sometimes I've stood up, and gotten pounded down. It's a risk, but so is not being alive.

 

My girlfriend once asked if I was okay with wearing costumes to movies. "Isn't it weird? You wear a cloak. Don't you think that's weird."

"Yep," I said, smiling.

"Don't you worry about what people will think?"

"No. You worry too much about what people will think."

"I have to, and you should too."

"Why?"

"Well, because what other people think is important!"

"Is it?"

An Attempt at (Bad) Poetry

I told you that the world was before you, that you were free.

You looked at me with hope, with fear, and doubted if I wanted you.

I looked at you with joy, and saw you stretching your clipped wings.

It was just us two, and the world was crashing down around us, but for a while we were happy.

You asked me if I was lonely, and I said I was alone.

We loved, we fought, we clung to each other and pushed each other away until our world sometimes felt like a cage.

The door was always open. Seeing you fly through it into the open world has hurt more than you'll know.

The world is before you, and you're free.

Death of a Stoic

Sometimes we don't say what we feel to the people we care about until it's too late. And then they're gone, and we stuff it.

Bury it deep, we say, send it to the elephant bone graveyard, we say, alongside the donkey jawbones, and Yurik's skull (alas, I knew him well), hoping the maggots swallow down our fears. Pass the bottle and let's take a swim in the sea of forgetfulness. There are too many goodbyes, too many sorrows, too many disappointments, sometimes early, sometimes late, and so we say, "That's how it is; that's life. Better just accept it." We avoid funerals, avoid tearfilled goodbyes, avoid moving the last sofa onto the moving van.

And then sometimes someone notices the chink in the armor, behind the hard exterior, the face of stone, the laughter and jokes, and strange disappearances before the end of the night. There's the child weeping in the corner, afraid that someone will see their tears.

Is There Anybody Out There? Is There Anybody Listening?

If anyone still checks this, I've been on a writing hiatus (you already noticed). I may resume. I've been writing, but it's gone underground for a while. All the best . . .

Great song by the way (points to title).

Cheers,
The Madman Upstairs (think the Madwoman in the Attic, The Madman in Nietsche, Mad thoughts in the brain, or apartment dwellers who live on the top floors of buildings and you'd be on target, at least some of the time).