2/16/2019 1 Comment Roundabouts for HumanityHave you driven through a roundabout recently? You know, those circular intersections that seem to be popping up more and more these days.
Traffic engineers will tell you they improve traffic flow and are safer. But what they are really doing is making us more connected and human. There were a few circular street intersections early on in the history of driving. Columbus circle in Manhattan has been around since 1904. But the modern version of the roundabout didn’t debut until the mid-1960s in England. They caught on. Mostly from the introduction of a new concept: the “priority rule.” This mandated that vehicles in the roundabout have the right of way. Cars entering the roundabout have to yield to those already circling. The idea spread around the world. Except for the United States. Kinda like the metric system and soccer. The first modern roundabout didn’t get built here until 1990. But that has changed because road builders have the facts on their side. Roundabouts have 90 percent fewer fatal crashes and 76 percent fewer crashes resulting in any injury. And they increase traffic flow, are cheaper to maintain and save gas. But what I’ve found is that roundabouts are much better at fostering our humanity, something sorely needed in the increasing stress of driving in our age. We’ve been conditioned to think only about ourselves. I’m headed that way and I don’t care where you need to go. If I get caught by the red light, I’m annoyed. I’ll try to sneak in a left turn under the yellow or a shade of just-changed-to-red-so-it’s-okay. At the red light everyone is looking at their phones. Texts? Instagram? Really? You almost always have to deploy the short honk to alert the guy in front that the light has changed. We also like the fact that there is someone else in charge – the traffic light. We’ve abdicated responsibility. We don’t trust anyone to do this right so we’ll defer to the stop signal. Of course we still want to ignore the rules ourselves a bit (see the left turn on red above). But we also get pissed off when anyone else does something stupid. But roundabouts engage us and require us to work together. When you approach a roundabout you’ve got to slow down and pay more attention to everyone else. Actually see them and maybe even make eye contact. You have to recognize your fellow traveler and acknowledge they have a different destination. Yield to them and find a gap where you can join the flow. At the end of the day each of us gets to where we want to be faster and with less chance of hurting someone else going a different direction. Maybe more roundabouts will make us better? And hey, if you miss your street exit, just loop around another time and catch it the next time. You’ve not missed anything and maybe you’ll see Big Ben and Parliament again. For more about roundabouts check out the excellent "How Stuff Works" podcast that inspired this post "Roundabouts: The Problem is you"
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1/5/2019 1 Comment Happy New YearThanasi the baker wiped his hands on his apron and, like a stone carving of a minor deity in his shrine to bread waited for me, the unworthy supplicant, to utter my request.
“I need a Vasilopita,” I chimed, hoping my tone might brighten the moment. “Actually two. Any left?” He motioned to a table by the door piled with white cake boxes. “Ekei” he said flatly as though I should have known that the St. Basil’s cakes, only made once a year to celebrate the New Year, were displayed near the front of the store. At least he remembered, after ten years as a customer, that I was also Greek. It was a good thing that his baked goods are so delicious. He certainly wasn’t going to generate repeat business based on his sunny disposition. And I for one am suspicious of a baker as rail thin as he. But his Vasilopita cakes are divine. Always. The treat for this New Year’s Day was to be no exception. If you’ve never had one, it is essentially a coffee cake, although some family recipes call for more of a sweet bread. This one was light and delicately flavored with orange peel and a hint of baking spices that I couldn’t quite identify. The top was covered in confectioners’ sugar and decorated with piped icing showing the year. It tradition in Greece, and in other countries with Orthodox Christian communities, to serve this on January 1st which is when the memory of St. Basil is commemorated. He was a Christian bishop who lived in the fourth century in Cappadocia, a region in Asia Minor that is now part of modern day Turkey. St. Basil, Άγιος Βασίλειος, also is venerated as a saint in the Catholic faith. He was a learned teacher and a fervent defender of the poor. Lore has it that once a city in his region was surrounded by an enemy army demanding a ransom or else they would attack. Even the poorest donated what little they had even if it meant contributing family heirlooms. When he learned of this the army commander was humbled by the selflessness of the people. He returned the wooden chest full of coins and gold rings to the city and departed. As spiritual leader, St. Basil was asked to decide how to return the money and belongings to their rightful owners. After much prayer Basil instructed that the coins and jewelry should be baked into loaves of bread which he blessed. The loaves were handed out, one to each family. Miraculously each contained the very items that they had donated. I brought the Vasilopita home for the traditional cutting of our cake with a few friends that joined Helen and I on New Year’s Day. Every Vasilopita cake contains a single coin baked into it. As we gathered around the kitchen I took a knife and made the sign of the cross over it and offered a few words of prayer and hopes for a healthy new year as my father had always done on this day. Then cut the first pieces for Christ, the Theotokos and our home and set them aside. Then, carefully cutting more, we handed out slices to everyone who hoped they would be the lucky one to get the coin and be considered to be especially blessed with good fortune in the year to come. I reflected on the symbolism of the tradition as each of our guests probed their portion with a fork. Everyone wanted the coin, the money, the prize that would set them apart as special. But each of them, I realized, already held the real gift in their hands and in their hearts. The “daily bread” -- the gift of each new day that we receive when we open our eyes every morning. We are searching for something that we have already been given. It is in our hands if we can only recognize it. The prize isn’t the coin. And it isn’t only in one piece of the bread, it is in everybody’s. Everyday. There was more cake than guests in our little ceremony. And so in the end no one found the coin in their slice. So no one was deemed to be more fortunate than anyone else. I found that appropriate. We were all blessed equally. We each had the day and the promise of a new year. I wish you all a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year. May you have the good fortune to find your coin every day in 2019. 8/31/2018 0 Comments Sacred Spacessa’ cred adj. [Orig. past part. Of ME. Sacren to consecrate, fr., OF., fr. L. sacrare, fr. Sacer sacred, holy] 2. hallowed by association with the divine or the consecrated; hence, entitled to reverence and respect 4. Inviolable or inviolate; not to be profaned.
My desk is a sacred space. It isn’t showy or very spacious or an heirloom. But it is made of teak wood. In the pool of light under my desk lamp it glows a reddish brown. The top is one solid piece with woodgrain in a horizontal pattern ridged enough to feel when you run your hand across it. There is room for the lamp and a couple of mementos besides my laptop and a book or two. The computer is used for both the mundane and the creative. Email is checked, bank statements reconciled and calendars consulted. The day-to-day management of life’s circumstances. And also, the desk is where I write letters to beloved family and close friends, intimate thoughts in a journal, fiction and these blog posts. To be authentic in any creative endeavor, it helps to have an energizing workspace. Objects that resonate with something positive in you. A memento from your past, inspiring artwork or a photo. I’ll share mine:
Those surroundings energize me and allow me to focus. These give me a bit of inspiration. You can do the same with attention to whatever it is that helps you. And I’m sure it will be different. You might like early Pink Floyd albums blasted at high decibels or a series of Picasso line drawings. Or maybe you fill your space with scents from a diffuser for essential oils. Whatever works. And true, I’m lucky that I have control over my environment. You might not. A nurse or waiter or even a teacher has less control over their surroundings. But you can wear a bracelet your sister gave you or keep that cute photo of your dog on your phone. You also live your life in a body that needs adequate sleep, nutritious food and, at minimum, a walk around the block on the regular. That is also your workspace. Try to keep it running smooth. And your ultimate canvas is the space created by your innermost thoughts and what is in your heart. That is where it can all go right. Pay attention especially to those sacred spaces. 7/10/2018 0 Comments Make Up Your Own Summer CampFat raindrops pattered on the thin tarp we’d hung low over the picnic table. Pewter clouds scudded above and notes of distant thunder rumbled through the otherwise silent campsite. Our knees touched as I leaned to reach a Yeti mug filled with bourbon and sour mix made from fresh limes. I winked at Helen.
We had hurriedly grabbed a bag of salty potato chips and a container of sour cream from the car before the rain began in earnest. And now, in our folding chairs with flip flops dangling from our toes, we enjoyed happy hour after an afternoon swim. We both absently scratched the welts on our bare legs from mosquito attacks on the half-mile uphill trail from Lake Keowee and sipped our drinks. The setting was as familiar as our living room, even though we’d never been to this campground in the Blue Ridge foothills before. Our trusty REI tent was pitched a few feet away and nylon hammocks strung invitingly between trees. The Smokey Joe charcoal grill sat ready to sear a pair of thick ribeyes. This was our version of summer camp replete with freedom and youth. And possibility. It was in the first year of our marriage that we learned to camp in earnest. Friends and neighbors in Denver lent us their gear and pointed to spots on a map with names like “Indian Peaks,” “Cache La Poudre” and “Great Sand Dunes National Monument.” At first we fumbled in operating Coleman stoves and rerolling out strange ThermaRest pads. But it was pure magic to fall asleep to the hooting of owls and in the morning drink coffee with the sun glinting off snowbanks on the slopes of the Rockies. Since then we’ve pitched our tent in the deserts at Joshua Tree and in Moab, Utah, on beaches along the coast of California and the sands of the Outer Banks of North Carolina, amidst the rock formations of Bryce Canyon, next to the cool river that runs through Zion, in the mangrove forests at Desoto on the Gulf Coast of Florida and countless places throughout north Georgia. Every so often we crave liberation from the tyranny of bright glass screens. The lack of electric outlets and phone signals makes way for conversation and long reads. There is room for leisurely hikes and the satisfaction of building a fire. There is connection, with each other and with something eternal. Now, mind you, we do it in our own style and comfort. The car is parked close by and the cooler is replenished with fresh ice each day. Bacon pops on the skillet in the morning and dusk finds us uncorking a bottle of sauvignon blanc. And if it is early summer, like it was this trip, we are treated to exquisite pesto that Helen makes from the basil plant on our front steps. But yet when we rave about our trips the stories are mostly met with wrinkled noses and the familiar litany of comments: “You mean you sleep on the ground? What about all the bugs? No thanks, I want a hotel.” My father, God rest his soul, would actively make fun of us for spending precious vacation time acting like a couple of rednecks. Well, their loss. And yes we’ve seen bears. In fact, one clawed a long tear on our first tent. No, we weren’t in it at the time. But once we returned to our campsite from an evening stroll to find a skunk rummaging through the trash bag and we were so freaked out we threw away the plastic wine glasses that it had toppled for fear of catching the black plague. We’ve tweezed ticks from our backs in a panic. And on a memorable night near Kitty Hawk had our shelter swamped from a thunderstorm so severe we took refuge in the car and watched lightening arc between clouds in the dark until sunrise. But we’ve also watched seals swim offshore from our sleeping bags. We’ve kayaked next to manatees and often startled deer while hiking and once a big horn sheep. We’ve seen bald eagles, pileated woodpeckers and a scarlet tanager. When you find something you love to do, don’t compromise or give in to someone else’s version of what you should be doing. Because, believe me, they will try to shame you. They’ll try to point out how it isn’t cool. How you are wasting your time and money. That somehow you don’t fit in because of your passion. Instead, embrace your passion. Track down that PEZ dispenser depicting Lyndon Johnson to complete your collection. Visit every Major League ballpark. Start a Risk tournament. You won’t regret it for a minute. 6/15/2018 2 Comments FirefliesThe evening of the last day of May settled under a dense canopy of trees where I walked after a visit with friends. The private drive wound along the edge of Lullwater Creek in the old neighborhood of Druid Hills. The outlines of once grand mansions disappeared behind shadowy oak branches set against an indigo sky.
Around a turn the road dropped to meet the creek and a curtain of cool air hung a like a beaded doorway into a bedroom. My eyes were still adjusting to the darkness of the wooded glade when the first yellow-green glow appeared and faded. I stopped and peered into the trees with a feeling of hopefulness rising in my chest. Then another gentle light blinked a few feet away. And then two more across the road. Fireflies. Or in the southern patios of my childhood - “lightnin bugs.” I stood still and let the magic show begin. Soon flickers of light danced in syncopation rising from the ferns and amidst low branches. There was no discernable pattern and yet the flashes felt connected to each other. Like the promise of beautiful things to come when an orchestra tunes before the performance. Blurred trails of luminescence soundlessly streaked the air. I was a kid again in an enchanted forest. I could feel my loose limbs joyfully running through the backyard of my youth. I’d race towards one light only to loose sight of it as I drew close. Then I chased after another with fingers outstretched and a laugh in my throat. Unable to catch one of the delightful insects, I stopped. Motionless I gazed into the darkening light and let one of the fireflies reveal herself. I reached out and scooped the bug into my cupped palms. I sat down with a mason jar that I’d cradled in the crook of my elbow and placed the treasured specimen in it. Then repeated the same tirelessly until the jar became a glowing lamp and the show came to an end. Like many of us, I learned to await the first fireflies of the season. They were a harbinger of summer and the freedom that it promised. It marked a time when the days would stretch out ahead waiting to be filled with bike rides, pool splashing and popsicles staining tongues red. The walk along Lullwater Creek reminded me of signals we encounter that things are about to happen. A message sent in code that only the heart can unlock. It tells us to be open to what is to come. As children we intuitively discern these signposts. We feel them in our souls. Yet as adults, so often we don’t see them even as they are right in front of us. We let those signals pass us by without notice. We blithely go our way ignorant of the grace wrapped in subtle moments. We discount the message. It is not for us. We have plans, responsibilities and a very long to-do list. We willfully turn our backs. We ignore them again and again until they come hurtling at us while we shift uncomfortably in the doctor’s waiting room. Or when the phone rings late at night. Translating the message is easy if we give up resistance. The telegram may at first appear unpleasant: FIELDS BURNING. BARBARIANS AT GATE. CLOSE DRAWBRDGE. SEND MONEY. If we open ourselves and accept the vulnerability, we can hear the whispers. We can anticipate events to come as they draw close. Even as the darkness falls there will be heralds with torches lit. Look for the fireflies. Pay reverent attention to them. They signal summer. 5/9/2018 0 Comments Καλό μήνα!Locals had already filled the expansive town square in the heart of Nafplion by mid-morning on “Protomagia” -- the first day of May. Crowded cafes lined the long sides of the space and in the center a boisterous group of kids chased after a soccer ball. Spring, flirting for the past week, had finally made the commitment and arrived with a comely skirt of vibrant blossoms on the surrounding hills above the city.
A knot of gypsy children holding aloft wreaths of wildflowers intercepted my path. I fished out a euro coin and gave it to the youngest of the group in return for a multicolored ring of blooms. I’d hang it later from a nail on my balcony. Passing a shop, I recognized the owner who wished me “kalo mina!” as I went by. She had wished me a “good month”, much like you would say good morning. It is common to hear that greeting on the first day of any month in Greece. And I miss hearing it here in the States. Sometimes it will pop up as a Facebook post, but that pales with the feeling you get when you hear the friendly wish from people spontaneously throughout the day. The Greeks love to wish each other a good morning, afternoon, evening and night. You even hear people saying “kalo ksimeroma” when departing at night as a wish for a good awakening the next day. I once overheard two woman talking in the street. The first carried a large pan of stuffed tomatoes that she was carrying to the bakery for roasting. The other wished her “kalo psisimo” – a wish for good baking! The word “kalo” can be translated as good. American English borrowed the word and reduced it to “okay.” Which is, in fact, a Greek transliteration. The initials O.K. come from the phrase “ola kala” which means everything is good. Greek immigrants in the 18th century would use the two letters in telegrams back to the old country to save money and let family know that everything was good – O.K. But it carries a meaning deeper that means more than better than average or lovely. It connotes virtue and nobility. Calling a man “kalos” is a high compliment of integrity and honor, like the Yiddish “mensch.” So the simple wish for a good month is really a blessing that the weeks ahead be filled with good values. Just like the May wreaths it is a reminder that we all get a fresh start, regardless of the past. And that new start it is available to us every month, every day and every moment. Rebirth is available to us always. If you hear a cashier robotically say “have a good day” and think that they don’t actually mean it, that’s okay ;-) Feel the intent and imbue it with your own good intentions. It’s an opportunity to bring forth that blessing to yourself from within. So, kalo mina! Have a great month. You deserve it. 4/26/2018 1 Comment Yiayia's KilimiIt waited in the furthest recess of a hot attic year after year, content in its jacket of cloudy plastic and covered with a thick layer of dust. It bid its time in a remote cranny, revealed only when the search for boxes of Christmas ornaments probed the secluded hiding spot. Its unwieldy mass was hard to fight from a crouch under the slopped roofline. And so for nearly two decades it survived threats of removal and endured sporadic judgements of its uselessness.
“What is it?” asked my wife peering up from the steps of the pulldown ladder. “Yiayia’s kilimi” “What?” “The old rug” “We still have that? You said you were going to get rid of it.” The wool carpet, a “gift” from my parents, was unfurled once to admire the colorful design and then bundled away. They told me I should use it as a floor covering or, better yet, display it on a wall to impress guests. It had been woven on a handloom by my father’s mother in her village in Greece almost a hundred years before. Girls of that era would prepare their “prika” -- the dowry that a bride brought to her marriage – as teenagers. It traveled through time from her parental home to her own. It was carried across the ocean to the New Country and ended up here, next to the beach chairs. It is large enough for two people to simultaneously practice yoga on its scratchy surface. Its motifs of vines, amulets and symbols to ward off the evil eye are unique and the colors vibrant. But none of that appealed to our taste. In fact, it was more of a burden. I eyed it as unwanted baggage that I couldn’t discard. I’d be a bad son to throw away yiayia’s handmade cultural heirloom, even though my father didn’t care to display it in his own home. It became an obligation foisted upon me. I was left holding the mat. So it moldered in the attic creating only guilt and resentment. For years. And then an idea snapped into place. I contacted the National Hellenic Museum and offered to donate it. I was surprised at the enthusiasm of the curator. She gushed over the photos I emailed. An exemplary specimen of tapestry-woven art. An exquisite kilim. It would be an honor to accept it into their growing textiles collection and how generous of me. When could I send it? I imagine someday a young woman might see yiayia’s kilimi on a visit to this delightful museum in Chicago. She’ll admire the skill and dedication of a woman from generations past and be grateful that marriage customs have changed. And maybe she will be inspired to use her creative skills in a novel way. She might cultivate her own artistic vision or to start a business selling home furnishings. Or perhaps she’ll have a new insight into the ways of love. We don’t know what will happen if we honestly evaluate the contents of our attics for something we’ve been carrying around for years. That stack of National Geographic magazines. An old grudge. The distorted idea that you’ll never make it as a painter or visit Paris or rekindle an old friendship. Dust it off. Reframe it. Let it go. Give it a new home. It just may benefit someone else. You’ll be happier. And there will be more room for the Bowflex machine. I slid open the glass door to the screened porch off the bedroom on a cool April afternoon. Old white bedsheets that had been draped over the wicker recliners three weeks ago now had the greenish-yellow pallor of a winter cough. Another in the same palette covered the side table and lamp. Pollen season.
Yellow powder dusted the furniture coverlets and every inch of the cedar decking like a snowfall of confectioners’ sugar on Greek wedding cookies. I convinced myself that the pine pollen had peaked allowing me to clean off the porch and reclaim one of my wife’s favorite spots in the house. It’s on the second level and surrounded by trees that mask the neighbors behind. Birds fill the morning with song and at night owls hoot in the moonlight. A tentative swipe of the broom across the floor sent billows of dust into the air. Loblolly pine pollen. It is a burnt yellow-green and has the consistency of fine sawdust when swept into piles. You can see its dusting on car hoods every morning beginning in late March here in Atlanta. It tinges the edges of ponds and after a rain it leaves yellow trails across the pavement. “Eeeyeaatchoo,” a hard sneeze accompanied the next broom stroke. No stopping now. The sheets were carefully folded, the dustpan filled and on hands and knees I swept every corner. The late afternoon sun highlighted a cloud of pollen motes suspended in the air and I instinctively moved my head into a shadow to breathe even as I knew the air there was equally teeming with the tiny grains. An hour later the cozy porch, just big enough for two, was ready for morning coffee, long reads and afternoon naps. I was happy to surprise Helen with the accomplished chore and she could simply relax into the cushioned chair and enjoy space she had styled with such care: decorative mirrors reflecting the natural greenery, patterned fabrics and a carved wooden figurine of a cardinal that her late father had kept near his armchair and greeted with “good morning little birdy,” each day. As I admired my dusting handiwork I saw the foundational twigs of a nest taking shape in the crook of a branch just to the other side of the mesh screen. We had seen a robin nest in that very spot last year, where eggs later appeared but were stolen before they could hatch. It was a poor location. Helen had spotted this year’s nascent nest a few days before and tried to discourage the bird by clapping. But now a female Northern Cardinal was back, twig in her beak, perched close and eyeing the nest she had started. A brilliant red male kept watch on her from a tree just a few feet away. I moved closer to dissuade her. She twittered, signaling her mate she was troubled. She flew off at first but came back, insistent that this was the right place for their nest. The wise male cardinal, wary of my presence, flew to a tree further away and called back to her in a loud clear whistle. She cocked her head to the fledgling nest and then to her mate. He kept calling and then winged to yet a further tree. Finally she relented and followed his lead. A day later and they have not returned. A good decision that the cardinal pair worked out together. Nests are crucial to both cardinals and to us. We all need a snug retreat where we can find refuge from the rain and wind. Making and maintaining a good nest takes collaboration. Someone to find the right furnishings and someone to keep an eye on the neighborhood. If we find the right mix, love can flourish in the space we create and that takes input from both sides. 4/3/2018 2 Comments Good boy, BuddyBuddy tramples the leafy shrubs of the traffic circle, his nose sweeping back and forth like a metal detector those old guys use at the beach. The treasure that ignites Buddy’s enthusiasm isn’t lost jewelry but whatever another dog left behind. After an extravaganza of sniffing, he squats on his stubby back legs. My brother-in-law fishes through his jacket pocket and offers me a distressingly thin plastic grocery bag, “You got this one?” My weak laugh is a poor cover for my disgust at the thought handling his number two. I’m reminded of a Jerry Seinfeld bit that aliens watching earth might assume that dogs ran the planet – “If you see two life forms, one of them is making a poop, the other one’s carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge?” I don’t have a dog and have never really been around dog people much either. Part of the reason is that I get an allergic reaction from pooches. A few shed hairs or a slap of slobber from a friendly lick and my eyes turn red and I’m sneezing like one of the seven dwarfs. My aversion is rooted in biology. But over time I’ve let that creep into my attitude towards dogs, and I’m feeling it with Buddy. When my wife and I visit her sister Beth in Chattanooga, our otherwise pleasant morning walks are dominated by the demands of an unruly eight-year-old Basset hound. We stop every ten feet to let him smell something and in return he tangles our legs with the leash. Then there is the whole feces retrieval ritual. Buddy is the third in a line of Basset hounds that Beth has owned. And I’ve been around them all for more than 25 years. The first, Teddy, was once saved from death by my wife performing the Heimlich maneuver on him (true story). He also liked to eat the tinsel off the Christmas tree. A habit discovered by the sparkly surprises he left in the yard (sadly also true). After him came Cassie who developed doggie dementia (really, that can happen). And now Beth mothers Buddy, a “special needs” rescue dog with anxiety issues so severe he sometimes wears a “thundershirt” to calm him (don’t ask). Basset hounds have the second-most-sensitive snouts in the canine world – bested only by bloodhounds. They were bred to chase rabbits. But there is no hunting going on. No one is tracking escaped convicts. If a tennis ball is tossed across the yard Buddy only sniffs your shoes and then lays down in the bare dirt under a shade tree. I question his entire existence. All of which is fine and well but I know my discomfort is written all over my face on our Easter morning stroll. And while my family is too polite to tell me I’m a jerk for silently judging Beth's pet choice, I bet they are thinking it. The sun shimmers on the Tennessee River as we cross the pedestrian bridge that connects to the North Shore where an Easter egg hunt has just concluded. Families approach with smiling toddlers clutching their prize baskets. A little girl in a pastel dress runs up to us and asks if she can pet Buddy. She lovingly runs her hand over his head and down his back. Buddy sits without a command and the girl throws her arms around him in a hug, nuzzling her cheek against his floppy ears. The same scenario plays out a half dozen times as we walk through the crowd. Everyone lights up at his glum expression. They laugh and say how their family once had a Basset hound or share a story about their dog. We talk and bond for a moment and then they walk on. But with a lighter step. Those moments of joy and connection happen all along the walk that morning. Buddy brought happiness into the day for a dozen people just by being himself. And what’s more he did it effortlessly and unceasingly. He didn’t set out to do it, but it happened. He turns his droopy gaze up to me to see if I get it yet. I think back and realize that Teddy and Cassie must have brought the same cheer to so many over the years. No tricks required. Just by being authentic to their nature. Good boy Buddy. Good boy. 3/26/2018 1 Comment Letter to my 10-year-old selfFor delivery on: December 23, 1978
Dear Petro, I am glad you found this letter. This is going to be hard to believe but you are going to write it someday. I know it doesn’t make sense, but stay with me. First of all let me prove I am you. I know that you like drinking milk out of the plastic Budweiser stein with the wood panel design. And that you feel crummy that Mom mocked you so much for spending $6 (“what a waste of money”) for the coolest toy ever – the Evel Knievel “Super Stunt Cycle” figure with gyro launcher -- at Chris Goldman’s yard sale and so now you don’t even want to play with it anymore. But that might not be enough to convince you that I’m writing from the future. What if I tell you who will win the Falcons-Eagles game tomorrow? I know you are excited – Atlanta’s first playoff game ever. It is going to be a nail-biter. The Falcons will be down 13-0 going into the fourth quarter. Your soon-to-be-favorite-quarterback, Steve Bartkowski, gets picked off and the Eagles are knocking at the door to salt it away. Pretty bleak. But look at that – we recover a fumble near the goal line. Bartkowski leads the Falcons downfield and finds Wallace Francis for a 49-yard strike. A couple plays later we get into the end zone to cut the lead to 13-7. On their possession the Eagles go three and out and we get the ball right back. But we sputter and face third and ten. Bartkowski throws up another deep prayer and connects with Francis again. This time it’s for a touchdown to take the lead 14-13. There is still 1:37 on the clock though. The Eagles march it to the 16 yard line and line up for the game-winning field goal. But the kick sails wide and the Falcons win! Don’t tell anyone that you know this or have this letter. But make a big bet against Uncle Art because he doesn’t think the Falcons have a chance. He is wrong. Right, so you know that this is for real. Pay attention while I tell you some truth about you (us). You are very talented. Don’t fret about figuring out what your talents are. Just keep doing what you like regardless of what that may be. What’s important is to keep doing those things you enjoy and your talents will reveal themselves. Whatever you doesn’t inspire you, do less of. Sure you have obligatory schoolwork, like multiplication tables. But you don’t have to spend a lot of time on stuff that doesn’t excite you. Trust me, technology is going to be amazing and you won’t have to do math in your head. Instead, put your heart into whatever energizes you. Like riding your bike. Or reading books, playing the guitar or gluing together model boats. Let the activities lead you. Learn from them. Along the way someone is going to tell you that doing those things are not important. That they are a waste of time or will not turn into to some kind of “job” later in life. Don’t believe them. They are not right. You’ll think you should listen to them, because they’ll likely be adults. But here is a secret – not all adults are right. Yep, some of them are completely clueless. And just because you are a kid doesn’t mean that your gut is wrong or your heart is leading you astray. Far more often than not, you’ll be right. Your intuition is the best compass you are ever going to own. Any activity gets your creative mind turning is worthwhile. Like reading? Then seek out new books, go to the library. Learn about the authors you read. Maybe try writing your own stories. Now, some hard truth. Even if you do all that, you’re going to get hurt. You’ll meet people that, because of ignorance or malice or their own suffering, will cause you pain. You’ll be mistreated, teased, neglected and otherwise violated. Sometimes by people you trust, even family. You will get your heart broken. You will be told you are not good enough. You will do the right thing, the best way you know how, and will not be rewarded. It will not be fair. But don’t quit. Follow your heart and your instincts. Every day spend your creative energy doing what you love and thinking about how you can do more of it. Figure out how doing what you love can benefit someone else. Do it with abandon and passion. Have complete and utter faith. If you do, everything will work out. Maybe not right away, or in the way that you first envisioned. But in the end it will be right. It will be good. Trust me. After all, I was right about the Falcons winning. Just don’t bet on that too often. With Love, Me/You |
Petro KacurI have a variety of interests and enjoy sharing my reflections on them here. Archives
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