Every moment is a deep breath and a step forward.
Everything stripped to its simplicity.
A rebirth with each raw heartbeat.
There is only Love.
Written 08-03-2016, 2:57pm
Copyright © 2016 by Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved.
Every moment is a deep breath and a step forward.
Everything stripped to its simplicity.
A rebirth with each raw heartbeat.
There is only Love.
Written 08-03-2016, 2:57pm
Copyright © 2016 by Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved.
It’s like all the worst possible challenges you can imagine.
Mixed up with experiencing (mostly) the best possible of people.
And we’re just along for the ride.
I have no idea where we’re going.
I just hang on to John.
Take the next step and breathe.
April 10, 2016
As my kids grow older
and transition into adulthood,
I am ever grateful for 5 little words.
“Mom, I need a hug.”
The kind where you just don’t feel right.
Like something’s afoot, but you can’t figure out what.
You wonder if it’s just the weather, or the food you ate, or Mercury’s retrograde.
But it’s not. There’s something else.
Like the world is holding its breath, waiting for an unknown shoe to drop.
That’s the kind of feeling weighing on me tonight.
Stay safe out there.
I debated on what to write about tonight.
The only NaBloPoMo I ever lost was because of the Thanksgiving holiday, and unexpectedly NOT having access to a computer before midnight.
And of course, I didn’t have a smart phone of any kind back then.
These last 3 nights, I managed to blog via cell phone only. A neat trick, these new-fangled tech tools.
I attempted useful, meaningful and whimsy. And overall seemed to avoid any major auto-correct mishaps on my blog.
Not that it would have really mattered for NaBloPoMo. Since it’s not supposed to be about quality, but instead about commitment.
But if you’ve followed me for any time, then you know that I rather despise the idea of “lazy” posts.
I’ll experiment with writing exercises. I’ll play with different styles.
I’ll tell stories and write poetry. I’ll share information and play show ‘n tell.
But I’m not a real fan of following the crowd or throw-away posts.
Real writing is about sharing some piece of heart, after all. Right?
Unless there’s nothing else left but sheer commitment to the process.
In the end, perhaps there’s a lesson in that. As it’s often commitment that keeps the world ticking and that drives us to success. Not the prettiest, the loudest or the tastiest things that cross our paths. Simply the steadfast things. The ones we know we can rely on. That which always has our back. What is it that’s always there, even when things don’t go to plan? It gets us through.
Practice, training, love…. None of these are always easy, always sexy, always fun. But investment in each pays off in troves.
And to dig further into that… What do we want that foundation that we can rely on to be? What do we really want to commit our energy to in life? But likewise, from what do we wish to draw upon to help propel us forward?
It’s all too easy to put off important things, because we don’t think we have time to do it right. We don’t write that letter, because it won’t be a masterpiece. We don’t make that call, because we don’t have enough patience. We don’t share that story that’s crying to be told, because we’re not good enough to do the telling. We don’t invest in the relationships that matter the most. We don’t plan room in our lives for memories, for smiles, for people, for stumbling, for tears, for sticky fingers and sloppy kisses.
And when there’s no extra room, when we live our lives so close to the wire, by the skin of our teeth…
When every minute is spoken for in ways we’d never want for our children, much less ourselves…
It’s time to look up and see the cliff we’re heading for.
Thanksgiving is over and now November NaBloPoMo is winding down to an end. Tomorrow marks the last day of the challenge.
I hope everyone had a marvelous holiday weekend with good memories and camaraderie.
“Having a strong religious or spiritual quality; indicating or suggesting the presence of a divinity.”
The feeling you get when you’re in the presence of something greater than yourself.
Have you ever felt “the Hand of God” upon you?
Ever known something you shouldn’t.
Had faith without logical reason.
Felt compelled as if it meant life and breath.
Charted a path against all odds, because something called you….
I’m here to tell you that if you can believe.
If you can embrace.
If you can allow yourself to calm the noise and simply Know Thyself.
It’s worth it.
We just watched the new Terminator movie tonight.
And it got me thinking about the fabric of time.
Is it more like crochet? Or is it more like knit?
If you travel back in time, and something goes wrong and the timeline is changed… is it like a run in your pantyhose?
Something that ripples like a straight line through the entire length of knit fabric, permanently changing the landscape? Erasing an entire line of loops?
Or is it more like crochet? In that if a loop of the fabric is damaged, its spread remains fairly localized. But the altered appearance in that area is more pronounced, leaving remants of threads and half memories?
And instead of erasing a line of loops, a little pot hole is formed, and the face of the landscape changes across multiple “lines?”
Do you think time as we know it is at risk from time moths?
“Austin is a smaller version of New York city.”
This is what a friend of mine (from New York) told me once. I’ve heard that Austin and Seattle are similar in personalities, but I hadn’t heard it being anything like New York before.
Granted, I have not yet been to New York. Still, I’m not sure that I can agree with her. And certainly, it would probably be best for her to never repeat that to a native Texan who didn’t already love her. In fact, I’m not sure a native New Yorker would appreciate the comparison.
Still, if you stop and think about it, both cities are incredibly diverse in culture. Pretty much every kind of food, every kind of belief system, every kind of hobby can be found in both places. I never think about Austin’s unique nature much until I travel to other areas and suddenly realize that wait – something’s missing. Or when a friend comes to visit and comments on it.
Oddly, my friend’s comment got me thinking about competitive marketing in the Austin area.
Austin is a colorful and amazing city with a lot of talent to offer. And all of the surrounding cities take on a similar general personality. We’re laid back and friendly here. We don’t take anything too seriously, except our food and our friendships. And our social demographic is influenced by the fact that Austin/Round Rock is considered one of the most educated cities in the US.
There are so many diverse and interesting things that can be marketed or written about here. I figure working for Austin Monthly magazine must be a great job as a writer. Surely fun and rarely boring.
But then I was thinking about niche businesses. How marketing (and writing) changes when you specialize instead of diversify.
Austin’s happenings and culture seem like bountiful writing resources, where there’s a plethora of colorful possibilities – pretty astounding. There’s so much texture and color to explore here, all unified by the fact that is all quirky Austin.
But if I were to try to switch things up, and dedicate a specialized magazine to say – crochet in Austin – suddenly there is no diversification. Because in spite of our colorful and rich stories, Austin is still essentially a small town community. We don’t have the kind of population you see in other cities. Which also means that the amount of crocheters in Austin is pretty small. And hard to find. Or a least, when you need a substantial support system to justify such an endeavor.
That got me thinking. That in marketing you can be specialized, or you can be diversified, but it’s near impossible to be both.
Unless perhaps if you walk the fine tight rope of specializing in being diverse.
I’m the poster child for “Ick, that’s too sweet.” And I love dark chocolate.
The darker the chocolate the better.
My husband jokes that one of these days he’ll come home to find me huddled in a corner, gnawing on a bar of baker’s chocolate.
It’s that serious.
And it’s not a new thing.
I love chocolate. But I am not a chocolate slut.
I am a chocolate snob.
Which is also why it is unlikely that my dear hubby will ever find me gnawing on baker’s chocolate. Most of it doesn’t make the cut for that kind of treat. And I should know. Because making chocolate deserts is a hobby of mine.
I’ve been a fan of good dark chocolate, since childhood. I’m not sure if it started because my Grandma Leona also preferred dark chocolate, and so maybe I decided that because Grandma was cool, then I preferred it too. Or if it was part of my ingrained <ick – I can’t stand über sweet things quirkiness> all along.
The thing is, dark chocolate wasn’t that readily available when I was a kid. Or at least not in my area.
There was Hershey’s Special Dark, which I could sometimes get in a bar, but usually could only find in a bag of Hershey’s Miniatures. Those Miniatures were one of the few types of candy bags my Grandma would ever indulge in. (At least that I ever saw at her house.) And usually only for the holidays.
Special Dark was better than milk chocolate, but it still wasn’t all that good. Maybe the caterpillar that I once found wrapped in a Special Dark bar is what set me seeking in a different direction. (No kidding.) I took it back to the drug store, showed them the worm and his little cocoon inside the wrapper and got my money back.
And maybe I’d already decided that I could wait for better chocolate.
In general, I preferred Nestle Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips. Which, by the way, I swear used to have more cacao than they do today. I mean today, now you see semi-sweet morsels AND dark chocolate morsels for sale at the market. Today they seem much sweeter. And when I make the same deserts I made 18 years ago with the semi, I don’t get the same results. Baugh. Seems I’m not the only one who thinks so.
Then somewhere in my teens, along came Dove and the world became a little brighter.
As I grew older, I explored many brands and flavors. Dark chocolate and chipotle, dark chocolate and green tea, dark chocolate and pomegranate. Among my favorites? Dark chocolate and pecan, dark chocolate and hazelnuts, dark chocolate and caramel, and the ‘ol stand by of dark chocolate and almond.
I know. Not quite as exotic as the others.
And I learned that chocolate, like coffee, has different flavor nuances depending on where it is grown. Guatemalan chocolate is different than Costa Rican chocolate. And btw, I think Godiva is overrated. Except the liquor.
But the ickiest flavor to me is salted chocolate. The only salt that should be allowed in there is the salt in any butter used. That’s it.
And here’s the thing. I recognize that salt can be used to help bring out a flavor, or even to create a spark of interest that wouldn’t otherwise be there.
But today, it seems most ALL the dark chocolate sold in store is salted. If it’s dark, then by golly let’s salt it too. Ugh. And most of the caramel too. If I want dark chocolate covered caramel, I’m extra out of luck. Either the chocolate is salted, or the caramel is. Either one tastes bad. Ocassionally I can find it without.
I supposed I should count my blessings. The flooded market of ocean-water flavored chocolate keeps me from indulging most of the time.
But still, leave me some options people! Those who like salted dark chocolate will still like unsalted dark chocolate.
It’s a binary system. Those who like salted chocolate and those who don’t.
So leave options.
It’s a win-win. And everyone gets to have chocolate.
Hopefully one day I’ll be telling stories to my grand-kids about how all the chocolate companies used to salt dark chocolate candies all the time. Kinda like how Coca-Cola tried to replace a winning product with New Coke.
And the kids will be all like, “Ewww, Grandma, for real?”
“Yep,” I’ll say, “For real.”
“But Grandma, how did you survive it?”
And I’ll simply say, “Well kids, therein lies the lesson. Learn to make your own.”
Today a friend shared her experience with reuniting a lost dog with his family.
She noticed him on the side of the road on the way to the store and again on the way back.
So she stopped.
He was exhausted and dehydrated. He’d run his pads off.
She called the local shelter, who contacted an owner looking for the very same dog.
And she stayed with him until they were reunited.
An ordinary person. Making a difference to an ordinary dog and his family.
It’s easy to think that we don’t have time.
Or to think that we have no real impact in the world.
If I were to disappear tomorrow, the world would continue without me.
So why be bothered? Why worry?
But small random acts of kindness by ordinary people can make a difference to other ordinary people.
It is such as these that make for heroes.
Because now someone’s life and reality is different.
Now that future has shifted for the better.
And they’ll never forget the experience of kindness.
This is how we teach and mold a better society.
And this is why ordinary people matter.
I know I shan’t forget my teachers.
I try to learn something new every day.
And while today has most certainly been a weird day, it hasn’t been lacking in introducing me to new data.
I have finally been able to put to rest my un-ease about the word “buttload.”
As a kid, it always seemed like such an odd descriptor.
What the heck did it really mean?
Was it an insult to someone’s backside?
Was it related to loads carried by Buoyancy Operated Aquatic Transports?
According to Wikipedia’s Glossary of Wine Making Terms (and a few other sources), a butt is “an old English unit of wine casks, equal to about 477 liters (126 US gallons/105 imperial gallons).”
Revealing new perspective to the word “buttload!”
I’m not sure if it’s smaller or larger than what I originally thought.
But there you go.
Go forth into the world one word wiser.🙂
Relationships. Goals. Values. Love.
It all matters. And it all requires nourishing.
I was struck last night by an article titled, “Don’t F* Up The Culture,” written by Brian Chesky, CEO of Airbnb.
I’m not much into use of profanity for shock value, except in distinct circumstances where it really helps illustrate a point. And here it definitely does.
Brian touches on the sentiments of an investor who sees that all too often, a great thing goes wrong when it gets too big. Brian then presents his own exploration into how he could make sure that his own company did not fall into this same pit of disappointment.
And he brought it all down to culture.
While I agree that culture is the vehicle, it takes the values at the core to create a culture around. A point he illustrated well.
Brian had some striking things to say. Here’s what stood out to me most:
“…Culture is what creates the foundation for all future innovation. If you break the culture, you break the machine that creates your products.”
“…We build culture… by upholding our core values in everything we do. Culture is a thousand things, a thousand times. It’s living the core values when you hire; when you write an email; when you are working on a project; when you are walking in the hall. We have the power, by living the values, to build the culture. We also have the power, by breaking the values, to f* up the culture. Each one of us has this opportunity, this burden.”
“The stronger the culture, the less corporate process a company needs. When the culture is strong, you can trust everyone to do the right thing. People can be independent and autonomous.”
“Ever notice how families or tribes don’t require much process? That is because there is such a strong trust and culture that it supersedes any process. In organizations (or even in a society) where culture is weak, you need an abundance of heavy, precise rules and processes.”
– Brian Chesky, CEO of Airbnb
A thousand things, a thousand times.
It creates the foundation for the future.
When it’s strong, you can trust everyone to do the right thing.
When it’s weak, you need an abundance of rules and strict processes.
And it struck me how perfectly this illustrates our human need to:
Everything in life is cycles and flow. But it all requires nourishment and commitment to keep going.
Our relationships. Our skills. Our bodies. Our money. Our society. Our trust.
Everything requires investment in order for it to be anchored and remain. It requires loyalty to ideals and to each other. It requires flexibility for flow and breathing room, while still maintaining a core of strength that is never compromised.
The perfect system.
I don’t know. Seems Brian strikes an important tone to give attention to.
Maybe you’ll agree?
Yeah, no kidding!
My daughter ran right smack into a squid, left flopped over the edge of a toilet seat in the bathroom at her college.
No one seems to know where he came from.
Though I wonder if anyone checked the ceiling…
And I bet Biology has an idea…
The funny thing is, my daughter mused thus:
“Now, no matter how bad your week ends up being, whether you have tests and papers and work to do… It doesn’t matter, because you’ll end up thinking about that squid and you’ll start laughing. Because, you know – SQUID! There was a squid in the bathroom, and that’s ridiculous.” – Jack Chambers
See you on the flip side Mr. Squiggles.
“I am a leaf on the wind; watch how I soar.” – Wash, Firefly
This is me.
But not in the way you probably think.
I am the chronic overachiever.
The one who commits to too much.
Who steps out and says – sure! I can help you with that!
I can take that on! I’ll be happy to sit down and help you figure this out.
I barely realize my actions, because I’m so into the heart of it.
I catch the current and hitch a ride.
And then I’m Super Man for a while.
Soaring over Capital “T” in a single bound.
Awing even myself with what I’m capable of handling.
Of the difference I can make.
Until I can’t.
Until I’m burnt up like an offering to the gods.
What a sweet savor my smoke and ashes make.
Scattering in the wind like snow.
“You know nothing, John Snow.”
Diffused, I lie dormant for while, unable to breathe, unable to move.
Finally everyone backs off because, well… what can you ask of ashes?
Until one day I gather strength and arise reborn.
Only to repeat the cycle.
Each time I am wiser, but to what end?
The pattern reboots.
I level up, with now more zombies to overcome.
The problem is pretty simple actually.
I don’t know how to say no.
I always think I do.
But if that were true, I’d be a race car instead.
Written 11-08-2015, 11:55pm
Copyright © 2015 by Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved.
Once upon a time, I used to do the right and proper thing by coffee.
Putting it in a travel mug when I needed to drive the kids to school.
But not anymore.
Coffee has tamed me enough over the years, that we can now travel together in peace.
Clutched to my heart, I ride today with my favorite morning beverage in a mere mug.
I think it tastes better that way.
What a visage I must be, pulling up to the school.
Hunched over the steering wheel. In my plaid pajamas and winter coat.
Mug clutched to breast bone. Crochet hook pinned back in my hair.
Thankfully neither my kids nor their friends seem to mind.
Piling out of the car I call to them. “Have a good day!”
“I will endeavor to try,” my daughter smiles and wryly returns.
“There is no try. There is only do!” I say.
“Ugh! Go away Mom,” she giggles. “I love you.”
And off she goes, books in hand, chopsticks in hair.
I love you too dear.
Coffee pressed to breast, I pull away smiling.
A little more alert and with a full heart.
I’m such a geek.
I have been nominated by my soul sister, Laurie Wheeler (a.k.a. Fearless Leader of The Crochet Liberation Front) to participate in the Gratitude Challenge for the next 5 days. Each day I am to post 3 things I am thankful for, and then nominate three friends to take on the challenge.
This started on Facebook, but I decided to share it here too. What better way to reboot my blog than with gratitude? Here goes….
1. I am grateful for social media. It sounds like some sort of modern cliché, but the fact remains, be it Facebook, Twitter or Ravelry, I would not be in touch with a whole lot of cool people (and some cool family) if it weren’t for social media. And sometimes that’s what keeps me going. Keeps me praying for others. Helps me to remember.
2. After years of a completely different reality, I’m grateful to now live in a well-built home that isn’t threatening my sanity every day. And there are fish ponds! :) I ♥♥ my house!
3. I’m grateful for work. Nearly every lick of which has been brought my way thanks to a friend and word of mouth somehow. Because the people I know rock. And I will give them my all for believing in me.
Now to pour myself a cup of energy, dust off some courage and get to the day….
Tomorrow, April 10th, 2014 will mark the 35th anniversary of an event that changed my life forever.
When as many as 38 confirmed tornadoes danced the Red River Valley. More destruction from the same weather cell would spill into the next day, affecting parts of Arkansas and Missouri for a total of 59 tornadoes confirmed.
They later called it Terrible Tuesday. Many remember that a mile wide path was carved through Wichita Falls, TX, killing 42 people. But another tornado also came up through the edge of my hometown of Lawton, OK a few hours before. And we lost 3 people too.
I remember it being called an F4 or F5 long ago, but it seems that time has downgraded it in the records to an F3.
They say that particular tornado split into two, possibly three tornadoes after it hit town.
I always get emotional when I remember that day. I was 7 and a half, and I remember the day like last week’s trauma. The jewel green look of the sky when we were at the Safeway grocery store on Ft. Sill Blvd. The way the air tasted, tingly like a weak 9 volt battery playing in the back of your mouth. The way everyone ignored the weather in Oklahoma and went about their business.
You gotta understand. Tornadoes were no unusual thing. However, usually they were small. Maybe they take out a barn or something. Maybe they never touch the ground. Maybe we get a little excitement, but rarely was it that big of a deal.
I remember standing at the back glass door, staring at the heavy rain when we got home. Watching the hail come down and get louder and larger.
My mother worked for the American Red Cross at the time. She helped train folks in disaster preparedness. I’d watched every film our local chapter had to offer at the time. We knew well that the safest place in the home was as close to the center as you could get and away from windows. And we had regular drills at school, filing into the hallways, crouching on our knees with our heads face-down towards the floor and wall, our open textbooks held to cover our necks and heads.
On Monday night before, there was a PTA meeting at Will Rogers Elementary School – the school I attended and lived across the street from. Mom and her director gave a presentation to our school and parents about tornadoes, what to look for, where to go, what to expect. The biggest thing I remembered from that meeting was the Red Cross director talking about hail and rain. He held strings of white beads in front of a poster to represent hail as he described the pattern progression of a storm.
It’s because a tornado sucks everything up.
I stood at our back door, watching the rain and hail get harder and larger. Suddenly it was like a switch had been flicked and there was a stunning moment of silence against the jewel green sky. My mom hung up the phone and yelled “Kids, hit the hallway!”
The hallway in our antique home, a house old enough that it still had some of the gas pipes for lighting in the walls, was a tiny 4-5 foot circle that our bedrooms opened to before spilling into the living room. I grabbed my cat Taffy and my little brother’s hand and we sat down low. There was just enough room for us and mom. She managed to flip the breaker before the first crash.
But I never heard it.
I heard my swing set crash through my bedroom window. Nearly every window in the house broke. The sound of glass and boards flying through our home filled my ears. As did the sounds of my little 5 year old brother screaming as he writhed in my hand and tried to get away to run.
Of course he was scared. I tightened my grip on my brother’s wrist, and suddenly my cat bolted from my arms.
And somewhere, in the middle of all the crashing noises, there was a sudden pounding on our front door, just maybe 20 feet away. Mom got to the door to let my friend Francis in, along with her brother and sister, from across the street. We didn’t get to play real often, and she was a little younger than me, but Francis was one of my best friends. Her father was in the army and her mother was at work, so the kids were home alone that afternoon.
I heard Francis’ sister say over and over, “The table fell on me. The table fell on me!”
One of them was barefoot (or was it two?). And somehow, they made it through the storm and across the street to our house before their home collapsed like a pile of cards.
And then, as they huddled into the tiny circle of our hallway with us, it was over. And somehow, our home filled with debris, none of us were hurt.
Mom had grabbed our radio. An announcer emphatically urged the public not to panic, that reports of a tornado were false. “There is no tornado. There is no tornado.”
Dad had seen the tornado from downtown where he worked, just a few miles away. He raced home. Mom said he kicked in the only undamaged door left in the house. My grandma lived a block away. She saw a board come at her through her hallway and managed to get into the hall closet in time. It would be three days before I saw my cat again, thankfully alive.
Stepping out into the world after that was surreal. Destruction and chaos surrounded our still standing home. We lived on a corner diagonally across the street from my school. Surveying the damage, half the school gym was peeled away and gone. On one side across from our corner, a neighbor’s house was missing its entire roof. Francis’ house on the other side across from our corner was a pile of rubble. And the house across from us next to hers had completely vanished.
Trees, rubble and power-lines were everywhere. The neighbor’s old tall tree beside us just missed crashing through my parents’ bedroom. Our old sycamore tree looked shaved on one side. The apple tree didn’t survive.
Bits of someone else’s swing set were in our yard. Unbroken dishes that didn’t belong to us had miraculously shown up inside our house. Even food had been blown around. For decades our neighbor had a saltine cracker framed that was put through their ceiling. I heard that it finally fell out one year when her husband was fixing the roof.
The day took on an even deeper experience as it was also Passover night for our family. We weren’t Jewish, but our church at the time kept Passover services after sundown on April 10th that year. I forget why it was a day earlier than other Passover services. Some sort of argument about the right way to figure the date.
Normally, children were not allowed at these solemn services. But there would be no babysitter in our home that night.
We were late for the service, but I remember the deacons and other volunteers helping us in. My brother went with my father and I with my mother for the foot washing ceremony. I watched as a woman removed my mother’s shoes and washed away the mud and grass from her feet. I watched as the symbolism impressed itself upon her. Tears were in her eyes and suddenly everything felt raw to me.
Some of our church members drove up from Texas for the service. I heard that one of the families returned to Texas that night to find their home completely gone. They thanked God they were at services instead. Everyone murmured how we were all indeed “passed over.”
I remember sitting in a little diner that night, mom and dad talking, trying to figure out what to do. We couldn’t go home to sleep and we didn’t really have the money to eat out or get a hotel, but there wasn’t any choice in the matter. I remember hearing mom talk about how the mattresses would have to be replaced, that there’ve been cases of glass being embedded in mattresses by tornadoes. The diner had those little juke boxes on the tables. “Don’t Say Goodnight Tonight” was playing at a table nearby. It was really popular back then, but to this day, that song feels like a haunting to me.
To my knowledge, our neighborhood and school district on the edge of town was the only part of town affected. I’ve often wondered how many people were saved thanks to mom and her director’s lecture at our school the night before.
As the weeks would pass, our community would come together to help each other. I remember the American Red Cross bringing relief bags with food and toiletries and the irony of it. Grandpa came and helped my dad fix our roof. The repairs seemed to go on forever. And I remember how a year later, it still seemed like we’d never recover.
Our neighbor who lost his roof fixed up his house and moved away. I can’t remember his name, but I remember that he had red hair and had been so kind. I liked him and was angry that the tornado took him away from us. The new neighbors never could compare.
Francis and her family also moved away and I never saw her again. Never got an address; don’t even know her last name. It felt like injustice and I’ve always wondered about her ever since. I remember when the cranes came to clear away the rubble of her collapsed house. I kept hoping she’d come back. But it was like a curse had fallen on our neighborhood. Her home’s lot remained empty for a long time. And the empty lot left next to Francis’ home (where the whole house had disappeared) remained empty for the longest.
And for years, my brother and I cringed with every swirl of wind, every time the leaves blew into curls, every time a storm pounded our roof. And for years it was hard on our parents too. It took a long time to balance the trauma we all felt. And the financial blow was no small thing.
I would later grow up and move on. But every once in a while, there’s a look in the sky and a taste in the air that throws me back into the memories of a serious 7 year old child who would never forget.
It was national root beer float day today.
So of course homage had to be paid.
As John cleaned root beer from the kitchen floor, with me stuck in the living room with my leg elevated, a Travelocity commercial came on television.
And it dawned on me…
You could totally dub in the sound of a Swiffer Wet Jet mop for a screaming garden gnome.
Everything about success in this life is about “the overcoming” of a variety of things. Overcoming is what growth is.
There are folks who seem to think that if everyone agreed, then all pain would cease to exist and everyone would be happy and successful. That somehow disagreement and a positive atmosphere cannot coexist in the same space.
Disagreement is essentially a growth opportunity to overcome something. Whether that is overcoming our own ignorance by learning new things from a dissenting point of view or overcoming the limitations of a single viewpoint by combining several points of view together into a successful bundle. Whether it’s overcoming by standing our ground in the face of opposition, or simply overcoming the discomfort of being in disagreement itself.
Just because someone disagrees with me or I with them does not mean that harmony does not exist between us. If anything, every opportunity to be shown another viewpoint is exactly that – an opportunity to grow.
Our points of view, our shedding skin cells, the food we eat. We must take life, consume it, digest it and purge it. Or we do not exist. There is always some level of risk, discomfort and disagreement.
Everything in nature bears this cycle. Every choice we make is a reformulation based on what we know and experience up to this point. With every shift of our paradigm, so do we shift… somehow.
And the lesson? That this moment is always about movement and evaluation. We do not stop moving, choosing, shifting and evolving. We do not stop.
Everything is about the overcoming.