Category: Adventures
28May
I’ve fallen considerably short of my Project 52 Goal. But, what I have done is discovered a lot about the Why behind my writing.
The most illuminating discovery is that I write as a creative last resort. If I find a creative outlet elsewhere, my need to write diminishes rapidly. There is a bit of irony in that writing awakens other creative desires and thereby destroys my own need of it. But there is a lot of comfort that at the root of everything I want to create dwells the word.
I enjoy writing. I wasn’t sure I would when I started the project but digging up stories from inside turns out to be a pleasurable experience. As such, I will continue the initial project but shed the time constraints I originally placed on it.
The biggest obstacle to my writing is also, sadly, writing. I write about 1000 words a day as part of my work. Sometimes less, most times more. Of course, this isn’t polished prose or a finely (or even poorly) crafted story. They are hard fought words. They are the words that survive.
When I write an email, a company blog post, a forum response, or anything in an official capacity I typically try to be as brief as possible. Brevity is my watch word. I don’t claim I succeed, its just my goal. As such, I will often rewrite an important email six or seven times to see how much I can eliminate in an effort to clarify my intent. I would say I do this for about 1 in 10 emails. Email is just an example. This is true of just about everything I write professionally.
This is taxing.
I can see in my stories that this style and skill emerges. I don’t have enough experience in creative writing to know whether its good or bad, for me it just is. I’m at peace with it. I just need to internalize and except that this is a taxing way to write.
I have friends and I’ve read in many an essay where people describe the act of writing as therapeutic. This is not true for me. I have no desire to expose my internal monologue in written form. I’m not referring to blogging, but to writing in general. I would much rather work things out as a sketch, in prayer, or in talking to a trusted friend. Most preferable is finding quiet time to open my heart to my wife, who takes such excellent care of me.
In order to write effectively, both on this blog and at work, I need to have already taken care of my demons as it were. The pen does nothing for them.
Writing does turn out to be an effective way to solve a problem. When I’ve clarified an issue internally, writing provides a great platform for exploring solutions. In this case, analog writing awakens a part of my brain that the keyboard does not. This is so true for me that I purchased a Bertha Whiteyboard for my office along with an assortment of colored pens.
My work week typically starts by covering a good 4 or 5 feet of physical wall space with notes, brainstorms, and other important squiggles. I’ve tried this process digitally, with some success, but good ol’ analog is still king for that kind of written problem solving. I analyze Bertha, and put all her important bits into Taskpaper or Omnifocus (TP for immediate, but less complicated projects, OF for longer term projects that also require other digital assets).
I get the greatest joy from writing when it is personal and met to be shared with a small group I know well or a specific individual. The writing I am most pleased with is the writing I do for my wife. I am ashamed to say this does not happen very often. My public writing would improve tenfold if I could figure out how to inject the joy I get from private correspondence into public form.
Part of the issue is fear. I fear that I will be misunderstood or worse yet, misinterpreted. I have a fear that people will come to conclusions about EllisLab, about me personally, and generally succumb to the temptation of an easy conclusion.
Intellectually I know this fear is unfounded. Its been my experience at EllisLab, even before I was an employee, that the web community at large does not do this. Comments on YouTube, Gizmodo, and other such sites may lead one to believe otherwise, but those are the outliers, not the norm. If there is one thing about my job that never ceases to amaze me, it is the authenticity that can be found in online communication. I do not think it rare. It is my experience that it is instead well hidden. It is also uncelebrated, which I find troubling.
Also, I have no love for editing. Bless all of you who do.
If you made it this far, you may thank Kenny Meyers, who posed a question to me via email that prompted the SFD of this post.
16Apr
In which I say goodbye to my companion of ten years.
Oscar the Mighty Boxer passed away quietly in his sleep early Friday morning, April 16th, 2010. He was nine and half years old. When I returned home from the office Thursday evening he met me at the door, his usual exuberant self, full of life and needing food. Later that evening he took a spill. We thought his somewhat lame leg had tripped him up (sometimes happens, often with hilarious results) but now I’m fairly sure it was a heart attack that led to a blood clot.
After the spill I thought he had sprained his leg again and that was the reason for his sullen demeanor the rest of the evening. But I knew something was wrong and the poor guy was hurting. He kept me company in my office until 12:30am or so. I helped him outside to go do his business, then helped him back in. He stood in the garage looking up at me and I knew there was no way he was going to take his usual hike over Gracie (our Great Dane) to get to his bed. So I got it for him, placed it at his feet, and said good night. I intended to call the vet first thing in the morning to have the leg looked at (again).
I awoke and got into my usual routine. I started my coffee on the stove and headed out to the garage to see my dogs. I stepped through the door, took one look at Oscar, and knew he had passed away. Oscar was stretched out across his blue mat, teeth in his typical “dream boxer smile”. Gracie looked up at me with big eyes, not quite knowing what to do. I let her out.
The rest of the morning was a blur of the necessary phone calls to take care of the body and then introducing the reality of death to my daughter Sophia in a tangible way. It was a sad, but redemptive day. My daily companion of nearly ten years was gone.
Later that morning as I drove to meet my family at the Play Gym, I “saw” my dog one last time. He came bounding up next to my car, tongue hanging out in its wild way, slobber streaming behind him as he sped passed me in full gallop. He dashed passed the car and disappeared into the sky without looking back. Yup. That’s my dog.
I don’t pretend for a moment to explain this experience. Was it spiritual? Was it a trick of the mind to help me deal with things? Some of A, some of B? I just know that it was a tangible experience that gave me a big smile and helped me send Oscar on his way. This is not an invitation for people to explain it. I’m perfectly content with this mystery being what it is.
There are literally hundreds of stories I could tell about Oscar but I only feel the need to tell the first one.
I first met Oscar at a Pet Smart in San Bernardino, California. It was an adoption weekend and I’d been looking for a dog, a boxer specifically, for about two months. I had researched dogs thoroughly. By this I mean I had scoured the net for dog breed information, taken quizzes that supposedly match a person to the best breed, purchased three books along with smattering of magazines, and talked to numerous dog owners. I tend to be thorough.
The research led me to three breeds, the Great Dane, the Mastiff, and the Boxer. All three breeds are known to be loyal, but not overtly aggressive. They are all family friendly and can entertain themselves. I was single, without a steady job, and pretty much making rent by the skin of my teeth every month. But I needed a dog. I decided on the boxer because it was the smallest of three and therefore the breed that was most likely to be allowed in a rental.
Oscar was in a small, beige crate, under the table where the adoption volunteer sat. I almost missed him, but I heard a growl and looked under the table. There he was. I inquired about adopting him and was informed that he wasn’t up for adoption until next week. They were just getting him used to the noise.
Next week I showed up as soon as the doors opened and put in an application to adopt him. The lady was not keen on giving him to me. She told me “single, male guys in their late teens, early twenties make the worst dog owners. We get the most reports of abuse and returns from that. So, I’ll take your application but its unlikely you’ll get him. We prefer that dogs, especially a pure bred, go to families.”
Exchanges like this don’t phase me. Dealing with obstacles is something I’ve done since I was old enough to talk, and therefore negotiate. Instead of challenging Linda (I don’t remember her actual name), I simply asked about the puppy’s story. This caught Linda off guard. She was geared up for an argument and instead got a conversation.
The puppy under the desk, which I already thought of as my dog, had been donated by a vet along with two brothers and a sister. The other pups had already been adopted, only this one remained. The vet had the pups because the original owners had been evicted from their home and instead of taking the pups to the pound, donated them to the vet and the vet donated them to Pet Smart. I thanked Linda for her time, thanked her for accepting the application despite her reservations, and said I’d be back next week.
Six days proved to be enough time to gather three letters of recommendation, a tactic I knew would catch Linda off guard.
Saturday I strode back into Pet Smart, found Linda, smiled big, and handed over recommendation letters vouching for my character and ability to care for my possessions. They were written by a youth paster, an older adult mentor, and my Mom. The boxer was still available, Linda was still skeptical, and I still wasn’t phased. Again I roped Linda into a conversation, this time about herself. How long had she been helping Pet Smart? What pets did she own? What advice did she give to new dog owners? I thanked her for her time and said I’d be back the following week.
Next Saturday Linda said hello to me first. Before I could say anything or potentially hand her more letters, she said that if she didn’t receive any better applications that day, I could adopt the dog. I can still remember trying to contain my excitement.
True to her word Linda called me on Wednesday and by Friday “my dog” had become “Oscar” (named after my Grandfather Torkelson) and we were off to the park for an afternoon of running, wrestling, sleeping, and generally having a splendid first day.
For the next ten years Oscar was with me almost constantly. He helped me survive two hard breakups, three job transitions, finding the woman of my dreams, moving to Nebraska, two daughters, a Great Dane (his biggest challenge), and finally a move to Bend, Oregon. That doesn’t really begin to describe it though.
Oscar saw me become a man. Not only that, he was a significant part of the process. He had a warrior heart, vigilant, gracious, unwavering in the face of evil, and unwilling to settle for anything. If it could be obtained through determination and effort, he obtained it. No fence, chain, collar, harness, yard, dog, or obstacle could hold him when he set his will against it. He always served me faithfully, but I was never his master. Never.
Oscar my old friend, nothing in life could hold you. I have no reason to believe death will either. Thank you for everything. Spending ten years with you changed me and I am the better for it.
25Mar
“An adventure in which a family of squirrels is saved from being died.”
“Daddy, Daddy, come on! Sit down. I’m going to do a show for you.” The playwright, director, and actor is my eldest daughter Sophia who at three years and six months of life is busy mastering the art of storytelling.
She stands in front of me looking up. Her smiling, blue-green eyes demand my attention. They are overflowing with joy. Sophia is not asking that I watch her show. It is a command. This is not optional.
“What kind of show are you putting on today?” I ask.
“Oh, it is about Lightening and Vanille going to rescue Hope, that boy, because, he, he’d lost himself in the forest and its full of scary monsters and exciting beasts. I have my Savior outfit on, see? Sit down. I’m going to start.”
I sit down on the bench. This bench was built by Laura’s father Earl. Its solid and sturdy and beautiful in its rough way. Laura grew up sleeping on this bench. It has a family history. I’ve kissed Laura many times here.
The bench is in our small living room. In the center a kid’s trampoline dominates the hardwood floor. Netting rises up from the trampoline forming a see-through castle wall. There is a half-circle door. Sophia expertly unzips it and climbs in.
Sophia’s Savior Outfit consists of a cowgirl vest and skirt, gifts from her Grandma Jill (my mother). Its blue denim, stars, and tassels bring to mind years of childhood games past. She’s wearing her green rubber rain boots, which have dragon faces on them. She is Louis L’Amour meets Tolkien, a glorious clash of myths topped with messy dark blonde hair.
“Ready Daddy?”
“Yes, start the show!”
Sophia jumps and twirls. She executes a full 360 and lands on her bottom, jumps back up, stands on one leg and launches into another half twirl. Her hands power in all directions moved by frenetic arms. Her capacity to move in awkward, yet beautiful ways is amazing.
I notice she’s in incredible shape. I’m fairly sure I could not move with that much energy and movement on a trampoline for 15 minutes, even stopping to catch my breath now and again like she does.
She tells a complete story during the show. Lightening and Vanille are in the forest going after Hope. These, by the way, are characters from Final Fantasy XIII, a video game she loves playing with me. Along the way they meet a dolphin, a giraffe, and a family of squirrels who are worried about being died. So Lightening and Vanille take a detour to save the squirrels from being died.
I lose the plot after this but at the very end there is a joyous reunion between Lightening, who is the mother, Vanille, who is the sister, and Hope who is the brother. They are all very glad to have found each other again and not one of them is died. Being died is a new concept to her, one she is aggressively working through.
Then, dramatically, a dragon swoops in and carries Hope off. Again. We’re always losing Hope and going after it. I swear I’m not making this up. This is not an intentional metaphor.
Its supper time Mommy informs us. Rescuing Hope will need to wait until bath time. Perhaps the Dragon took Hope out to sea? Sophia immediately picks up on the idea and soon she is lost in telling us about what her next show will be about.
Sophia, rescuer of Hope, I’m very much looking forward to it.
16Feb
“Her name was Darlene. She had beautiful brown skin and an attitude that set things on fire. She set the stage for my love affair with coffee.”
I went to a private Christian academy where we did not have “dances.” Instead we had Formals. But they served the same purpose. At the most awkward stage of life we’re supposed to ask out someone and have a grand evening together with our class mates.
I’d never really been on a date before but for some odd reason I resolved to go to the Formal my Freshmen year. I had my eye on Darlene, a short, spicy, hispanic girl that was always up to something mischievous. A good friend of mine also wanted to ask Darlene out. After basketball one morning I told Dan “you have two weeks to ask her to the formal. If you don’t, I’m going to.”
He didn’t. So I gathered all the courage my nerdy heart could muster and asked Darlene. She said yes. Dan was mad. I didn’t care.
I spent the next few weeks in awkward conversations with Darlene. We enjoyed each others company but I could tell that the chemistry wasn’t there for anything more than friendship.
Neither Darlene or I could drive so we took the bus to the formal. I had a tux and she had an elegant black dress. We had a great ride on the way over to… you know I actually don’t remember where the formal was held. It was probably in some fancy hotel in Los Angeles. But I do remember the room.
The ball room was magnificent, filled with long, narrow tables ladened with silverware and napkins folded in fancy, grown up ways. We all sat down and the nervousness dissipated in favor friendly conversion and a good time.
A waiter came to the table and asked if we would like some coffee. Darlene perked up and said “oh yes please, gimmie” in a way only a freshmen high school girl can get away with.
I hesitated. I’d never had coffee. Further, the particular Christian denomination I grew up in frowned upon coffee. Frankly, I was surprised it was offered at all. The waiter may as well have offered me a beer or a shot of vodka.
The waiter poured Darlene a cup. It was a deep black and the steam drifted slowly up into the air, disappearing in a alluring way. It was seductive.
“Yes, please. I’ll have a cup.” I tried to say it like I’d had coffee all my life and that this was routine. But I think it was obvious I’d never had the stuff before.
I took a sip. I can still remember the deep, foreign flavor of it. It was earthy, sharp, and very bitter. My body loved it, my tongue didn’t know what to do with it. I set the cup back down and just starred at it. I took another sip. I let it sink in. This was good. This was complex. This wasn’t easy. This was love.
My friends told me later that Darlene was hoping I’d ask her to be my girlfriend but I never did. I think the coffee had a lot to do with that.
In coffee I had discovered a new, adult world. It was a first step into something I knew nothing about. I didn’t want a girlfriend, I wanted to know more about this world that produced a drink so disturbingly good. There was a mystery there that I knew was important to figure out first. If I could understand coffee, I had a shot at understanding relationships.
Years later I am a coffee snob, no doubt about it. I hand grind my coffee, carefully eyeing the fineness of the grind before adding it to stove top moka maker. I only use fresh roasted coffee from local shops that know how to roast. I get to know the roast masters personally so I can be sure that they know what they are doing.
I like my coffee complex, hot, spicy, with a delicate finish. Drinking coffee let’s me experience good conquering evil, a victory on the tongue with each sip. I never settle for lesser coffee, even if its free. Its not about the caffeine.
My marriage is like this, only better. I’m a marriage snob of sorts. I’ve taken the time to know what I’m doing. I never settle, even if its easier.
Like my coffee, my marriage is exquisite. I take as much care with the details of everyday life with The Best Wife Ever (Hi Laura!) as I do preparing my patented Diablo Mocha. Each day is a small victory that makes life with her all the better.
23Jan
“In which I become a Titan and give the Fat Dragon a sound thrashing.”
My wife, Laura, set me up with a personal trainer three Christmases ago. At my first appointment, Kael asked me what I wanted from working out.
“All I want is to not be fat again,” I told her. She laughed.
“That’s not going to work! For this to stick, you need to know who you want to be.” Kael said it very kindly, with confidence, and in a tone that also made clear there was to be no argument about this.
I felt lost. I truly didn’t know what else to want. I told her my story. Kael pulled a pencil out of her pony tail and began taking some notes. She stopped me a few times to ask questions as I went along. Then she smiled, with a look of determination in her eye.
“Okay, first thing we’re going to do is get you to a base level of fitness. Once we get there, we can figure out what’s next.”
The following Wednesday, Kael took me through my first routine. I learned about how to stand while holding free weights, how to do a proper crunch, three different kinds of lunges, and what to do with a few of the weight machines as well. The hour flew by and I spent another thirty minutes hounding Kael with question after question, which she answered thoroughly.
On Friday, I went through the workout on my own and my body came to life. For the first time in ever, my body felt right. It was a shy feeling at first, but after a few more sessions with Kael, my body was gaining confidence with every rep, every sit-up, and every minute with a jump rope.
Three months later, Kael asked me to sign up for an outdoor bootcamp and before I knew it I was in class with three middle-aged women and a sixty-five year old woman, all in considerably better shape than I was. The five of us formed an unlikely team. Three times a week we met with Kael outside on a sand volleyball court and worked ourselves silly: sprinting, crawling, running up stairs, lifting weights, and doing everything we could to improve ourselves for those forty-five sand-filled minutes.
I came home sweaty and covered in sand, my body rejoicing. Laura hosed me off outside before I ventured back into the house for a proper shower.
A year later I was in the best shape of my life. I moved my family to Bend, Oregon, kept working out and feeling good, but Kael’s question still haunted me.
“Who do I want to be?”
I confided this story to Patricia, a bootcamp instructor I met in Bend. I’d been working with Patricia for awhile. Like Kael, she laughed at me.
“Leslie, you’re an athlete! Can’t you see that? Your body wants to be an athlete.”
I broke out in a big smile. Patricia was right; I had become an athlete without even realizing it. Then a surprising thing happened. My body spoke up.
“I want to be a Titan.” My body said.
“You mean a big weight lifter?” (I felt weird talking to my body.)
“No. A Titan. The original athletes. The ones who were always ready for battle, capable of handling any physical situation. That’s who I am supposed to be.”
“Okay body, let’s do it.”
So that’s what my body and I are up to. We’re working together to become a Titan. We work on that two to four times a week with an amazing trainer named John over at Elite Fitness along with two other partners. My body and mind are whole and connected for the first time in my life. I want more.
I’m not telling this story to brag or show off. I’m telling this story because there are other people like me. People who need to know that it’s possible. It’s incredibly difficult; it’s absolutely worth it.
The Fat Dragon sometimes shows up and tries to drag me back into the old ways. But now I turn, laugh at him, and he runs away. I usually chase him down and give him a good beating as payback for the decades of abuse because Fat Dragons are easy prey.
