Ooey, Gooey

First Posted May 12, 2009

Today I had lunch with my Brother in Law. We try to get together for lunch once every three months or so, nothing fancy or expensive, just good conversation over lunch. Today we ate at Johnnie Beefs. The owner is from Chicago and knows what he’s doing. He also works the counter and gets out to talk to the patrons when the lunch rush dies down. Today I enjoyed the best Chicago style hot dog I’ve had in years. It amazes me how a hot dog with tons of stuff on it like that can instantly take me back to the year I lived in the windy city. I’m actually salivating just thinking about it. Best $3.50 I’ve spent on lunch in months.

But I digress. This has nothing to do with today’s entry.

So over a yummy hot dog, I enjoyed talking with a good friend. We usually talk a lot about business and investing, about our families, about church stuff and whatever else comes to mind. Today I mentioned this blog and he asked a question that kind of took me by surprise. He asked if I was keeping a journal in addition to the blog. I said the blog was my journal right now. We both are journal keepers and discussed the merits of using one. I do feel bad that I don’t write in it as much as I used to. There is something intimate and much more personal about writing in a journal – a bound paper journal to be more specific, and with a nice pen – that you just don’t get in any other way.

I’ve actually given up on the idea of my children someday reading my journals. But I can’t blame anyone for not wanting to. Who wants to read 20 volumes of bad penmanship and grammar where the main subject never gets much done? Actually, maybe one of them will. She’s a voracious reader who downs long, heavy books on a daily basis. Books with no pictures even! I don’t even do that.

But I still think writing a journal is very worthwhile. In them I can work through troubling issues, keep important notes, and also they are a good place to keep track of all the silly things my children often say and do. It was just yesterday that my four year old son was tearing pictures of super heroines out of his coloring book and loudly saying, “ooey, gooey girls,” every time he dropped a sheet on the floor. Isn’t he so cute!? You just keep thinking that, little boy.

So if no one is reading, why write? Well, because it’s good for you, says I. It makes you feel better and helps you think more clearly. If you write long enough something good is probably going to surface, some problem is going to be solved or some important memory is going to be saved forever. So what if no one reads it. At least its saved, right?

This actually wasn’t what I planned on writing about tonight. (Not to mention the plug for Johnny Beefs or telling about my funny kids.) But it’s late and I’m not focusing very well. And besides, since I talked to my bro today at lunch, I’ve already written about 7 pages in my journal. In those pages I did come upon an idea I had planned on sharing. But I’m tired and will do so tomorrow. Until then, good night.

How about you? What are your thoughts on journaling? Do you have a journal, a diary, both, or neither?

Clark

Saving

First Posted May 11th, 2009

A few days ago, I went out to the shed in search of my bike. While I dug through the piles of lawn tools, toys and other bicycles, I noticed a pile of walnuts, very carefully and conscientiously stacked on a shelf near the back of the shed. Squirrels.

At first, I was a bit bugged that a squirrel was hanging out in my shed and using it for his food storage. But, I was also amazed at how resourceful and diligent he was by already getting started on next year’s needs. His example has led me to thinking more about the subject of storage: storage of food and storage of money. This is clearly a little feller that could teach me a thing or two about saving for a rainy day.

I’ve recently mentioned a few friends who are out of work right now. These are hard working, disciplined, intelligent people who would be an asset to any organization. They should have been snatched up within a few days of being on the hunt. But now, months later, they tell me it’s tough to even get an interview, let alone a second interview, or a job.

In addition to being talented, these are also people with mortgages to pay and mouths to feed. Many of them got a severance check when they were let go. In most cases, I’m sure that was spent ten different ways before the end of the month. Some of them had some savings they have fallen back on. But, with no income for a month, or two, or six, I don’t know how long their savings could hold out.

Saving is something I have never been very good at. It seems every time I build up a pile of cash, it quickly gets eaten up by unexpected expenses. Last month it was a car in the shop and about 3 million cavities that needed to be repaired. We do have some investments and other long term or emergency savings but I hope I don’t have to touch that until I retire.

Probably the biggest reason I don’t have much savings is because I have debt: debt from bad investments, debt from our house and car, and some debt on a credit card. But, because it has been our goal for several years to wipe it out as completely and as quickly as we possibly can, we are actually in pretty good control of our debt right now.

The problem with saving is that it takes money to do it. Right now there is very little check remaining at the end of the month. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m so thankful to not be in the opposite position, that I’m almost giddy.) So right now, while saving is less of an option, we are working on spending less and getting rid of things we don’t need or can’t justify the payment on right now. Hopefully that will free up some money to spend on food storage, savings in the bank, and paying down our debt.

I think the best way to get this done is to start small and chip away at it as much and as often as possible. That reminds me of a quote my neighbor across the street uses once in a while, “Think Big, Start Small, Move Fast.” He retired from his job while in his early forties. Something tells me I should be listening carefully to his financial advice.

My backyard neighbor, the squirrel, also clearly understands this strategy. He knows he wants that pile of walnuts to be as big as possible. He’s proven that he is willing to work hard at it and take the time he needs to carry walnuts, one at a time, from who knows where, to build up his pile in my shed. And he does it at a crazy-fast pace all day long.

It’s amazing to me, that when he puts his mind to it, such a little critter can build up such a nice pile in such a short amount of time. “Think Big, Start Small, Move Fast.” Yes, thank you, I think I will.

Mother's Day Lilacs

First Posted May 10th, 2009

I woke early one spring morning more than 25 years ago with a terrible realization. I looked at the clock, it was 7:05 a.m. It was Sunday, so no one would be up for a few hours. Maybe I had time to figure something out. I quietly slid down off the top bunk and got dressed without waking my brothers. It was Mother’s Day and I had to find my mom a gift.

Buying something for her was out of the question for a boy who didn’t see money very often. This gift was going to be homemade. Suddenly, remembering how much she liked the smell of lilac flowers, I decided on a plan, and set off through the neighborhood on a mission.

As I started, I thought it would be easy to find a lilac bush. I even thought I knew exactly where one was, just outside of our sprawling apartment complex. This is one of my earliest memories of being out and alone in the relative quiet of the early morning. The air was cool and the shadows were long as I walked down the street in search of the bush.

It took me longer than expected to reach the spot, and when I got there it wasn’t even a lilac bush at all. I trudged on, wondering if I would even find a lilac bush before having to give up and head back for home. At last, near the point where I had decided I would turn back, I found a lilac bush and cut off a few purple-covered branches with a butter knife.

I don't remember much about the walk home. I don't remember arriving home or giving the simple gift to my mother. In fact, I don't remember any other moment at all from the rest of that entire day. What I do remember though, is that she loved the flowers. Not in the way she always loved any gift I ever gave her. No, this was more definite, more genuine, more sincere. I don't remember the specific moment, but I do remember the way I felt when she received the gift. This was a Mother's Day gift, a Mother’s Day morning I remember only because I had hit on something that felt right. I had done something in my simple way that had made her feel good. And that in turn made me feel good as well.



Every Mother's Day, I remember that morning. I still think about the walk, and remember the sun coming up over the mountain, the birds singing, the quiet, and the good feeling. Also, I remember to give my mother lilacs. Hopefully, not in a boring or monotonous way, but rather as a tradition, that after a few years was just not something that could be ended.

In fact, one year after I gave her the flowers, she specifically requested that I always give her lilacs on Mother's Day. At the time I was irritated with the request since I had always done it anyway. But, through the years I have fallen back on that request in moments when it seemed ridiculous to give the same gift again and again, year after year.

I have tried to be creative with the gift by offering variations such as a lilac scented candle or a note pad with lilacs printed on each page. I have bought potted lilacs and given them as a gift that will keep giving in years to come. One year, when I couldn’t be home for Mother’s day, I carefully packaged some and mailed them to her. Every Mother’s Day since then, including today, one of my brothers reminds me of the rotten, moldy pile of flowers and how excited our mother was to receive the gift.

About three years ago, I found some while shopping for groceries with my family. There they were, all nicely wrapped in a cellophane cone, like so many other bouquets of spring flowers given away this day. It seemed strange, almost wrong to buy them like this, knowing they wouldn’t last very long. If I wanted to, and if I had more time, I could just go down my street and find some hanging over the sidewalk, like I have done so many times before. But time pressures and the ease of the purchase made it a quick and irresistible buy. And so I put them in the cart and told the girls they could hand them to Grandma when we saw her later that day. It was a week early, but it was something I could check off my to-do list and be done with. Besides, the girls were excited, and I was glad to keep the tradition going.

But it wasn’t quite the same. There was no sacrifice, no thought, no long walk, no great feeling. She liked them. She told me so as they were handed to her. She also told me a few days later about how she kept them around too long and enjoyed the smell in her home as long as she could. I can tell she still likes the tradition and hopes it will continue. And it will continue. It has to continue. 28 consecutive Mother's Days is quite tradition for someone who hasn’t held onto many family traditions. This is one worth hanging onto.

That very same Mother’s Day, I happened to be driving with my family, near the neighborhood where this tradition started. I told the children, I would like to show them a place where I had lived for a few months when I was a boy. As we turned the corner onto the wide road that led to the apartment complex, I immediately started looking for the lilac bush from years before. The same lilac bush I had already thought about this very morning. After a moment, we did pass one that seemed familiar, but it wasn’t as large as I would have expected after so many years.

We kept going and eventually turned the last corner into the apartment complex. This was the first time I had been back there since we moved away, almost 25 years earlier. Suddenly there was a flood of memories about the time we spent there. Cool mornings waiting for the bus, hot afternoons swimming in the community pool, evenings in the small grassy area next to our building, kicking the ball back and forth, and the night Kris wandered off and we found him with the help of a big police man.

Among the memories was the thought that everything was basically still exactly the same as it was the summer we moved away. Everything was the same, that is, except for the trees, which had grown large and tall over the years, in some places reaching from one side of the road, easily touching the trees on the opposite side.

I thought again about the Mother's Day tradition of the lilacs. Beautiful, and sweet-smelling as they are, there is only so much variation available when it comes to giving lilacs. But, like the trees of the old neighborhood, among all the sameness is an unmistakable fullness in the tradition. It too has grown large and tall over the years, and has taken on an impressiveness and an importance of its own.



I haven’t bought any lilacs since that day. I have come to understand the tradition is more meaningful when the blossoms are stolen. Sometimes I ask for permission before I cut. If I don’t, I never take anything that isn’t hanging in the public right of way. But, by searching for a lilac bush, by cutting off a few stems by hand, and by gathering the gift the way I did as a young boy, I am better able to reflect on the meaning of the tradition, better able to recognize how much things have changed over the years, and better able to remember how grateful I am for my own mother.

Bridges

First Posted May 9th, 2009

Teri and I met at an amusement park the summer before our senior year of high school. We were introduced by my friend, Shane, who had met Teri and her cousin earlier that night. I got Teri’s phone number and promised her I would call. To be more accurate, what I got was just half of her phone number. Shane remembered the other half. With nothing to write the number down on, we decided it would be safer if we got just one of the girls’ phone numbers, and then each remembered half.

When the park closed, we said goodbye to the girls and headed for home. For an hour and a half we repeated our part of the phone number, over and over to ourselves and to each other. Neither of us wanted to forget our part and let the other down. Randomly, Shane would call out his half, and I would quickly follow up with mine. Finally we arrived home and quickly got the number safely down on paper.

Several times that summer, Shane and I made that long drive from Evanston, Wyoming to Ogden, Utah to see the girls. But, by the end of summer, Shane’s romance was cooling off. Unfortunately for me, my truck was always in the shop and so I depended on Shane for a ride. I thought for sure my relationship with Teri was doomed as well. That is until she introduced Shane to another cousin. Things progressed well and in no time, my ride to Ogden was as good as gold for the next few months.

When you’re a teenager, relationships are complicated enough without adding a 150 mile round trip drive to every date. But Shane and I loved the road and made the trip as often as we could find the time and the money for gas. One cold winter evening, we were hanging out at my house, trying to decide what to do for the next few hours. It was a school night and already dark outside. “Let’s go to Ogden,” one of us wisely suggested. “Sounds good to me,” offered the other. And off we went.

This was a fun little romance that lasted all of my senior year of high school. Then one day, as suddenly as it had began, it was over. My mom’s husband got a job transfer and we were moving to Reno. It was about this same time that Shane also decided it was time he moved back to Boise. At first, I was hoping Teri and I could make it work, but, deep down I knew it would be too hard. 75 miles from Evanston to Ogden was hard enough, I figured 500 miles would be impossible.

All my life I have moved. I hated it. And I also learned to embrace it. I knew I couldn’t stop what was happening, so I always went along as best I could. But, I also ruined a few relationships along the way as well. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized that every time my family moved, I would subconsciously destroy everything I was leaving, burn every bridge, and wreak havoc wherever I could. The only thing I can figure is that I didn’t want the move to hurt me, so somewhere along the way I discovered it was easier to push everyone I loved away from me before I left.

I waited a few days and told her about the upcoming move after my prom. When I told her about the job transfer, we were sitting on a heat radiator, near the back door of the gym. All dressed up in our matching powder blue formal wear, we held each other and talked about how we would make it work. I tried to be nice. I said all the right things. I even deeply wished our relationship could go on. But, I knew it was over. Already, I was beginning to check out as fast as I could. Already, the pyromaniac was hard at work. Already, he was uncontrollably planning how he would torch everything.

Later that night, after going to a friend’s house to watch a movie, Teri and I made the long drive back to Ogden. I got her safely home and immediately started back to Evanston. I thought about how great the last year had been, how much I enjoyed the time we had spent together, how much I would miss her when it was all over. The sun came up as I made my way slowly up the canyon toward home. At times it shined straight into my tired and red eyes. I was sad, angry and lonely. But I knew all these feelings would eventually pass in time.

Teri and I talked a couple times on the phone, but I didn’t see her again before the big move. I just couldn’t do it.

I did see her one other time, about a year later. She was engaged.

Shane and I were in Evanston one weekend, visiting old friends. We decided on a whim to also make a stop in Ogden. It took us a while to find her. We searched all over Ogden for a family member who could tell us where she was. Finally, it was Shane’s old girlfriend who suggested we try Teri at work. We found her behind the customer service counter at the store where she had been working for a few months. Between phone calls and customers, we caught up.

It was great to see her, but it was hard too. We were still friends and still felt the closeness we had enjoyed the year before, but everything was changed now, all twisted around.

I wanted to tell her I was sorry for the way I left town. I wanted to tell her I wished things could have turned out differently. But it didn’t matter anymore, she was gone. We had both moved on and apart from each other.



In the 20 years that followed, I thought about her many times, especially when I took the freeway through Ogden. I remembered the fun times we had in those carefree days of high school. I wondered how she was, if she was still married, if she ever forgave me for the way I ran away.

Two days after signing up for Facebook she sent me an email. “Hey... Is the Clark Graff that went to Evanston High, rode bikes and was also known as Click?” I had forgotten she called me Click. No one has called me Click for more than 20 years.

At first it didn’t really register that it was her. Then, after I got over the initial surprise, it took me a while to decide what I was going to do; should I dig up the past or let it go forever? Late that night, I finally decided that at least I owed her a response. “One and the same,” I confirmed. “How in the world are you!”

“I am awesome!” she replied in her email. “I am excited that it was you!! How are you doing? We have to catch up?”

The question mark at the end of her last sentence threw me. Either it was a mistake, or she was putting the ball squarely in my court. Either way, it was my choice: accept her as a friend, and bridge over the past 20 years, or let it go and never look back.

I decided to catch up with an old friend.



The past few days have been very strange for me. I feel like someone has taken a box that contains my compartmentalized and linear life. They have shaken it up and handed it back to me with a smile that says, "Here you go, figure this one out!" I think I am figuring it out though. The Teri of the past is gone. The Clark she knew is gone as well. For a year we meant everything to each other, and I blew it. She moved on. I moved on. Life moved on.

Now we have the opportunity to start again as good-old, long-lost friends.

Today I emailed her and said I was so sorry for the way I had treated her when I left. I told her I was an idiot for the way I had ended our relationship. I tried to explain that if I burned all bridges and left nothing but ashes, I thought it somehow wouldn't hurt as much. But, I told her, it still did hurt. It hurt us both, and I'm sorry.

She hasn’t replied yet. I hope she can forgive me. We have some rebuilding to do.

Clearly for the First Time

Tonight I was moon walking in the kitchen. Jake and I taught ourselves how to do it on the slippery vinyl floor in the bedroom he and Kris shared. We lived in a modern log cabin, about three miles outside of a tiny little rural community in South Central Idaho. I don’t know why his room had vinyl flooring. It also had a whole wall of shelves, or pigeon holes, as we called them. I hadn’t ever considered it before, but I guess it was originally intended as a storage room.

It’s been over 25 years since we moved from there. In all that time, I have only been back twice. Both times were within a year or two of leaving there and both times I was just driving through on my way to somewhere else.

Actually, one of those times we did stop for a little while. It was about a year after we had moved away. My dad had picked Jake and me up for the summer. We wanted to see the old house. While we were there we dug up the box of hidden treasures we left for the next family to find.

Before we had moved away, we carefully hid this box in the rocky area on the sloping hill below the house. This had been our favorite play area in both summer and winter. Here we had spent many hours playing together.

To help the new residents find the box, I drew a treasure map of sorts and crammed it between two logs in the outside wall of my bedroom. I guess no one ever found the map.

After taking a look at the stuff: a few small toys and an old tennis ball, we buried the box back where we found it. I haven’t been back since.

After we moved away, I quickly lost track of anyone from there that meant anything to me. I’ve meant to go back many times, but just never did. I guess I never had a good enough reason.

I’ve thought a lot about our time there. Cody was born there. Kris was just a little kid. I think he was in Kindergarten and first grade. Lately I’ve thought seriously about going back for a visit. I don’t think I would look anybody up. I was just a kid myself, and it was a long time ago. I don’t suspect many people would even remember me. Mostly I would want to see a few of the old haunts from those years: the store where my mom’s second husband worked, the Chinese restaurant where my friend, Herman, and his family worked and also lived in a small apartment in the back, and the church where we would go every Sunday for meetings and every Tuesday evening for youth activities.

The old Junior High School, where I spent so much of my time as a young teenager, is gone now. I only know that because of the street level pictures on Google Maps. As you look right and click the cursor to the northwest along Locust Street, all you see is a barren spot of ground where the old building once was. This is where learned I loved making art, where I learned about writing, where I took photos as the yearbook photographer, and where I first got the nerve to ask someone to be my girlfriend.

I would also like to drive down the main drag, Broadway Avenue, as it makes it’s long, angled run from one corner of town to the other. The first time I rode in a car down this stretch of road, boasting the one and only stop light in the entire town, I dropped something on the floor just as we passed the downtown area. I found it and looked up just as my mother asked what we thought of downtown. In those few seconds of rummaging on the floor of our car, I had completely missed all of it.

The next time I drive that road, I will pay more attention through the middle of town. I will look especially hard for the small optometrist’s office where, for the first time in my life, I saw clearly. I vividly remember putting on my glasses for the very first time and looking out into the street through the large glass windows on the front of the doctor’s office. There, on the far side of the street, I could clearly make out the details of the Ropers clothing store. Later that night, I stood outside my house in the dark and marveled at the billions of stars in the sky above. Before that day, I didn’t know I couldn’t see.

But even with my new glasses I couldn’t see what damage I was causing to my second brother, Kris. Something changed between him and me in this little town. At first things were fine. He was a great little kid and we all got along great. In no time at all that was all gone.

Maybe part of it was that he was still a little kid and I was suddenly in my early teens. Maybe part of it was that I was jealous of him and the relationship he had with his dad.

I was the hard-to-understand-step-child, while Kris was his dad’s “Little Buddy.” He was “Little Skiing Buddy, Little Boating Buddy, Little Work Buddy,” and more. I admit I resented it. And, sadly, Kris, who deserved it least, was the one that felt the brunt of my resentment and frustration. Not that I ever took it out on him physically; that would have been too dangerous for me. No, I took it out on him in far worse, far more damaging ways; Kris was my target for alienation, for taunting, and at times, even for ridicule. For many reasons, real and imagined, I hated his dad, and Kris paid the price for that hatred.

Though we eventually overcame our differences, Kris and I never really became the friends I wish we could have been. We never had enough time to grow up and get to know each other as adults. I never got the chance to apologize to him for all the hurt I had caused him.

It was ten years ago today that he took his last breath. In the days after Kris died, I spent many hours on my knees, begging to be forgiven for the damage I caused to my brother, damage that changed the very course of his life, damage that indirectly lead to his untimely death.

There are so many analogies in this little, loaded essay that might be applied to my relationship with this brother. In fact, each analogy could probably also be applied, respectively, to the relationships I have with each of my brothers, and perhaps even my sons. But on this anniversary, ten long years since he left us, each analogy seems to me only a trite cliché that reaches for something that can never be had between Kris and I, and, perhaps something that does not need to be had.

I believe Kris has forgiven me. I believe too, that God has forgiven me as well. But, I also know that if was to alienate another person in the way I did Kris, I would never be able to forgive myself again. Now is the time to forever close the circle of anger, frustration and hatred that started in this small town in Idaho. Now is the time to begin a new tradition, based on love, caring, and selfless acceptance of the ideas, actions and individualities of the persons in my life today.

Someday I will go back to the small town where I first lost my brother Kris. I would like to again explore the rocky hills and open fields where we played together as children. But, in reality, I know already what I’ll find there, buried in the soil of my memories; little tidbits to guide me through my life. And from those treasured remembrances, I will draw lessons, which I hope always will help me understand my life more clearly.

Children, Start Your Engines!

First Posted May 5th, 2009

Behind me, a bunch of 4 year old children are making a mess of my house. Today is the official party for our 4th child. I say, official, because this is his third party so far this birthday. The first one was a couple weeks ago. It was for him and two of his friends who are all about the same age. They all went to McDonalds for breakfast with about 10 of their buddies. Then, a few days ago was party number two. This one was on his actual birthday. Only immediate family members were invited to that one. This was the boring one: no theme, no friends, no cake, no foo foo dripping off the walls.

My wife loves children’s parties. She is the queen of party planning - and she does it well. This one is a Racecar Party. We have giant cardboard cutouts, banners, hats, cupcake toppers, a black and white checkered table cloth, and music from the Disney movie, Cars, (of course) playing in the background. I’m always amazed what she can do with a $100 budget and a whole lot of creativity.

In May we had two themed Parties. One was Indian Jones and the other was golfing – a hole in one party for the babies first birthday. The Indiana Jones Party was over the top. But, I have to say, I helped feed the OCD on that one. We had so much stuff for the boys to do that we needed an itinerary with times off to the side. That one started with an obstacle course through our yard. We had a rope swing, three bridges and a gauntlet the boys had to run through. I was pleased to watch our 6 year old daughter kick a bunch of 9 year old boys’ behinds and get the best time on the course.

That party ended at the library, the last leg of our treasure hunt. The kids had been about a mile, through the center of town, deciphering poems and clues, leading them in turn to the next one. The boys found the book in the hold section, reserved in the name of Jones, Indiana. They opened it to find a key. They took the key to the information desk. The librarian was great. “You found the KEY!” She took the key in back and came out with a package. The boys took the package outside and found a treasure chest full of a bunch of candy and junk. It was great.

Somehow the racecars aren’t doing it for me. Maybe I’ve just been to enough parties for one week. But to the party I must go, I’m in charge of making sandwiches for the little racers.

I wonder if we have a cookie cutter shaped like a racecar . . .

By Small and Simple Things

First posted May 2nd, 2009

Great forces are at work in my life right now. Over the past week or ten days, several small things have added up, creating an energy that is potentially life changing. I say, potentially, because the choice is mine.

It’s as if I have been hiking in the woods, near the base of a great mountain. I have been on an easy, relatively flat, and well-worn path. For some time I’ve walked along, knowing there were other paths, but feeling content for now with the one I was on.

When you’re a kid, all you think about is getting to the peak of the mountain. You think about it all the time. You see it there, in front of you, but don’t really know how to get there. You run everywhere, recklessly looking for the gondola that will whisk you to the top, all the time using up energy that could be spent moving you higher on the hill.

In time you wonder if there really is a gondola. You tell yourself that even if there is one, it must be reserved for people who were handed a ticket at some point. And you were not given a ticket. You get tired of looking for the gondola. You even stop looking up at the peak. It hurts too much to know you aren’t going to get there. You chose a trail that works for you, and over time, you don't think about it much anymore.

Over the years, I have grown to genuinely enjoy the path I’m on. It helps that I often take time to enjoy the trees and birds and flowers. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of some majestic, wild animal crashing through the brush. And, as often as I can, I sit quietly to enjoy an exquisite sunset. Perhaps ironically, it’s because of these quiet times that I have come again to think about other trails. I don’t want anything too steep, but I think I can do more than I’m doing.

This week, another path came slowly into view. Several small things combined to show me of its existence: a broken stick here, a stack of stones there, a sound in the distance, and a footprint near the edge of the trail. All of these things, working harmoniously together, helped me to look up from the path I was on.

It would take too long to catalog all the items here, and really they don’t even all make sense to me. But somehow, they all came together in a single week and have shown me that if I will work a little harder, and if I will move a little faster, I can change the path I'm on. And in changing paths, I will also change the angle of my assent. Maybe the angle difference is only a degree or two more, but over time, it will make the greatest difference in where I eventually arrive.

Great forces are at work in my life. The decision is now up to me.