The End of the Bench

1989

Sweat dripped down my face as I leaned over the end of the bench. A weight banged down behind me. Van Halen blared over the speakers. Beside me, two huge men in their late twenties were doing deadlifts. I stared as one of them began his set. 450lbs?

I want to be strong like that.

I laid back to do another set of bench press. One hundred and eighty five pounds. Not much compared to the others in the gym, but it was the most I’d ever done. I managed to lift it seven times, and while I struggled with the last rep, I was careful not to make any noise. I was the kid, the apprentice. I knew my place.

I sat up and looked at the old photos of competitive bodybuilders on the walls. Galaxy 2000 was Welland’s local gym for serious weightlifters. The smell of mold and decay and sweat marked the ancient rubber mats and steel plates scattered across the gym. Families did not work out here. Neither did old men. Even the women had arms the size of my legs.

I loved it.

I’d just turned seventeen, and from the first moment I’d stepped inside the gym, it felt different to me. It reminded me of a library or a book store. A place of possibility and growth and safety. A place where I could challenge myself.

A place to be.

I took a deep breath and leaned back for another set.

2016

I leaned over the end of the bench and wiped my face with a towel. Drake rolled through the speakers. The mirrors gleamed in the dim light. So did the trainers, with their bright red shirts and perky smiles. It wasn’t my kind of gym, but it was steps from my condo. I could make do.

I pounded out a set of eight chest presses and let the dumbbells thud to the floor. The gym had always been a place to forget about the outside world. Forget about my job. Forget about the emotional flotsam in my life. But lately it had become difficult to relax.

                I thought back to my first summer lifting weights and learning the rhythms of the gym. Little did I know that it would become a sacred place for me. A place where I could go when times were hard. A place to remember that time passed and healing came. The gym had seen me through three painful breakups, numerous battles with mental health issues and every form of displacement. Wherever I was, whatever happened, there was always another bench. Always another set to do. Always another weight to rack.

                I rolled the dumbbells into place and grunted as I propped them on my knees. I’d recently finished a book about being present in my life. In it, the author* discussed the importance of staying in the moment, of not getting lost in what was to come or what had happened in the past. It was a challenging idea. How could someone be in one place – physically, mentally and emotionally – when there were so many things that still needed to get done? When my “to-do list” numbered one to infinity? When my personal life felt like a wave pool?

                And even if such a thing was attainable, there were reasons for avoiding the moment. I’d just emerged from a decade long relationship. The memories were painful. Some days they bubbled to the surface, and to face them was hard. So was the understanding that I hadn’t always wanted to be present during that relationship. That I’d been unwilling to confront my unhappiness – our unhappiness – in a healthy way. That for all I’d fought for a good ending, too often I’d closed my eyes during the middle of our story.  

And it wasn’t just a recent phenomenon. I could point to far too many times over the course my life when I’d wanted to be anywhere but “here.” Sometimes it looked like sports. Sometimes it looked like rum. Sometimes it looked like work. The faces changed, but the notion of “escape” remained.   

                And for as much as I’d learned the past year, I still struggled with it.

                Instead of dealing with the bouts of loneliness that had plagued me for most of my life, I preferred to look at my phone and find the latest on my teams, lose myself in my novels or argue an arcane point on Facebook. There was always another world to explore, another place where I could escape the hurt and fear and anger bubbling to the surface.

                This week had been especially tough. Fresh memories of old wounds. Scabs peeled. New dabs of blood on my skin. I’d come to the gym to help me get back to the present. To help me stop running. To help me find the strength to remember that the pain would pass and time would heal.

I replaced the weights on the rack and carried another set over to my bench. A thick guy in his early thirties was doing curls near the back. I walked over.

                “Hey, man. Can I get a spot?” I said.

                “Sure.”

                He strolled with me to the bench and glanced down at the weights. “Wrists or elbows?”

                “Elbows,” I said.

I cleared my mind and took three deep breaths. I’d never lifted this much weight. I let out a loud grunt, and with help from my spotter, managed four clean reps.

The dumbbells thudded to the floor.

                “Thanks, man,” I said, standing.

                He shook his head. “Wow. I hope I’m as strong as you when I’m your age.”

                I smiled at the back handed compliment as he walked away.

How strong was I if I couldn’t relax at my sacred place? If I couldn’t face what I needed to face? If I couldn’t deal with the things that had risen to the surface.

I got a new set of dumbbells as moments from my previous relationship began to scroll through my mind. Moments of laughter. Of joy. And pain.

Relentless and ruthless, it was all I could do to even out my breathing.

Broken promises.

Broken vows.

And brokenness.

I let the memories roll through me as I continued to work out. Continued to breathe. Continued to be. I slumped onto the end of the bench as the film finally rolled to a finish. It would play again, but not today. I stared into the mirror and realized the man looking back at me was smiling, ready for the next exercise.

My smile widened as I leaned back for another set. Listened to the chatter behind me. Felt my hands curl around the steel.

It wasn’t perfect.

But I was here.

And that was something.

  

 *Rob Bell, How To Be Here

               

               

               

New Things

Rain slanted across my windshield as I pulled into Bayview Village. I parked at the edge of the lot. A narrow patch of grass and trees separated my car from the road.

“Well, that’s it for that contract,” I muttered.

I opened the window and lit a cigar. A cigar meant celebration, but I didn’t know if this success I’d enjoyed with this particular contract was something I wanted to celebrate. I didn’t know what to feel.

I’d spent most of my career in and out of schools. The nomadic nature of special needs work – of being brought in to help during crisis and being moved out when the crisis was over – made my job a transient one. I was used to moving on to whatever came next, but this one had been unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

I’d been lucky. Everyone, from the administration to the staff to the students, had been wonderfully accepting and respectful and empathetic for the entire contract. And today, my last day, they’d given me a card. Thanked me for what I’d done. And while I appreciated the gratitude, so rare in its own right, it was the empathy that made it so different.

It was the empathy that had changed everything.

My cell buzzed.

Dee.

I smiled when I read her text and stared back out the window. The leaves had just started to change color, and they danced in the rain, unmoved by the autumn chill.

I answered Dee’s text and sighed. I’d felt it all day. Felt the weight of my last year and the emotions strung along behind them. I felt them tugging at me, threatening to tip me over.

There would be other contracts. Other work. Other schools.

But this one…

My cell buzzed again.

I bit my lips. Trying to explain what it had been like and how this one contract had changed my life seemed impossible. And while Dee got it – she always got it – she hadn’t been there.

No one had.

Six Months Earlier

Sun glimmered red on the horizon as I pulled into the school lot. The trees in the school yard were just starting to get their leaves.  

“New day, new life,” I muttered, repeating a mantra that I’d started using in an attempt to move on from the explosion that had rocked my personal life. The mantra had yet to help.

I used it anyway.

I checked my laptop bag on the front seat. Everything was there. Whatever had happened in my personal life, however much the implosion of my marriage had drained me, I was determined to not let it affect my work. Over the past month I’d started to creep out of the emotional and physical debris – the inevitable result of my wife’s sudden departure – and was determined to start over.

“Just don’t bring it into your work,” I said softly.

I talked more to myself than I ever had, but considering the circumstances, was fairly certain that I hadn’t lost my mind.

Not yet, anyway.

The day went better than expected. The principal was welcoming. So was the rest of the staff. Even better, I did not think about my failed relationship the entire day. The particular case I’d been brought in to work on was too involved, too nuanced, and required my full attention. It wasn’t until I was heading home did I sink into my seat and reflect on the shattered remains of my personal life.

I hadn’t slept much since I’d suddenly become single, but that night I slept better. The days slowly piled into each other. Work was going as well as I’d hoped, and my relationships with the staff had tightened. They were – for me – an unusual bunch, in that they listened more than they spoke. I had determined to keep my private life separate, but time and space and the sheer rawness of my emotions conspired against me.

One day, it finally slipped out.

“Are you married, Stephen?”

“Um, no. My wife left me two months ago.”

Both Heather and Layla, the teacher and CYW I’d been paired with, stared at me. Silence descended on the room. I berated my tongue for its looseness and clamped my mouth shut.

You idiot. What are you doing?

“Oh, Stephen,” Heather said finally. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

I pushed a smile onto my face. “It’s fine. Really.”

I was aghast at my error and swore that I wouldn’t do it again. I managed to keep that vow… for a week.

“I don’t know how you’re doing it,” Heather said the next week, her voice soft with compassion. “I mean, you’re doing a great job, but just to come here and deal with everything… I don’t know how you’re doing it.”

My lips quivered. I didn’t know how I was doing it either. The past two months I’d broken my day into thirty minute segments, all with the hope that time would close the fissure in my heart. I leaned heavily on my friends, who had rallied around me and promised me things would get better.

I was still a mess, however, and as the weeks passed, I shared more often than not. It was strange to come to a new work environment and not only feel welcome and respected in my job, but to find it a place of healing as well. I thanked God for bringing me there. I didn’t deserve the compassion from these almost-strangers, but I was getting it anyway.

By the time the school year ended, my confidence had reached new heights, and the remains of the emotional detonation no longer needed thirty minute intervals. The pain was still there, of course. So too, the hurt and anger and frustration. But the river had been dammed and the waters had begun to settle again.

I was almost myself again.

Almost.

TODAY

I watched the smoke curl up from my cigar and drift out the window. The rain had lightened. A young mother pushed her baby along the sidewalk in front of me. She paused to adjust the covers on the stroller, smiling down at her baby. Tears rimmed my eyes. Emotions played a massive role in our memories. And strong emotions – negative or positive – tagged our past in a way that allowed us to relive it. Learn from it. Bury it. It was a way for humans to hold onto good moments and deal with the ones that hurt the most.

Maybe that’s why my mind felt so jumbled. The school had been a place of healing for me, but it was also a reminder of where I’d been and what I’d gone through. So as much as it had helped me forge a new path, it also allowed line of sight into the most painful time of my life.

I rubbed my eyes. I could feel myself drifting back, remembering what the days had been like, how they’d crawled from one minute to the next, remembering how everywhere I went and everything I did reminded me of her. Reminded me of my failed relationship. Reminded me of my failure.

I still had moments where I berated myself for what had happened, and I still expended effort on “what if” questions, questions that haunted me less, but haunted me still. And yet, time had some done some healing. I could remember the emotions – the pain and hurt and sadness – but I could no longer remember her. Or us. The sun had hidden behind the clouds, and when it had finally emerged, we’d become strangers.

Sometimes I wondered if there’d ever been an “us,” or if that had been a construct. I wondered if every divorced couple asked that question. I wondered if it mattered.

I butted out my cigar. I hadn’t spoken to her in months, so those questions would forever remain unanswered. Maybe it was for the best. Sometimes the clean cut was the only way, even if it was painful. Even if it meant a lot of treatment and care. Even if it meant looking in the mirror and realizing the healing wouldn’t happen unless you had some help.

I thought about Heather and Layla. Thought about the way the rest of the staff had welcomed me. Thought about the principal, who had gone out of her way to praise my work.

My phone buzzed. Dee again.

I read her text and smiled.

My contract had ended, and my time with the best staff I’d ever worked with was over, but it seemed my luck hadn’t changed.

Not yet.

 -Steve

Uncomfortable

YESTERDAY

Sitting on the hard plastic seat was like sitting on concrete. A cold piece of cement wedged into my crotch. Why didn’t they make bikes more comfortable?

“Hey, Steve! You coming?”

I grimaced, but managed to smile as I jerked the handle bars straight. My client, Jerry, wheeled his mountain bike around like he’d been doing it forever.

“You’re slow!” he said.

“I’m coming.”

The group home had a few bikes that the clients were allowed to use, so long as they were accompanied by staff. Today, I was the lucky staff member. I cursed under my breath and began to pedal. It wasn’t even like spin class, and I’d hated spin class. Only the instructor had made it palatable.

The road tilted, and I overcompensated by swinging my handle bars to the right. I missed a parked old Civic by inches.

“Let’s go, Steve!”

I growled and followed my client down one of the back streets. Why was it so hard to pedal? Had I grabbed the only dysfunctional bike the group home owned? Why did people think this was a good idea?

There’d been a time when biking was a lot of fun. Until I’d bought a car. Cars were fun. They had padded seats. They were less complicated. And I never worried about driving into a parked vehicle.

I knew the refrain about riding a bike, about how it got easier and how once you learned how to do it you never forgot.

I could only snort. Yeah. I could do it. But it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

“Hurry up, Steve!”

I didn’t respond. My legs were already burning.

SHELTER

“Are you a cop?”

Three black teenagers stood loosely around a weathered table. We were standing outside. The sun was hot. They wore loose fitting clothes, and the one addressing me had a broad smile on his face.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said, struggling with his thick accent.

The teenager squared his shoulders and imitated a robot. “You a cop? You walk stiff. You have beard. Muscular.”

I shook my head. Smiled. “Nope. Not a cop. Youthworker.”

I was at a homeless shelter for young people. I’d been there for a week. I was the only white face in the entire place, staff included. It held forty five young people between the ages of sixteen and twenty four, and while I liked working there and enjoyed getting to know the kids, it was disconcerting to feel so pale.

I’d written often about privilege, talked about what it meant to be white and male and straight and all the advantages it held in our culture, but it was my first experience being such a distinct minority, if only for a short time.

“My name is Stephen,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it, laughed again, and introduced me to his friends. The shelter’s yard was dingy. A few picnic tables. Sparse brown grass. A rusted fence. Staff had laid out supper on a few tables. Huge silver tins with aluminum foil folded back over each one.

It’s impossible to imagine – with any idea about what it’s really like – to be a minority when you’ve never experienced it. I tasted it for a week, barely, in a work environment where I still held power and could leave to a more “regular environment.” So in a way it hardly counts. But it still gave me a glimpse of the challenges these youths faced, of the challenges that people of different cultures faced when they dared leave their country. I’d seen it before. Seen what happened when minorities spoke up and what it meant for them. What it cost them.

But it was a reminder.

And it was uncomfortable.

HOME

Cars stacked in a traffic jam below my balcony. Rush hour. I shook my head, grateful my work ended early. Sitting in a line of cars was stressful. Especially in a place like Toronto, where movement was tied to both efficiency and success. Hell, all you had to do was listen. You could hear it in the massive steel buildings that scraped the sky and the hundreds of thousands of people who packed the subway, their eyes empty and fully charged. If you weren’t getting ahead, if you weren’t full bore for whatever was next, you either lacked ambition or were falling behind.

And nothing was worse than falling behind.

My last month had felt that way. I’d worked nearly to the point of burnout. My place was a mess. I was still living in boxes. I was struggling to keep up with the bills and laundry and other basic tasks. I was grateful for the work, but it had come at a cost. I was still adjusting. Still learning to push the constant noise of the city to the side.

Still uncomfortable.

COMFORT

“Comfort” means different things to different people in different cultures, but we are all searching for it. Something to do with finding equilibrium about our circumstances. With reduced stress. Something more than just coping. It was a place that I, too, was anxious to find. It’d been a while since I’d experienced it.

We all feel that pull away from discomfort. I’m fine at work, when I’m with my kids, and when I can see the difference I’m making in their life. Or when I’m at the gym. Or when I'm at home, where I can call a friend and toss back a beer and relax. I can, and do, purposely avoid things that make me uncomfortable. I’m human. We’re all wired this way.

And yet, for all that the past couple of months hadn’t been "fun," they'd been rewarding. I’d learned new skills, gained confidence in a way I hadn’t imagined, found myself growing stronger as I faced each challenge – even if the challenge was as mundane as working sixteen of seventeen days without breaking down. I’d dealt with the stress, the discomfort, and the exhaustion. Dealt with it and surpassed my limitations.

That never would have happened if I hadn’t been pushed out of my comfort zone.

One of the great lies of society is that we should measure the status of our life by how we feel. If we “feel” good, which we often translate to ‘safe’ and ‘secure’ and ‘comfortable,’ than things are going well. This is true in everything from relationships to living conditions to our work.

And it is a lie.

Progress – spiritual, mental and physical progress – is never achieved when we are fully at ease. Though we try to avoid these situations, humanity is at its best when it is pushed and stretched and forced into new places.

For all my frustration about the summer, I’d been forced to go farther than I could remember, and my life had changed dramatically.

I wasn’t comfortable. I hadn’t liked it.

But I was better for it.

TODAY

I swiveled my handlebars around and coasted down the street, enjoying the cool breeze on my face. Heat swelled from the asphalt.

“Hey, Jerry? You coming?”

“Yeah!” he said, flashing me a grin as he peddled to keep up.

We passed a number of old houses that looked like they’d been around since the Second World War. One of them looked like it had been burned recently, with a blackened porch and smashed windows. It stood in contrast with the one beside it. A blue Honda Civic glistened in the driveway. Orange and red flowers dotted the porch.  

I twisted past a huge pothole. “So where do you want to go today?”

“Let’s go to the beach.”

 “Are you sure?” I asked him. “There’s a big hill to get there.”

“No problem. I can do it. I’ve done it before.”

I laughed. “Yes. Yes, you have.”

What Do You Want?

When we're young, we're asked this question a lot. What do you want for breakfast? What do you want to do this weekend? What time do you want to leave for your soccer game? We have little control over our environment and our world, so we rely on our parents and guardians. We even rely on them to think of these questions, because the concept of creating our own world isn't feasible.

Eventually we move out. We get a job or go to college. We start our careers. And as life passes, we never think to ask ourselves, except vaguely, the one question that dominated our childhood. Perhaps we find someone, a partner, who is willing to ask us. Perhaps we're motivated enough to go on a retreat or vacation and ask it ourselves.

But most of us forget. Most of us get caught up in the routines of daily life, that unending cycle of busy-ness and business, and what once seemed so important now seems like the question from a children's story. It never strikes us that it's the one question that will dictate who we become.

The Most Important Person in Your Life

Who is the most important person in your life? I'm a Christian, and I know some friends who will say 'Jesus.' Others will point to their spouse, their children, or one of their parents. All of these answers are selfless. All of them speak to generosity and kindness.

And all of them are wrong.

The most important person in your life is you, if only because it is the only life that you control, and it is the only life you can change. Yes, you can have great impact on people around you, whether its your kids or your partner or your friends, but you can't make their decisions for them. You can't create their world, no matter how hard you try.

In psychology they call this 'self-care,' this notion that you have to look after yourself before you can be of use to anyone else. If you don't take care of yourself, if you're miserable, everyone else is going to feel it. That said, most of us don't identify as 'miserable.' If I asked fifty people how they felt about their life, I'd guess that about eighty per cent would say that they're "doing okay." That life was just... life. Most people would consider their complaints 'common' or 'part of life.'

If I were to rephrase the question, however, and ask if their was one thing they wanted. One thing that they could have, all things being equal, I would get a very different response. Why? Because everyone can think of one thing they want -- whether its a vacation to a certain place or a skill they never learned or just more time to themselves -- and when its asked without impinging on what they do for others, its easy to find something. In some ways, it's like asking for a dream, and everyone has a dream or two that never quite panned out.

We Have To Be Practical 

If you had asked me six months ago what I wanted, my answers would have been vague. A healthy marriage. To manage my depression in a positive manner. To be happy. If you had pressed me, I would have said something like selling a lot of books, though I doubted such a thing was possible. (I would have said it apologetically, with a smirk and a shrug, like someone who buys a lottery ticket.)

If you had pressed me further, I would have said that I couldn't control these things, and that I had to be practical.

I would have been wrong.

That is, I would have taken an important truth (I couldn't control certain things) and turned it into a lie. Which is exactly what I did. In turn, it sowed the seeds for the worst year of my life.

Dead In The Alley

I spent most of last year lying prone in a back alley. My depression had kicked me to the ground in a way I'd never experienced. My relationships eroded, some of them souring so badly the damage was permanent. A month ago, I experienced a loss so great, so unexpected, I was no longer certain of anything. If I'd spent the previous year lying in a back alley, this event was the equivalent of someone sticking a knife in my side while I was face down in a puddle.

It was like waking up into a nightmare, where one plus one no longer equaled two. A place where the sun rose in the West, and when it did rise, it burned like gasoline over an open wound. And in this scorched earth, I was forced to re-examine everything. Well, either that, or just give up. However kind I had tried to be, however generous I'd wanted to be, and however concerned I'd been for other humans, none of that seemed to matter.

Life Doesn't Keep Score

Sometimes life hands good people a lot of pain and sometimes it doesn't. Believing that life was unfair was probably true, but it was also unhelpful. I had a choice, made stark by my circumstances. That choice was to get up, find a different approach and do things differently, or wallow in self-pity.

The first week I wallowed. Much as I had the year before, when I didn't understand why the world seemed so dark. I complained bitterly to God about my circumstances, about how it wasn't fair. Why bother being a good person when life was just going to crush me anyway? And yet, somewhere in this vague haze, I heard a single question, over and over.

What Do You Want?

At first, the question enraged me. I wanted what everyone wanted! I wanted to be happy! I wanted a healthy marriage. A job that I liked. A life I could be proud of. The question refused to let go, probing my mind, goading me, angering me.

What Do You Want?

I told you what I want, dammit! I want the same shit everyone else around me already has! All my friends have these incredible lives with great families and nice homes. I want what they have! The voice refused to relent. Refused to leave me alone.

What Do You Want?

Like a child after a tantrum, I remember mentally slumping against the wall of the alley, too tired to fight anymore. And so I thought about it. No more lazy answers. No more vague niceties. Nothing to do but answer the question. And so I did.

The answer was surprisingly simple. I wanted kids, and I wanted to own my own house. Yeah, I know. That doesn't seem like much of a revelation, does it? But my path was unlike that of my friends. I'd been a writer for the past twenty years, an aspiring novelist. My day job was working with special needs kids. I'd never made very much money. Not enough to consider buying a house. Not in one of the most expensive cities in Canada. As for kids, it had always been a dream, but never practical. I didn't make enough money to consider having them. And so much of my life seemed wrapped up in my writing. And yet, as soon as I said, out loud, what I really wanted, the voice left.

We Must Be Practical

The lie I'd believed earlier, that we only controlled certain things, was only a lie in the wrong context. Yes, we only controlled certain things, but we had far more control over our life than we imagined. This was, again, a revelation. By stating aloud (and writing it down) what I really wanted, these two simple goals that were deeply embedded in my subconscious, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders.

Pointing Our Life Towards the Solution

Those two simple goals, difficult but not unattainable, created something I hadn't seen before: a map. They were markers on a board I didn't know existed. Whatever else I wanted -- selling a lot of books, good friendships, a life of giving back -- revolved around those two locations. And with those two goals in place, I was able to start placing other markers. If I wanted a house, especially in this market, I would need to work. A lot. I would need to squeeze out TV and mindless surfing to be able to keep writing. My writing would have to become more efficient. If I wanted a family, I would have to switch my priorities, be willing to make the sacrifices necessary to put children first.

For the first time in a long while, I stopped worrying about the questions and unfairness and complaints about my life and started seeking solutions. Something vague and hopeless had just become a math problem. A challenge. One plus one suddenly equaled two again, and if I didn't have all the answers right away, that was okay. I could do this. It wasn't going to be easy, but I could do it.




First Steps

As I chewed on the end of my pen, poised over my recently acquired "goal" notebook, I realized the first question I needed to address was that of my mental health.This meant understanding what my depression meant, how it worked, and what I needed to do to manage it in a healthy way. Last year I'd been blindsided, but mostly because I lacked the tools to see what was happening. If I was going to stay healthy, I would need those tools, which included professional help, accountability from my friends, and other resources. I could not have a family and go AWOL for a year.

The first thing to go was alcohol. No more drinking. I'd used it to manage my depression, to take the edge off, for the past few years, but the more I drank, the less it worked. Depression makes it difficult to control your emotions, and alcohol is a depressant. It can fool you for an hour or two, but it's an illusion. And it only makes things worse.

So I stopped drinking.

I'd also learned the past year the importance of regular exercise. The endorphins and physiological benefits helped counter my depression and gave me confidence. So I set a goal to work out thirty to sixty minutes every day.

I haven't been in this kind of shape for nearly two decades.

I needed to be more efficient about it, but I still needed to write. I thought about my regular schedule. I tended to be a night owl, but never really accomplished anything after 10:30pm. So I would need to go to bed earlier and get up earlier.

I'm up by 6:30am every day now.

One by one, I was able to draw branches from my two goals and create smaller branches needed to support them. I'd expected the process to be hard. Instead, I found myself motivated. Excited even. The pain of recent events had not diminished, but I was doing the only thing I could do; I was taking control of my life. I couldn't control the people around me. I couldn't control how they responded in certain situations or what they thought about me or the way some would react to this "new"me. And frankly, I didn't care. I was more excited about the possibility of something great than anything anyone might say or do. I had, if unwittingly, created purpose in my life. Something for my compass to point to. I wasn't about to give that up.

There were, and still remain, other questions. Other challenges. I have a new job, and it will be challenging. I will be expected to work in some difficult environments. I will be expected to do some things that make me uncomfortable.

Even that creates one thought: bring it on.

Fear was no longer part of the equation. I could handle it. I'd taken the hardest blows the past year, and I was not only standing, I was creating a new life. If I had learned one thing, it was this: the choices we made dictated our life.

Movie Moments

I've always loved inspirational sports movies. (Rudy is at  the top of the list) I love the scenes that show the hero or heroine getting knocked down and getting back up again. Of course, in a movie, those scenes depicting weeks and months of hard work only last for twenty or thirty minutes. But they inspire me just the same.

Why? Because we have the ability to do that! Because we have more say in our life and who we become and what we attain then we realize. Because we are the ones who determine our life.

E + R = O. Event + Response = Outcome. 

We cannot change the events in our life, but we can change our response. That is what determines the outcome.

What Do YOU Want?

So let me ask you this. What do you want? Take a look at your life, really look, and tell me what it is that's missing. Maybe you're one of the lucky ones. Maybe you have everything you ever wanted. Maybe you can't fathom losing everything or feeling like you were dumped in an alley. Chances are, however, that there is part of your life that feels incomplete. Relationship issues? Familial difficulties? Job problems? Or maybe you want to try that new hobby. Maybe, if you're honest with yourself, you realize that you're just going through the motions. that you 'lost control' of your life a few months ago or a few years ago and have no idea how to get it back.

I know that feeling. I've been there. Hell, I feel like I spent too much of my life there. But if I've learned anything, I've learned that we CAN control our world. We CAN create a new life. New habits. New routines. And yes, it may be painful. It may require more falls, overcoming fears we didn't realize we even had, and thinking about ourselves in a completely new way.

But you can do it. We can do it. We are all so much more than we realize. We are not just a mother or a husband or a friend. We are not just a son or an accountant or a deacon. We are more than a profile on a page. We are beautiful and boundless and limited only by our own expectations. We are unique and special and gifted. And we are all here, together, sharing time and space and relationships, for one purpose: to make this world a little bit better.

I don't have it all figured out, and I'm not writing this to suggest that my new life, my new approach, is easy. It's not. There are days when I am torn about the past year, days I wish I could go back and scream at myself to get off the floor and do something. And there are nights when it is hard to fall asleep, because the goals I've set seem so very far away. Nights when I feel very much alone, as if the whole universe has gone quiet. As if I've set some impossible tasks for myself that won't make a difference.

But those are lies. To get to where we want to go, we have to create new patterns of thought, and consequently new habits, that refute those lies. Dwelling on them does nothing but bring us down, however difficult that is at times. We have no say over our past, all we can control is our future.

So today, before you get into your daily routine, before you set your weekly schedule, might I suggest something? Look in a mirror, look at that beautiful person staring back at you, the one who has been with you through every heartache, every sorrow, and every storm, and ask them this one question.

What do you want?

-Steve

A Ghost From Christmas Future

            I stared at the walls of my apartment and checked my email again. Nothing. How had it gone bad so quickly? Just six months ago, I’d received the phone call I’d been waiting for the past decade. An agent had called – a highly successful agent who had worked with best-selling authors – to tell me he was interested in representing my work. But it had been two months now, and I hadn’t heard from him. I’d tried calling and emailing him, but he hadn’t responded. I glanced up at the calendar above my desk. 2005. I was thirty-two years old. Young by a writer’s standards, but after ten years of hard work, and with the hope of the expected breakthrough, this felt different than the earlier rejections.

            I wandered out onto the balcony. I was a writer, but only by night. During the day I worked at a local high school helping kids with special needs. I loved the kids, but the school life wore me down. I didn’t know if it was the florescent lights or the tediousness of the routine or what it was, but every day I went to school  it felt like my soul was dying. I loved the kids, but my hope of getting off the merry-go-round seemed lost.

            The door to the balcony creaked open, and a man stepped onto it. He looked vaguely familiar. He had a shaved head, and tucked his hands into his pockets as he looked at me.

            “I remember this place,” he said, smiling softly. “Are you still at Florida Fitness?”

            “I, um, yeah.” I probably should have reacted more strongly to a stranger, but as I studied the older man, he looked, well, he looked like me.

            “Who are you?” I said.

            “I’m the ghost from Christmas future, dummy.”

            “You’re me!”

            “Good to see that I was so bright at thirty-two.”

            “I’m thirty-three.”

            “Well, the extra year hasn’t made a difference.”

            “If I’m you…” I paused. It felt like a dream, and I was having a hard time getting my tongue to work properly. “So, I stopped working out, then?”

            “I work out. Just not as often,” he said with a sniff. “I’m busy.”

            “Doing what?”

            He smiled for the first time. “Living the dream. Writing. Happily married. Just published my first book. Three more next year.”

            I slumped down on one of the chairs on my porch. Happily married? I’d married when I was twenty-five, but it had barely lasted a year, though we’d tried to make it last. We’d ended up as friends, but marriage seemed as remote as getting a book deal.

            “So is this a dream?”

            He smiled. It was unnerving to watch your future self smile the same way you did. “Yes. Something like that. Tell me, how are you doing?”

            I didn’t know what to say. “Well, my agent has apparently dropped me. I’m stuck in a job that is mostly soul-sucking. I’m single. I have a few great friends, but…”

            “How are you doing with the depression?” he said.

            “It comes and goes. Some days are harder than others. I thought that this agent might be a way to something better, you know? But…” I shrugged.

            “What are you going to do?” he asked.

            “I-I don’t know. Keep writing, I guess. I don't have much else.”

            He smiled, and I longed for the peace of that smile. My life wasn’t horrible. I had a steady job. I was able to coach. I had a few terrific friends. But I couldn’t replicate that smile. It suggested that more was possible.

            “Keep writing,” he said. “It gets better.”

            “So you’re me?” I asked. “In the future?”

            “Yes.”

            “How old are you? Err, how old am I?”

            “Forty three.”

            I whistled softly.

            “I’m not old, pal,” he said.

            “Yeah, well.” I stopped, not wanting to offend the older version of myself. “Do we have kids?”

            “No.”

            “Why not? Doesn’t everyone your age, well, my age, have kids.”

            “Maybe soon.”

            “But we’re married.” I bit my lip. My ex-wife was a wonderful person, but we’d been bad together. It was not a good memory. “And… and it’s good?”

            He laughed. “Yes. We met the girl of our dreams. We’ve been married for seven years. She’s kind and smart and beautiful.”

            “All right!” I felt a jolt of exhilaration rush through me, only to crash as I thought about my current prospects. “You’re here to tease me, aren’t you?”

            He scrubbed his shaved head. “No. My purpose is to encourage you. Ask me your questions.”

            “I, well, okay. I’m still writing, right?”

            “Yes! You just published your first book. People love it. You have three more due for release this year.”

            “Do I have an agent?”

            He shook his head. “No. Erin recommended that we publish it on our own. The industry has changed, Steve.”

            “Erin Healy?”

            “Yes. We got back in touch with her this year. She still works as an editor, but she’s also a best-selling author now. She read our work and that was her suggestion.”

            “I don’t get it. So we have boxes of books downstairs—”

            “No!” He chortled. “The world has changed. Everything is done digitally now. We publish them ourselves.”

            I struggled to grasp this new idea. Everyone knew that if you published books on your own you were a phony. A charlatan. “So now—”

            “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is that you have talent. And that people like your work.”

            I still didn’t understand what he was saying, not exactly, but I couldn’t ignore the peace that emanated from him in fresh waves.

From me, I reminded myself.

            “Why are you here?” I asked.

            “For a bit of wisdom. You’re hurting right now. You think that life will always be this difficult. That you will always be alone. That your writing will never be good enough.” He moved forward and rested a hand on my shoulder. “We cannot see the future, and no one knows why certain things happen to us. It will be a while before you find success as a writer, but you must not stop. Everything you learn will one day pay off. The same is true of your quest for love. Stay humble. Be aware of your failings. Never believe you have it all figured out, and love will you. Find us.”

            “What about my job? I love the kids—”

            “We have worked many jobs, but you were born to write. Do what you must to pay the bills, but remember your calling. Things are never as they seem. In two years, you will move and find yourself surrounded by people from all over the world. You will experience a re-birth, and within a short time, you will meet the woman of your dreams. Your career will change. Your life will change. And through it all, you will write. And when you are ready, you will do the one thing that has called to you since you were a small boy.”

            I swallowed. “It’s just… it’s just so hard to accept.”

            He rubbed my shoulder. “I know. Our future is always shrouded. If it were not, we would not stay humble. But don’t worry, things are going to get better. Better than you ever imagined.”

            I sighed and shook my head. “My wife, she’s—”

            “The best thing that ever happened to us.” He closed his eyes briefly before opening them. “Whatever you imagine about being with someone, she is the treasure. And no, we did not earn it, just like we have not earned the praise from people who like our writing. Yes, we have mended the soil, but God has managed the till.”

            I frowned, confused. “So if it isn’t us, then—”

            “It is us!” he said, placing his hands on the wooden balcony. “But it is us and so many other things, things we can’t identify, things that will one day infuse the series that allows you to write in your own voice for the first time.”

            “I… I do not know what to do.”

            My older self smiled. “Just keep writing. Continue to pursue kindness. Do not let those around you dictate who you are or what you will be. Accept criticism. Do not be afraid to look in the mirror. None of these things will give you money, but they will guide you. One day soon, you will be asked about these choices and they will inspire people, much like your work will inspire them.

            “Writing is not about the books you sell, but the vision you give to people. The vision you have for humanity. A vision that reminds us we can be better. That we can be loving and kind and empathetic. Never forget that.”

            “But, my depression—”

            “Will always be there. It will never leave. God gives us all burdens, and this one is ours. Be honest about it. Tell others about your struggles. Weakness is strength, and vulnerability is everything. Let it shine through your work.” He paused. “Most importantly, do not write in fear. Fear of what others will think. Fear of what they may say. Fear that you may expose yourself too much. Conquering fear is the pathway to your voice. And it is your voice that will affect others in ways you cannot comprehend.”

            The vision of my older self slowly began to fade.

            “Wait! I have so many questions! Don’t go!”

            The image flickered. “Remember what I said. Stay true to yourself. Things get better.”

            “What book should I write next? I don’t know what I’m doing!”

            The image faded away and I leaned on the balcony, unsure what I’d just seen. Had it been a dream? A daydream to help me take my mind off my troubles? I wasn’t sure. I stood and headed inside. Whatever it was, my resolve was clear.

            I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. That the agent had dropped me didn’t matter, neither did anything else. It was time to write.