How to be Perfect

Sweat rolled down my face as I slowed to walk. I strolled down Cameron Street and checked my phone to see how far I’d run. Nearly one and a half kilometers without stopping. Nice!

For most runners, that would have been a joke. But for someone who was only starting to enjoy it, it was a big deal. Today, for the first time, I felt different. Not joy, exactly. More like emotional relief. As much as I loved the gym, not even a great day lifting weights gave me this feeling. I guessed that there were some physiological or psychological reasons for this, whether it was the way the endorphins were released or that it was something I’d never been good at, but running had suddenly become a different experience.

So why had it changed? And why now?

Continue reading at Stephenrburns.info 

Displaced

The courtyard outside the North York Civic Centre is busy. People sit around the picnic tables scattered under the trees or on the metal benches that line the fountain in the middle of the square. Unlike the suburb where I spent the past three years, or the quiet street where I grew up, Yonge and Shepherd is a constant swarm of activity and noise and traffic. The relentless nature of it is overwhelming.

Today, however, it does not bother me. I am sitting on one of the benches, sipping my morning coffee. It is my first day off in a week. I have done my best to keep busy, but the truth is, I like my job. Working with special needs students -- be it in a group home or residence or camp -- is always rewarding. My clients remind me that it is in the simple things where we find the greatest portions of joy. And while I'm with them, for a while at least, I don't have to think about home.

But today I am not working. And I am home.

If only I knew what that meant.

I can tell you my physical address, can take you there and point to the room where I sleep. But I might as well be pointing to a bed on a stage. My condo represents my house. But it isn't my home.

A small brown and white puppy bounces in behind its owner, tail wagging, excited by its morning walk. His owner, a tiny woman in her mid-thirties, leans down to rub its face before continuing. I smile as the puppy twists the leash around her legs in excitement, and it is some time before the owner untangles them. My gaze drifts. Beyond the puppy, a ripped Wendy's wrapper twists and swirls in the wind.

I am still not sure how I got here. All displacement is hard, and all of us will deal with it a few times in our lives. Moving. Changing jobs. Deaths in our family. It is part of being human to see change and see it suddenly, so much so that the movement of "there to here" feels like a chasm.

In my case, the chasm is not only moving to a new location, but doing so without the one I thought was my life partner. And it is that part with which I struggle on a daily basis. The one that deals with home.

Before I moved here, the building never mattered. Neither did the address.

She was my home.

The wrapper flutters in the wind and sticks against the side of a garbage can. I stare at it for a while, hoping it will shake itself loose.

I take a deep breath and slowly get to my feet. An elderly woman walking a medium sized Pointer stops and lets me pet him.

Time is a wonderful healer, but it moves slow for me these days. I try not to think about her and what she's doing or what we could be doing together. I try not to think about home.

Sometimes I am successful.

And yet, I am lucky. I have friends who take the time to wade through this painful transition, friends who are helping me face the chasm behind me and pushing towards the future. Not everyone has this. I think of the homeless man that I spoke with the other night. He claimed to be a professor from Columbia. He spoke of how much he missed his family. I have no idea if what he was saying was true, but it was clear that he was lonely. Clear that he had no house. Clear he had no home.

What I face, and what so many of us face, is not unusual. It is painful and awful and isolating, but it is normative. At some point in our lives, we will all feel this loss. I have worked with many children who grew up without a home. Too many. And so while my days are long and filled with questions, I remind myself that I have been given insight into the hurt of others, an insight I do not take lightly.

I slowly head back to my building. I notice a man sitting alone on one of the benches. His pants are pulled up high, his face unshaven. He is muttering to himself. He rises suddenly and sits again, still muttering. It looks like he hasn't showered in some time.

Where is his home? Who takes care of him? Is he alone?

I walk the final two blocks to my building. A torn piece of newspaper swirls in front of me before sticking against the window of the convenience store. I think about the puppy, so excited at his new world. And I think about the garbage, abandoned and left to the wind.

I put the torn newspaper in the garbage bin.

Everything has a place.

New

Below me, the roar of traffic is constant. It is unlike any place I've ever lived. Twenty stories above the street and it feels like I am on a ship on the ocean. Although where it is going, I am uncertain. The only certainty of my home is the newness of it all.

A new journey.

A new life.

A new direction.

This worries me less than I thought it would. Displacement is difficult because change is difficult, which is what makes moving so traumatic. And in my case, it isn't the only significant change.

There are people who love change, embrace it, seek it out even. But they are rare, and I am not one of them. I much prefer status quo, with perhaps the odd "challenge."

This is not that.

For most of us, change of this magnitude creates fear. What will happen? How will I get through this? How did I get here? The list of questions is as endless as the sea, because the inevitable impact of change is just that: questions. Self examination. World examination. Life examination. Everything we have ever believed is under scrutiny, and it is here where change becomes extremely valuable. It gives us a chance to re-examine everything, because the world not only seems different, it is entirely unrecognizable. And in this strange new place we have the opportunity to see ourselves with new eyes. Is it challenging? Yes. But it can also be rewarding, if only we have the courage to see ourselves through a different looking glass.

WHERE AM I?

I have, for the past few months, desperately tried to figure out how my life went from "there" to "here." I am still without answers. Oh, I could detail what happened, but I still don't understand it. Not fully. Listening to the roar of traffic still makes me feel like I am drifting out to sea. And so I wonder. Where am I headed? Am I moving in the right direction? Am I open to the inner work that needs to be done?

I pause and glance up at the sky. Clouds have moved in. The balcony faces east, and so even on the brightest of days, the sun is gone by mid-morning. On this day, a typically hot summer Toronto afternoon, I am grateful for the relief. It is still odd to write with so much movement and noise below me, with the continual awareness of so many people heading in so many directions. I try to reassure myself: I, too, am headed somewhere. Even if my steps are a bit slower than they once were.

But I am still overwhelmed. That much is clear. Every day I add a piece or two to the puzzle that is now my life, and slowly, achingly so at times, I am beginning to see a new portrait. It is difficult not to rush things. To throw the pieces together however they fit and force them together.

It doesn't work that way.

It's not supposed to work that way.

As much as I do not like to wait, times like this -- and we all go through them -- are necessary to create the lives we want to lead going forward. It gives us a chance to breathe, to remember our dreams, to remember the things that excited us about the future.

It can be difficult to accept, but that future is still there. Even in the midst of turmoil, it breathes inside of us, waiting for a chance to speak, waiting for a chance to remind us why we're here and the joys of life yet available to us.

I do not write those words in a vacuum. I can tell you what it means to be in pain. I can tell you what it means to feel trapped in a joyless existence. I can tell you what it means to live your life based on the next thirty minutes.

I can tell you that, but there comes a time when explanation is redundant.

We do not need comprehension.

What we need is hope.

Two years ago I saw the ocean on the sandy shores on the East Coast. It was winter, the beach abandoned, the water cold. I thought it would just be another body of water. It was not. I was shocked to find myself experiencing something entirely different.

The waves were gentle enough, but there was a distinct sound to them, an endlessness that was difficult for me to fathom. I remember thinking, 'this is not a lake. This is nothing like a lake.'

On the edge of the ocean, my mind was drawn to many things. Its power. Its endlessness. Its eternal nature. And for those moments, I felt small in a way that I'd never known.

Not belittled.

Not less.

Just small.

As if I finally realized what it meant to be human.

ETERNAL

We are all shaped by vast sources that we can hardly fathom. Regardless of our life, or the dramatic changes within it, we are a speck next to the ocean. We are human. Part of something much greater than ourselves. An important part, to be sure, but just a part. What seem like mountains to us are nothing within the scope of those parameters. And when we overestimate the size and complexity of our lives, we lose perspective on how easily we can find happiness again.

We are not mountains. Or glaciers. Or oceans.

We are human. And we exist to create change in the ones around us by changing ourselves. By accepting all that happens in our life as a by-product of living. And by understanding how and why we these changes have occurred and what we can do to create an even larger impact on the world around us.

Change makes us vulnerable. It asks us to stand in front of the ocean and acknowledge that we are are mortal. It teaches us that we know much less than realize.

I look down at the traffic below me. Can I do that? Can I look at myself through the ocean's mirror and see what needs to be done? Can I raise my sail and trust that I will move in the right direction, even if I do not understand all that is happening? Can I lay aside my need for control, my need for an inflated sense of importance, to do what needs to be done?

These are the questions we need to answer. The ones I need to answer.

I do not know how I am going to respond. But I'm listening.

Robin Williams, Depression, and One Writer's Life

“Robin Williams was found dead last night, due to self-asphyxiation. The beloved actor and comedian was 63. According to his publicist, he’d been struggling with depression.”

I can still see the bottle. It’s clear, with white labels and green and black writing. The aspirin are small and white. The plastic bottle is full. I’m sitting on our spare bed, a cheapie I picked up when we moved to Ottawa. It was supposed to be for guests, but two weeks ago I moved into the spare bedroom. After five quick months, my marriage is over. I am a failure. I do not blame my wife. All we do is argue. I cannot seem to find happiness. 

I stare at the bottle. I do not know how many I will have to take. Twenty? Thirty? It doesn’t matter. I’m twenty-six years old. I sell newspapers over the phone. I make ten dollars for every subscription I sell. Some days I sell only one. I have never sold more than eight.

My wife is in her first year of teaching. She is doing well. Her career is under way, and I pushed for us to move here.

“I’ll find something,” I’d told her. “There has to be a youth job here.” 

This is all I’ve found, and I’m angry about it. Angry that my dreams have been flushed into two hundred and fifty cold calls a day selling a cheap newspaper. There’s more to it than that, but I’m not aware of those things yet. I am only aware of The Sadness. It has become a visceral thing. A companion. I do not know how else to explain it.

My friend shows up an hour later. I am still staring at the bottle. I am surprised, but tuck it away. I ask why he’s here. Who drives three hours in the middle of the night?

“She was worried. Really worried.”

I smile. I assume that I am going a bit crazy, but the pills suddenly seem a distant memory. No one is allowed to see The Sadness. I have made it my rule.

“I’m fine.”

He stays until he believes me.

Another image. Two years later. My basement apartment is dark. It’s winter. Snow covers my only window. My parents are knocking on the door. They’ve driven six hours to see me. They’re worried. I do not let them in. An empty beer bottle sits on my coffee table. My computer flickers in the corner. I feel guilty. I am a failure. The Sadness has come, and for two weeks it does not let me go. I fear it will never let me go.

Robin

Time passes. I leave the church. I have tried their suggestions. I have gone to the altar. I have laid my heart bare before God. I have asked for help. But I am not good enough. I read and begin to understand my struggle, but the church is dismissive, though I know they mean well.

I am being oppressed. I am sinful. I am not committed enough. Depression is spiritual. I listen. I try hard. But The Sadness has become my shadow.

Another year passes. I am learning how to deal with my problem. I read books that inspire me. I write. And I watch films that make me laugh. Of those, no one is funnier than Robin Williams. Some are good, some are bad, but he is a constant. I watch Dead Poets Society often. It makes sense to me. But I cannot blame the Darkness on my father. My parents love me and support me. I am a failure, but it is not their fault, no more than it was the fault of my wife.

Some days I am filled with happiness. I love those days. On those days, I make myself seen. I try to spread joy and laughter. I try to live an extraordinary life, as Keating (RW) has told his students. I dream of making it as a writer. I dream of overcoming my failures. Of proving my worth. I watch Rudy when I need a lift. I watch Robin when I need to smile. And when I feel my shadow begin to overwhelm me, I watch my favourite film.

GWH

Good Will Hunting is just a movie, a fable. But for me, narrative is more than that. The characters in my favourite books are my friends, as are the ones in my favourite movies. They know that I am a failure, but they remain the same. Here, Robin is a counselor, a teacher. He is the kind of counselor I wish I had, the kind of mentor I need. I am not closed to counseling, but I am a youth worker. An aspiring writer. I cannot afford it. I can barely afford my apartment.

Robin will win an academy award for his performance. I do not know whether he is simply a great actor or that he knows what it means to have a shadow, but I feel the movie, and it feels true. So does the pain in his eyes. That is what I need. Someone who has learned to deal with The Sadness and live, and not live just another life, but an extraordinary one.

And now, he is gone.

NOW

Robin’s death fills me with great sadness. His legacy is unique and yes, extraordinary. My wife, too, feels it. There is the sense of a light being extinguished, which makes no sense as most of us did not know him, but it’s there anyway. The grieving on social media is real. Some trolls suggest that he is ‘selfish’ and ‘made a choice.’ They are roundly criticized by a more enlightened population, but their page views have gone up, and they have received more attention. Human parasites will always exist.

The images of my early struggles remain. Like pictures people once kept in their wallets. They come to mind easily and quickly, though not without pain. I have learned to deal with my struggles over the years. The Sadness remains, and on certain days, it is all I can do to get through the day. I do my best to not let others see my shadow. That is the rule. It has always been the rule.

But I am lucky. Five years ago I married the girl of my dreams. She understands. Some days, I still feel like a failure, like she has married someone who simply cannot get over himself. Those days are hard, and I wish I was ‘normal.’ But such a thing does not exist, not for me or anyone else. We all have struggles.

As for the funniest man in the world, I do not know what to think. I do not know if things could have been different. Sometimes, The Sadness visits in such power that we are helpless before it. Religious people do not like to hear this. Neither do I. Sometimes the truth is hard.

If I could say something to him, though. If I had been allowed to speak to him, I would have thanked him for helping me through so many rough times, when his smile – his laughter, his jokes – overcame The Sadness for me. And then I would have told him this:

“You have lived an extraordinary life. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

Rest in peace, My Friend. You have blessed us beyond imagining. You will be missed.

-Steve

Dealing With Rejection

         

When I was in Grade Six, I fell in love with a girl in my class, Kathy. She was smart and pretty, and I was smart and… pudgy. I did everything I could to win her over. Notes. Compliments. Jokes. Clearly tired by my advances, she finally told me she liked  another boy in our class, Craig. Moreover, she told me she liked Craig for his body and me for my brains. (Is that why I became a personal trainer? Hmm.) I was so infatuated with her that I started hanging out with Craig. I thought whatever he had might rub off on me.

It didn’t. My infatuation didn’t fade, however, and for the next three years, until the end of Grade Nine when I switched schools, I kept trying to convince Kathy to go out with me. I didn’t know it then, but if I were to sum up my writing life in one analogy, that’d be it.

These past two weeks, I’ve sent queries and sample pages to seventeen agents. So far, I’ve received six form rejections. Not a sniff of interest. Yes, it’s early. And yes, dealing with rejection is part of a writer’s life. But it still hurts. Especially when you really haven’t had much success in the field of your choice, when you’ve been chasing the same girl, the same dream, for twenty-odd years. I suppose I could try to spin that, try to come up with some positives when those form rejections pop up in my inbox, but I already did that this past weekend. When you take the long view, you can find some light in the darkness. In the moment? Well, in the moment it just sucks, and if you can’t accept that, can’t admit that it feels like your innards are being ripped through your nostrils, then either I want what you’re smoking or there’s an American Idol tryout in your future.

Here’s the thing, though. Most of us feel that way about one part of our life. Whether it’s our kids, our relationships with our family members, problems with our friends or a situation at work, it may not show up in our inbox from a literary agency in New York, but it still smells like rejection. Hell, often it feels like life itself is rejecting us. That all of our plans, all of our hopes and dreams somewhere, somehow, got flushed in life’s sewer, and gave us THIS LIFE instead. Depressing? Yes. Discouraging? Yes. Unusual? Nope.

And it’s that last part, how “unusual” we consider our experience, that strikes me as the one place you can find silver. (Maybe not a whole lining of silver, but a few rough nuggets) When someone tells me that I “can’t possibly understand how they feel,” I am acutely aware of two things: One, they’re right. I have no idea how anyone feels because I’ve never been, not to my knowledge at least, anyone else. Second, it tells me that such a person is in for a very long life, and so are the people around them. As much as the rejection, in whatever form, completely and totally feels like a rusty blade has been jammed into my ribs, I can take some comfort in knowing that we all have knives in us. That these are the things that make us human. And that most of the plans we make, even in an ideal society, usually go awry.

Does that make the form rejections in my inbox any easier to take? Nope. Do I still want to throw my laptop out the window and scream about how I’ve wasted my life pursuing something that very, very few people ever do well enough to succeed? Yes. But it’s also the moment when I identify with more people than I usually do, when I watch someone else fail and shake my head because I know how much it hurts. Rejection draws me closer to the people around me than success. Failure leaves a different kind of stain then the times when things have gone exactly as we hoped.

Some of us experience rejection on a daily basis, and with issues far more serious than a lifelong quest for a book deal. I’ve worked with many kids over the years who experienced rejection from one or both of their parents, and for reasons that were utterly enraging.

But anger isn’t the answer. Neither is giving up. Somehow we must find a way to live in that place where the healthiest of us manage to thrive, that place of dreaming and acceptance that acknowledges our humanity, acknowledges the random nature of life and the hardness of it, without pulling us away from the bigger visions God gives us. It’s a difficult place to be. It requires a self-esteem that doesn’t need extra attention for our particular difficulties, but one that is self-aware enough to know when we need a bit more help.

I’m not sure I’ve always fallen in such a balanced manner, and I’ve been grateful over the years for people who have modeled that gracious kind of life. If I could pick one difference in the ones who modeled grace and those who haven’t, that difference would be compassion and gratitude. That is, all of them had in some way dedicated a portion of their life to helping others, and all of them were grateful for the things they’d been given. Like extra legs on a table, this provided them with stability to face the storms and purpose to keep going when their own dreams didn’t work out as they’d hoped. It didn’t allow for the Navel-Gazing Trap or the Black Hole Syndrome characteristic of people who believe that “no one will ever understand.”

Listen, we understand. We’ve all been there. So what do we do when it happens? And really, is there a question in life more formative to our character than that one?

I can’t speak for anyone else, but I can tell you what I’m going to do. Tonight, I’m going to allow myself to be upset for a little while and howl at the moon a bit. When I’m done, I’ll hug my wife, grateful I’ve been given such an amazing life partner. Tomorrow I’ll go to school, and on the way there, I’ll thank God for the trees and farms and the new commute to work this year, one that lets us live in a beautiful little home in a quiet section of the city. When I’m at school, I’ll encourage my kids to the best of my ability, walk with them while they negotiate early adolescence, and when I come home, I’ll make sure that our two young neighbours are doing okay. Somewhere along the way, my cats will get a number of belly rubs and I’ll share a laugh with my wife and friends.

And the next day? The next day, I’ll get up and keep writing.

Whatever your journey, wherever you are, keep going, my friends. You can do it. Even when it sucks, even when the girl of your dreams says ‘no’, your value is more than you can possibly imagine. And if we happen to meet along the way, maybe we can grab a coffee and talk about it. I’ve been there, too.

Much love,

            Steve

Change Your Life: Take the Monday Challenge

When I was a kid, I used to love reading stories about characters that changed their life. Either they were athletes who trained and practiced and after initial failure, eventually found success. Or, they were fantasy characters sent on an unexpected journey who discovered they were capable of more than they imagined. Those stories still touch a deep part of me. (I’ve spent the past three years writing a story like that.) I suspect they connect with many of us. And when you’re young, they seem more plausible, don’t they? Life hasn’t become a complicated routine yet and everything is in front of you. Change, a new life, doesn’t feel so impossible. Your dreams are there, just outside your reach, and with just a bit of work and luck, you know that it’s only a matter of time.


But the years pass and you never get any closer. You feel trapped in this life that has developed around you seemingly without your consent. University and high school are well into rear view mirror, and we find ourselves working at a job we don’t love. Some of us assume the responsibilities of marriage and parenting. We have no regrets, but we know something is missing, and somewhere inside the routine is slowly bleeding us to death. We find that we’re angry, even if we manage to keep it hidden so it’s not easily visible to everyone else. We want to change, we want excitement in our life, but we don’t know where to start. And when we do make an attempt to break out, to do something different, we soon get discouraged by the enormity of the task and end up flowing back into our old routines. And when we hear people talk about “changing our life”, we scoff at the notion. (It doesn’t help that companies use this powerful idea of changing our narrative by promoting shit like Viagra or vacations or a new household appliance.) The years go by and we become people who are shrinking instead of growing. Our fears crowd us into a corner, and we justify these feelings by assuring everyone that “it’s just the way things are.”

But the idea that we can’t change is pure bullshit. Of course we can! We just have to take off our skeptic’s goggles for a few minutes. Will you do that for me? I have something that might help. I call it the Monday Challenge.

The rules are very simple. Every Monday I want you to pick something in your life that you will do differently the upcoming week. You can pick anything, but I would suggest small things to start. What route do you take to work? Pick another. What TV shows do you normally watch? Skip them, and pick up a book at the library to read during the time you normally watch that show. Go for a nightly walk. Learn a new board game. Go to bed at a different time. The key is to pick ROUTINIZED items, and change them. Don’t go for the big things at first, necessarily, the idea is to readjust to variation in your life. (You’d be surprised how difficult that becomes.)

Make sure you write it down. Open a file in your phone or on your laptop, and mark the week and your Monday Challenge that week.

At the end of the week, reassess. If the change you picked is working for you, try to do it another week, but only to a maximum of four weeks. Now obviously, you can continue with the changes, but after 28 days you want to pick a new challenge as well.

Throughout this challenge, remember that attitude is very important. Whatever goals we set, make sure you hold them lightly. NO GUILT IS ALLOWED. Have fun with it. If the change doesn’t happen one day, or you forget another, don’t worry about it. Try again the next day. It’s only a week, and if it doesn’t work, choose something else the next week.

Changing our life often seems like a daunting task because we try to tackle everything at once. The voices in our head and in our life compete for our attention and we become exhausted just thinking about it. With the Monday Challenge, we’re not worried about the entirety of your life, we’re only thinking about the next seven days. Take one small thing, chart it somewhere, and see what happens.

At some point in our lives, most of us have been told that we shouldn’t dream, that we shouldn’t challenge ourselves, and that we just need to accept things the way they are. The implication is that we can’t be responsible and still live a life that pushes us forward. Why not? Why should we live in fear of change? Why should we accept a life without dreams, the same dreams that propelled us when we were kids?

Look, life will never be perfect. It will be filled with tragedy and heartache and sadness. Unfortunately, that’s the human condition. But there’s joy in humanity as well, especially when we challenge ourselves, contest our own ingrained status quo, and start stepping outside the box. Whatever you’ve been told; let me assure you that you can do it. There is so much out there for you, so much more than you realize, just waiting to be discovered. All you have to do is take the first step.

Steve

PS Fill me in on your challenges below if you like, or email me, and let me know how you’re doing. Good luck, my friends!

Obama Will Survive the Doom Prophets(reprint)

Authour's note: My apologies, but a condensed version of this column appeared in the Welland Tribune on April 17th, 2009. I posted the lengthier version here after its initial printing, but then needed to pull it off to double check the proper release date. Enjoy.

-Steve

I paused on the sidewalk outside the pub. A chalked sign announced what I was hearing over the speakers.

"Obama's inauguration. Live! C'mon in."

I glanced in through the window. On the big screen television above the bar was the new president. Beside me, two men in suits and overcoats had stopped to listen. About ten feet away, three men wearing yellow hard hats were leaning against the brick next to one of the speakers, smoking and listening. I listened for a while before continuing down the street to work. People stopping in the street for a presidential inauguration speech? A live presentation in a pub? The last time I'd seen a spontaneously diverse gathering like this was the aftermath of 9/11. Before that, the first Iraq war. Both times, however, the distinct feelings of outrage and fear had been palpable. People united by their anger. Today the scent was entirely different, and it left me feeling strangely buoyed and positive. A president who inspired people, I remember thinking, what a change.

For most of us, the commotion and excitement of Obama's inauguration feels like a long time ago. Less than two months after Obama's visit to the Canadian capital, where people lined up as early as 4am hoping to catch a glimpse of the new president, the news these days are flooded with Doom prophets. From moderates like Peggy Noonan "weightless administration" to extremists like Rush Limbaugh. ("I want him to fail.") Despite Obama's weighted comments about having patience with the economy in his inauguration speech, it seems that the apocalypse sells better than reality.

The Republicans have always done gloom better than the Democrats. Following 9/11, the promise of another imminent attack was used to pass the Patriot Act, which limited individual rights more than any other bill in the last Century, secure "suspected terrorists" in Guantanamo Bay without trial, and start an endless war on a sovereign country that has led to an incalculable loss of life. All this in the name of Doom.

The problem facing the Democrats is that appealing to people's fears is a good strategy. The only silver bullet for them in the past thirty odd-years has been the economy, which Clinton both helped turn and then rode to a popular two term presidency. With the current economic climate however, Obama faces a dual challenge for his time in office. The first is to convince the American public that they are safe, a surprisingly daunting task when you consider the last fifty years, but not terribly surprising when you understand the politics of fear.
From a very young age, we are conditioned to be aware of abnormal -- read negative -- behaviour. We are taught, for example, that people are selfish, when humanity is by far the most cooperative species on the planet.

Every day people open doors for one another, wait patiently in line, smile and say hello, offer a word of kindness, and wait for the traffic light to change. The examples are endless. Yet our tendency is to remember the rare times when those things do not occur. "She cut me off." "He completely ignored me." And so on. The difficulty for Obama will be to convince the American people that they are safe, without saying, "Of course we are. Look at the facts." Accepting that in the past twenty years, the number of deaths due to terrorism is somewhere under 0.0001 per cent of the population, we begin to see how effective the doom prophets can be.

The other problem for Obama is that he cannot use Clinton's strategy, "It's the economy, stupid." And while it was a Republican government that enacted the greatest deficit in U. S. history, the old Conservatives continue to bang the drum of the apocalypse by misstating Obama's proper Keynesian response as "liberal big government." This past month, an op-ed column in the Wall Street Journal proclaimed, "Obama's Radicalism is Killing the Dow." Michael J. Boskin, the economics professor who wrote the article, unsurprisingly chaired the Council of Economic advisers under the first Bush. Another old prophet of doom.

Unfortunately, the constant bleating from the back rows is starting to gain traction. Obama's approval rating sits at 61%. Still high, but it is the lowest it has been since his inauguration. The honeymoon is over. For most leaders, especially Democratic presidents, the task ahead would be daunting if not impossible. Obama, however, has one advantage. We saw it through the campaign. We witnessed it during the inauguration. And we're seeing it now. It is Obama's ability to appeal to our "better" self. To, as he said recently, not mute the public's anger, but "channel" it. To help us notice what we should notice. This counter-intuitive ideology, however, is something that only the great leaders can communicate.

What Obama understands better than most is that genuine influence is much more than getting people to do what you want them to do. It means people finish what you started because they believe. This is the essence of faith. And as Annette Simmons writes in her book, The Story Factor, story is the pathway to faith. People must own their changes, must own their story, because they value their own conclusions more highly than yours. Other methods of influence -- persuasion, bribery, or fear -- are push strategies. Story is a pull strategy. If your story is good enough, people -- of their own free will -- come to the conclusion that they can trust you and the message you bring.

In the turbulent times of the early sixties, JFK challenged our view of government with these words: "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country." Martin Luther King, another leader to whom Obama has been compared, inspired a country to revolutionize its social patterns with his vision, "I have a dream." Their stories became our stories. (The power of their influence was great enough to affect a young Wellander, who would later pass those tales on to his son.)

The question for us then, is whose story are we going to choose? Apocalypse Now... or Hope for Tomorrow?

In purely rhetorical terms, as great as Kennedy was, Obama is better. And like Kennedy, his appeal spans a wide demographic. In the coming years, he will need every ounce of those abilities if he is to overcome the prophets that will be barking their message at every opportunity.

The criticisms from Wall Street notwithstanding, until we learn whether the stimulus package worked, Obama's influence remains more felt than political, more art than science. That is not a criticism. While administration and policy are important, the leaders who create new stories for us are the ones who truly affect our lives. I hope that he is re-elected. I hope we choose his story. If only so we can re-discover that feeling we all had the day he was inaugurated. The day we stood outside the pub to hear something we hadn't heard before: a leader bringing people together, without the scent of fear.

That said, if the economy does not recover as quickly as we need it to, he might still not win a second term, the doom prophets will not allow it.

Thankful

I could hear the trees crackling in the cold as I headed out to start my car. The wind was quiet, but the cold was so intense it imposed a quiet stillness upon the neighbourhood, as if willing it to silence. It'd been a long week: an overlong stay from cold that had racked my throat and sapped my energy along with a difficult week at work. None of these mattered however, as I started my car and scraped the ice from the windshield. The sun beat down from a clear sky, bringing light but little warmth.

There were days I wondered why I bothered at all. Days when my life seemed little more than a treadmill upon which I ran with no destination or purpose. Today however, I disdained to entertain those ideas. As easy as it was to focus on the struggle of life, the struggle to making ends meet and my relationships work, more rewarding was the concentrated effort on seeing what could be. What one had and what might be in the future.

This past summer I'd had the great fortune to meet the woman of my dreams, a woman who loved me for who I was, in all my strengths and weaknesses. Unexpected and unprecedented, it'd taken me a while to accept it for what it was... a gift from God. Still, a part of me scoffed at the idea of an ideal relationship. Part of me brought back the memories of countless "false starts", of relationships that hadn't worked. Of relationships that had caused nothing but pain. Some days it was hard to hold on to what I had in the face of these painful memories.


I let the car warm for ten minutes before climbing in. The warmth covered me, and for a moment, I rested in its embrace before shifting gears and heading out. Memories were powerful things. Most of us lived, whether we knew it or not, by the force of our experiences. Unfortunately, it was these very 'lessons' that worked to keep us from experiencing so many good things in life.

As a teacher, Experience is narrow minded, and too often we give it the power to influence our future. Experience most often teaches from the basis of fear. It does not allow for exception or the exceptional. And if something happens that does not fit into the pattern of our life, the typical response is to shut it down. Better the devil we know... or so the saying goes.

For many years, this was true for me. It was easy to look at my life or at the people around me as their lives became absorbed by tragedy or apathy or both, and wonder why I even bothered pursuing my dreams. Everyone struggled. Why did I think that an exceptional life was possible for me? Of course, I never really thought about what "the exceptional life" looked like, only that I was certainly not living it. And that is where experience often fails us. While the emotional memories and warning signs can be powerful, they are often vague and undefined. After a while, we no longer think about what life could be, only that it is a disappointment. The real tragedy is that we often don't even know why.


The highway was clean, the snow piled lightly on the shoulder as I whipped along, staring ahead and at the empty, snow covered fields to each side. Stouffville was a small town about ten miles north from where I lived. Bethany had an important exam the next day. I was heading out to give her a study break, and a bit of brain food. (i.e. chocolate) Twenty minutes later I pulled onto Stouffville road, a hilly, country road that was often difficult to drive in the rough Canadian winter. It was clear today however, and I zipped along, anxious to see my girl.

It'd been a long time since I'd felt this way about someone. In fact, I was sure I'd never felt this way about anyone. Just the thought of seeing her, of holding her close, of laughing with her, was enough to bring a smile to my face. Every time I thought about her, about what she meant, I could feel my emotions quiver...

I passed a gas station and debated pulling over to get some snacks before deciding to wait until I got into town. Just past the gas station on the right hand side was an old cemetery. I slowed, glancing at the pale grave stones partially covered by snow, wondering, as I always did, about the lives of the people now gone. Had they reached for the stars? Had they lived as they wanted to live? Had they experienced the fullness of life?

I have always thought it amazing when to hear someone speak positively about life. Humanity is not set for 'positive thinking' and life deals more blows then rewards. And worse, in our consumer culture, we are not taught to be happy, but to be unhappy. Despite being the richest continent on the planet, we are taught from the time we are children that we are in need. Of something. Of everything. A new TV. A new car. A new house. New furniture or lawn equipment or computer stuff. New make up or clothes or power tools. Our culture is set against gratitude, because it is need that sells, not contentment. And of all the things that make our lives full, perhaps it is gratitude... simple thankfulness... that is most important.

I hear it all the time. This warning not to look at the world through rose colored glasses. True enough, if you're looking at those around you. When it comes to our vision of the world, we must teach ourselves to see the need in others and the blessings in our own lives. This is the proper view of the world, I think. The Kingdom idea that Jesus had in mind. Thankfulness is important because it is based on what is already present, and unlike experience, is detailed and sure.

Thank you, Lord, for my family.
Thank you, Lord, for my car.
Thank you, Lord, for my job and a place to live.
Thank you, Lord, for my loving wife, my partner in this crazy world.

Bitterness arises because too often we allow our culture tell us what we don't have, we allow it to muddle our understanding between need and want, and we allow experience to teach us that an exceptional life is impossible.


I waited for the light to turn green, smiling in anticipation of seeing my girl. I glanced at the bag of chocolate on my front seat. It would probably take her two months to go through it, I thought, unable to stop grinning. I pulled in the driveway a minute later, only to hear Micah, their family dog, go crazy in the hallway.

"Heya pal!"

The half Lab rubbed against my legs, wagging his tail and pushing his grey whiskered face into my neck. Bethany's parents laughed as I finally made my way into the hallway. I chatted with them for a while, enjoying it as I always do, until finally she came down. My heart beat a little faster as I kissed her and held her tight. I wasn't sure there were any words that could accurately convey my emotions at that moment, save one: exceptional...


It's easy to look at life and see what's missing. It's easy because it is exactly what our culture teaches us to do. Much harder is the practice of looking at our life and being thankful for what we do have. My prayer this week, as we continue in the Christmas season, is that not only will we realize how much we have, but how much we can give. Not only with gifts, but with smiles as well. With a love that only God can give. And perhaps the greatest gift of all, the echo of a life filled with thankfulness.

-Steve

The Treadmill and the Trampoline

Two Lives - One Life

Today

Have you ever had one of those days when you feel like something is going to happen, something important, but you don't know what it is? Or why? The story I want to tell you happened on that kind of day, and looking back, I suppose it wouldn't have mattered if I had known what was going to happen. Sometimes the person we trust the least is ourselves, I guess. Before I tell you what happened though, I should tell you something about me. I used to think that I could control things in my life by the decisions I made, that I was the master of my own universe. I suppose I still believe that, but what that means to me now, and what it used to mean, are very, very different. I know I'm getting ahead of myself, but it's important you understand what I used to believe, and how things have changed since that day.

I worked in a church for many years, and I have worked with people my entire life. I can't tell you how many times I heard people asking me to pray for them, that they needed a miracle in this situation or that situation. I generally like people, but I sometimes found myself wondering why they needed a miracle at all.

You live in North America. You own a beautiful house and two cars. You have a nice family. Sure, you have struggles, but isn't that part of life. Things can't be great all the time. You don't expect THAT, do you?

Just the same, I would agree to pray for them and offer what counsel I could. This went on for many years and I still didn't understand why so many people were looking for a miracle until the hedges of discipline and duty broke down in my life, when I began to realize the rhythms of life too often had little to do with my choices. I still believed in God, but this sense of powerlessness rattled me to the core. What if our choices didn't matter? What if I wasn't actually choosing? This went against everything I'd been taught in the church, and I didn't know how to handle it, so I just kind of sucked up and hoped for the best.

Until the day I got my own miracle. I didn't ask for it, not consciously at least, but it happened nonetheless, and things have never been the same.

Yesterday

It was warmer than I expected when I finally left the gym, the crowds thick along the street as I headed towards the subway and home. It was an uneventful ride and within a short time I was headed towards my car, my traveler's mug in one hand, my gym bag shifted well over my right shoulder. Another long week had ended, but I wasn't tired. I was oddly fresh, enjoying the bright sun and cloudless sky as I ambled along the sidewalk. The trees had lost their leaves, but even without their vibrant colours, today they seemed to glow and reach towards the heavens in the quiet stillness of the bright afternoon sun.

When I finally reached my car, an older woman with fiery red hair was sticking a piece of paper in my windshield. I shuffled forward quickly, my bag bouncing against my leg.

"Hey, I'm allowed to park here!"

I'd been forced to park further and further away (yup... parking tickets) from the subway until I was a full ten-minute walk away.

She saw me and smiled, and then removed the note.

"Oh good. You're here. I was wondering if you'd ever get back."

"I scheduled another client late..." My voice trailed off as I realized what I was saying. "Is there something I can do for you?"

She was a heavyset woman, wearing a purple scarf over a bright pink coat that was tattered along the edges, her lips painted a garish red that matched her hair. I instantly felt sorry for her, although I wasn't sure why.

"Can you give me a ride?"

I looked at her for a long minute. I don't always give rides to strangers, especially to the ones who hang around my car, but like I said, I felt sorry for her.

I opened the door and she slid in beside me, laboriously adjusting her thick coat and scarf. The musky scent of old perfume and sweat momentarily engulfed me, and I tried not to be obvious as I rolled down my window a crack to get some air.

"Where to?" I asked.

"Take me anywhere. Somewhere far away from here."

It was a ridiculous answer, but instead of questioning her further, I put the car in gear and pulled out. I glanced over at her while I was driving. Her face was craggy and lined. Other than the lipstick, she wore no other makeup else that I could tell.

"Do you have a place to stay?" I asked, my voice gentle.

"Yes. It's the same place it always was. It changes but never does, you know what I mean?"

I tried to check her pupils, but couldn't keep my gaze off the road long enough to see if they were dilated.

"Sure."

'What do you mean 'sure'?" She barked, her voice suddenly strong and narrow. "That's the first dishonest thing you've said to me."

I swallowed and didn't respond, suddenly wondering what I'd done. Had I picked up a total psychopath? Maybe it was my mood, but I decided to play along.

"You're right. I don't know what you mean."

She smiled, her face suddenly soft.

"Yes you do. But I appreciate your honesty."

"No, I mean it. I'm not a fan of so-called 'cryptic' statements because usually they don't mean anything. People say things just to say things, or say that they believe something and don't even understand why they believe it in the first place."

"It's not very helpful, is it?" She said.

"It's destructive."

She looked at me, and I could feel her gaze, which had somehow become stronger.

"So what do you believe?"

A blue Civic swerved in front of me, and I grimaced but didn't say anything for a minute.

"I'm Steve, by the way."

She smiled again, and when she didn't say anything, I began to worry.

"Seriously, where can I take you? There has to be someplace-"

"There is."

She pointed, and I sighed when I realized where we were. I pulled into my driveway.
I bent my head over the steering wheel. I knew that I was having a hallucination of some sort, that the woman beside me wasn't real. At least, I was almost positive that she wasn't real.

"I don't understand."

"Good. And you never will. That's the point."

"See, that's exactly the type of BS I hate!" I said, my voice rising. "The point is ALWAYS to understand! That's what it means to be human!"

She looked at me, her scent suddenly overpowering.

"Is it? Your problem, Steve, is the same one most people have. You have never accepted that you are human. You are not God."

"What? I know that!" My voice began to break. "Better than most, I think."

She reached out and patted my knee. Her hand was warm, and at her touch, I felt a surge of emotion.

"Thinking little of yourself is no different than thinking too highly of yourself. Both are a matter of pride. It is discouraging though, when some people use God as a tool to keep others unaware of their humanity, and keep them reaching towards divinity. God sees, but in this, he asks us to stumble and reach toward him. To see God is to accept who you are. How can we say that we believe God became human if we can't even acknowledge our own humanity?"

"I don't know if it's that." I said, my voice steadying a little. "It's just that life never really turns out the way we want it to, I think." I said. "I don't think people are always greedy, I think they're just being... human."

I looked at her, but when she didn't say anything, I turned my gaze back towards my house.

"Why don't we get what we want? I think that's what most of us struggle with. And even when we get what we want, we don't really want it. Or something."

"What do you want, Steve? What do you REALLY want?"

Her question lingered as I lifted my head and stared at the house. I thought about Bethany. About my family. About Mark and Jackie and Mireille and Ernie and all my friends. I thought about Szymon and Nads and all my housemates. And I thought about those who were struggling and broken, the ones who saw no way out and that not only wanted a miracle, but also truly needed one, the ones that touched my heart more than any other.

She shifted her shawl.

"I have a question for you, Steve."

"Okay."

"Do you like working out?" She asked.

I wasn't sure what her question had to do with people getting what they wanted, but then, I was having a conversation with either a highly delusional woman or hallucinating, so I wasn't sure it mattered.

"Sure. I've been working out for a long time."

"Do you like running on the treadmill?"

"Well, no, it's boring. Unless there's a TV it's okay-"

"Have you ever been on a trampoline?"

"Yeah."

I saw where she was going and gave her a rueful smile.

"Life is both a treadmill and a trampoline, Steve. As a trainer and someone who likes to workout, you know that you can't always choose your gym, given the circumstances, but most of the time you can choose how you're going to exercise."

"I've heard this before, you know." I said. "This isn't exactly a new idea."

She laughed.

"No, it isn't a new idea. The difference is that you heard it, but didn't believe it. Didn't accept it. Knowing and understanding are very different things."

I paused.

"Are you an angel?"

She smiled and opened the passenger door. A fresh blast of air rushed into the car. She leaned in and glanced at my notebook on the back seat.

"Keep writing, Steve. It matters. Keep loving people. And tell your readers that even if they can't understand why life makes no sense at times that they should pursue the better. Our lives are a reflection we see only dimly even in the best of times. Tell them not be afraid to ask for God's help, and when they get the choice, to choose the trampoline."

I nodded, unable to speak.

I watched her walk away, her scarf lifting in the breeze, until she disappeared from sight.

Tomorrow

I know you probably don't believe my story. Heck, I don't believe it and it happened to me. Well, I think it happened. Maybe it was a dream. Still, things haven't been the same for me since that day.

The change hasn't come all at once, of course. Some companies and religions like to promote "instant makeover" or a "new life today", but anyone who thinks about it for more than a minute understands the ridiculous (and dangerous) premise to that notion. And in the movies, you only have a couple of hours for lives to be changed forever. But in life, the changes that last forever take just as long. Some days I still forget that, and I feel lost and unsure, but when I think back to that day, I remember her words. Treadmill or trampoline? It helps that I work at a gym, but maybe that's why she chose that example in the first place.

Every day I go to the gym. I like it most days, but it's still work, and I have to be there. In that sense, I guess I'm not choosing. And when it's time to work out, there are days I find myself wanting the treadmill, not because it's fun, but because it's functional. Because I don't have to smile. You can't force happiness, I don't think, but when I bounce on that trampoline, its hard not to laugh a little. I'm not sure what this all means, if anything, but my angel (or whoever she was) told me to tell you, and it really has made a difference in my life.

To embrace God is to accept our humanity. And when we can accept ourselves, in all of our foibles and brokenness and selfish nature, we are not only more likely to ask God for help (especially when it comes to loving other people) but there's a better chance of us finding the trampolines in our life. At least, I think that's what she meant.

So there it is. Another to story to dwell on or brush aside. My only hope is that you will at least think about it, and if it helps in some small way, well, then maybe you can pass it on to someone else. I haven't met many of you, but someday we may meet, and when that happens, maybe you'll have a story for me too. Maybe we can get a coffee and talk about it, after spending a bit of time on the trampoline together.

-Steve

Two Words, One Phrase, and the End of Hope

Saturday Night, 2:30am

I didn't see it the first time I walked outside that evening. I didn't see it when I came back in or later that night when I went outside to spend some time with my housemates on the stoop. By the time I finally said goodnight to Bethany and walked her to the car, I still hadn't noticed the plain manila envelope with my name and address on it. It wasn't until my night was over, when my Friday smile seemed complete, that I chanced to glance upon it, tucked beneath a book at the front door where one of my housemates had left the Friday morning mail. In a very short time, that envelope would turn my Friday happiness to abject discouragement. Its contents would hold up to me a simple question, a phrase that had haunted me for most of my life, and despite the implications, would compel me once more to reflect on them.

But that was still to come.

Friday Evening, 5:20 pm

I'm standing under the awning outside the subway entrance, away from the drizzling rain as the traffic snarls around the corner, horns honking, the cars stuck halfway through the intersection. I love Fridays. No work, some time to write, and the week's wait to see my girl is finally over. Daylight has already started to fade, and the crowds jostle past me along the sidewalk as everyone hurries home for the weekend. A group of teenagers, excited and slightly blind to the people around them, sweep past me. Two construction workers amble along behind them, arguing about the Leafs. Mostly though, I notice the professionals. The suits and sharply clicking heels. There seems an endless stream of them. They stride with good posture as they chat on their cell phones, impervious to the people around them. I glance down at my workout pants and running shoes. Soon enough I'll be heading home, to the tiny room I call home and the house I share with my nine roommates. I watch a man in a dark suit, who looks to be about five years younger than me, stroll by, laughing into his cell phone even as he glances at the shiny silver watch on his wrist. I nod to myself, determined to not give away my Friday happiness or think about what might have been as I head down the stairs to the subway.


When I was a kid, I tended to flit from dream to dream. One year I wanted to be a boxer. No coincidence, it was the year I saw Rocky III. The next year I chanced upon the movie Breakin', while on vacation with my parents, and for a whole summer I wanted to be a professional break-dancer. (Not ideal for the chubby, white suburban kid.) And so it went. From sportscaster to wildlife biologist, I finally 'settled' on professional ministry, believing it was what God wanted from me, and believing my abilities matched that which was required to work in the church.

At first, I was right. I loved the ministry. I loved the people. The purpose. The ideals. The surety of it all. Somewhere along the way however, it started getting messy. I asked too many questions, witnessed too many things being ignored, and could no longer find the willingness to work in a world that seemed so largely composed and ruled by the Western tendency towards commoditization and moral religiosity. Somehow, we'd taken the gospel, and all the hope it contained, and buried it in post-Enlightenment Rationalism, this idea that we have all the answers. That we must have all the answers. That God is a neat package to be delivered by us. That we are Jesus.

I never really adjusted after leaving the cozy world of ministry. No matter what job I took, the world forever seemed strange to me. I bounced from job to job, and as I grew older, watched quietly as my friends grew into homes and families and promotions, even as I would begin yet another 'career.'

I felt like a traveler walking the long roads between towns, stopping to rest for a while, but forever pushing forward. A part of me longed to settle down, but my feet had their own ideas. Perhaps it was the memory of my time in the church, and how it'd felt when I left. This crashing of life and hope when the world I believed in proved itself to be nothing more than a simple human creation that often had little to do with God.


Friday Evening, 5:43 pm

The train is packed, and I'm forced to stand near the doors. The woman beside me, a tall, thick blonde wearing an expensive looking skirt suit, is typing away on her blackberry. She notices me briefly, and with a look of disdain, turns her gaze back to the blackberry. A part of me wants to tell her not to be so egocentric. That she's not that special and that she merely happened to be in my line of sight. Who is she to look at me like that? I can feel my indignation rising, my jaws tightening.

I may wear workout clothes, but just wait until my books are published. Wait until it's my turn to look at you like that.


Leaving the ministry had the lasting effect of this feeling like I was a permanent stranger, but as my inability to feel as if I fit in somewhere deepened, I began to write more, and along the way discovered what would become my singular passion in life. Writing could be done anywhere if one had the discipline. It was writing that saw me through my divorce, writing that helped me move through my battles with depression, and writing that helped me work through the different questions in my life, not the least of which was this sense that I'd irrevocably messed up along the way, and that "normalcy" and "success" would forever be a stranger to me. In writing, I discovered that there was one dream to which I could always return. One place. One hope. One constant outside my faith that would help me navigate the seemingly transient nature of my personality. Year after year, I worked on my craft, occasionally publishing articles in magazines, but knowing that until a publisher said yes to one of my books, I would forever hold myself in doubt as "real" writer.

In some ways, I guess my hope was that the recognition would cement my credentials as someone who had done something, as someone who had accomplished something. It wasn't about the approval of others; so much as it was the approval of myself.


Friday Evening, 5:56 pm

I'm staring at the blonde now, waiting for her to look up so I can sniff and look away. Give her a taste of her own medicine. It's all contrived, I want to say. Sure, you have money and a career, and I might not look like much to you and your rich coterie, but you're just a shallow egg in a world of instant chicken. Just wait until I start publishing books.

My mind, as it often does these past two weeks, goes to my latest book proposal. Three months have passed since I sent it away. I am expecting to hear back from them some time in the next week.

I'd worked hard on my latest project. A year writing the book. Months editing. Another two months on the forty-page proposal. I had picked a publisher suited to my book. The only thing left was to wait.

My excitement builds the more I think about it, and by the time I get off the train I am no longer aware of the blonde or the two lawyers who bustle past me. Throughout the years, I have developed patience when it comes to the pursuit of my dreams. I know the publishing world is fickle. I know that there are tens of thousands with whom I am competing. Still, a part of me believes that perhaps finally, after so many years, my time has come.


Friday Night, 1:20am

I wave as Bethany drives away. As always, a piece of me sighs with sadness and then smiles at what I've been given. It is hard to pursue your dreams, hard to wait for success. For now, I am grateful for my new job, my family and friends. Soon, I tell myself, perhaps very soon, I'll finally realize my dream. I step inside and take off my shoes. As I slide them off to the side, I notice the manila envelope with my name on it.

My hands are shaking as I carry it up the stairs with me. I peel off my coat and gently set it aside. No longer able to wait, I slide my thumb underneath the flap and pry open the contents. The first page is a letter, and within seconds, I have my answer.

"Dear Stephen,
Thank you so much for the opportunity to review your proposal... unfortunately, we are unable to find a place in our publishing schedule for your manuscript, so we are returning your proposal..."

I let the letter slide from my fingers onto the table, and flip through my unmarked forty-page proposal before tossing it to the side. For the moment, I am numb. I've been rejected before, but somehow this one feels different. It feels... complete.

If only I'd stayed at one job. If only I'd accepted the truth about life. If only I'd made better decisions about my career. And about my writing. I'd still be unpublished, but at least I would have something to show for it. A house. A career. Some security. Because of my thoughtless and naive belief in pursuing my dreams, I'd made myself into a poor writer-wanna-be. A writer in name only. And a failure by any measure. I thought about the two lawyers in the subway. I knew that I was burying myself in self-pity, but I couldn't seem to escape it. If only I hadn't bothered to pursue my dream. If only I'd learned to appreciate more the simple things in life, and the rule by which most people lived. Why couldn't I be more normal? Why did I always have to be so...

I slipped my coat on and headed back outside, glancing only once at my carefully worked proposal now scattered across the kitchen table like yesterday's newspaper.

It was drizzling still as I ambled down the driveway. The streetlights reflected off the puddles like hazy film, the quiet of the early hour unusually oppressive. If only. Two words that had haunted me my entire life. I knew the words were dangerous, because they reflected on what could never be. They were hope thieves, words that created space for the not-possible. If only. Two words that could never be used in a positive way. Two words that spoke, not of the future, but of the irreversible past. Comparative in nature, to use the phrase "if only" was to reflect on what never would happen, and do so in the most disparaging nature. Unlike its distant cousin, "what if", that allowed and encouraged hope to endure, "if only" recognized one thing, and one thing alone:

"You failed. You failed and it was your fault. You failed, it was your fault, and you will regret it the rest of your life. Even worse, there is nothing you can do about it. You will never be able to change or alter what you have done."

In the distance, a car splashed down the road. I glanced up at the tree in my neighbour's yard, its leaves gone, glistening in the dim light of the street like a wet stick. I tried to remember how I'd felt moments before, to recall the gratitude, but it was a vague memory that suddenly seemed like another lifetime.

If only.

It was a long time before I finally headed in, and longer still before I fell into a rough sleep.


Sunday Afternoon, 1:30pm.

Another rainy day, only today is colder. I am outside, holding my coffee to warm my hands. I am still not sure how I feel. The weekend has given me time to process my rejection, but if I dwell on it for too long I can feel the emotions, tender and bruised, rising within me. I am hoping that to feel some encouragement. To be able to look forward again as I did just this past week. And most importantly, that I will be able to encourage people with my words and life. For now, however, I am lost in a cloud of sadness.

I know that I will bounce back, that I will once again press forward, hopeful and excited about the one passion around which I have carried for so long, and which has carried me on its shoulders for even longer. At least, I think I will bounce back. For the moment, I feel truly insignificant.

I feel like a failure.


Sunday Afternoon, 3:20pm.
I am in my room now, my papers and books scattered as always across my desk. My TV is off. The cursor blinks in front of me, and from my speakers comes the soothing sounds of Thomas Newman and Alan Silvestri. "If only" is more than a phrase. It is a statement of belief. It is a creed of the impossible and the destroyer of hope. It speaks the language of regret, and offers us coal in the place of diamonds. Perhaps the worst part is that it forces us to look at our past and give ourselves a failing grade. It doesn't allow for natural human weakness, for the rhythms of life, or for the possibility of chance. And most importantly, it does not allow a place for God. It speaks with surety about what was lost, and offers us nothing in return.

But life is surely more than that, isn't it? I am struck by the number of people, who like myself, wrestle with this idea of failure. This idea of a "progressive" life. What if life isn't supposed to be progressive? What if life is more than the next promotion, the bigger house, the better clothes? What if life is really not about the success we find, but the character we create along the way? The one that says "yes" to God, and "yes" to those around us.

Eliminating the phrase does not make things easy. Even now, I can feel the inner bruises, and the scars I know it will leave from this latest rejection. I wish I had a better answer about where God is in this process. I wish I knew why my friend, Ernie, who is the best artist I know, couldn't get his pieces into a gallery. I wish I knew why the relationship between talent and success made little sense, and why some people fulfilled their dreams and while others spent their lives in pursuit.

What I do know is that to find success and to fulfill your dreams are not necessarily the same thing. That to hope for the future is always better than to dwell on what never will be. And that the pain we feel when we experience failure is better than the emptiness of a life on the treadmill to nowhere. In that, this feeling, yes, of pain, is the feeling of a life hungry and hopeful. The rich and fabulous can have their cell phones and surety. Let them have their assured airs and marbled moments. Perhaps the life worth living is not the one we see on television or in the magazines, but the one carved out of the inevitable sorrow in the pursuit of our dreams.

"If only" may whisper that we are failures, and for a time, it may even convince us that it is true. My prayer then, this week, is that we would remember the most influential person who ever walked the planet never published a single book. Never traveled more than 35 miles from his hometown. And lived as a simple carpenter for most of his life.

To follow your dreams is to travel the road less traveled. And while there may be times you get lost, times when hope seems a distant memory, and times when the loneliness of the pursuit threatens to pull you under, remember that the only life worth living is the one you've been given, far beyond the shiny medals of self righteousness of those who would look down on you. Sadness will come, but only for a time. Pursue the life you were born to live, and hold fast to the passions of your heart. It will not be easy, but then, I don't think it is supposed to be. It is in our deepest sorrows that we discover who we truly are, and it is in those moments, more than any other, when we face up to the waves of doubt and discouragement, when we acknowledge what has happened and yet press forward, that we achieve something greater than our dreams.

-Steve

The Audacity of Hope-lessness

He's there again. Curled inside the subway entrance, his emaciated body prone, his hand clutched tightly around a bottle. The other arm is tucked under his head as a pillow, his faded sweater draped over his still form like a flag. I pause, as I always do, and then walk past. It makes me feel, but I can't identify the emotion. Pity. Compassion. Anger. Indifference. Every time it's different, and it worries me that a sad sight would make me feel something other then sad. Must our response to the world always emanate from our own selfish projections? Must it always be about me?

It's been a long day and I try not to think about it as I head down the long flight of stairs to get to the train. It will be good to sit down. This past week I received a few emails, but none that touched me so deeply as one from a dear friend, who had read my blog and, in her own way, echoed the comments of others. "How am I to find hope, as you say, when my life seems only to return to the same troubles and heartaches, time after time?"

The train arrives and it is surprisingly empty. I take a seat near the back and ease into it. Two women drape themselves into the seats across from me, carrying their conversation onboard. Their voices are loud and angry, but when I close my eyes, I am able, for a time, to ignore them.

I'm thinking about my friend, and about the many who have written me, not just this past week, but the past few years, telling me their story and asking the same question, if phrased differently, about hope. How do we find hope in a world that returns, as it were, to the same rotten pool, year after year, century after century, civilization after civilization? Despite our accrued knowledge, the human condition has changed little. Moreover, if history teaches us anything, it is that while the world changes, people do not. We all want joy. We all search for love. And we all need hope. And yet, no matter how rich our country, no matter how high our education, too often hope remains an ideal. Very rarely does it enter into our life as anything approaching reality.



"That bitch needs to be shot."

I open my eyes, no longer able to block out the conversation from the two women, who are cursing and complaining about their day at work at so loud a volume I find my hand groping for the remote. The train is two stops from home, but the force of their negativity is so stifling I nearly ask them to be quiet and complain somewhere else. Not everyone wants to share your anger. We all have problems. I take a deep breath and swallow my frustration. I've had days like that, too.

Two seats over is a copy of the morning newspaper. On the cover is a picture of Sarah Palin, but it isn't another Lenscrafter advertisement. She photographs well (with one exception), and she is always smiling. But listening to her is difficult. The words from the "pit-bull with lipstick" seem quite in contrast with her smiling pictures. Not particularly eloquent, she is forceful and direct and, beneath the looks and smiles, seems every bit as vicious as the dog in her now infamous "joke."

In the middle of the paper is another article about Obama, about the man "selling" hope. No doubt "Obama-mania" is, as one writer expressed, a "runaway train", with the finances and smooth workings of a machine-like campaign. And Obama himself, who uses the word "hope" perhaps more than any politician in recent memory, at times feels as abstract as the theme of his campaign. But is he real? Does he really believe in hope? Or is he merely a projection of that which we all long for?


The train squeals to a stop, and the two women leave, still complaining, their voices carrying until the doors hiss to a close and washes the subway in blessed silence.

If hope were easy, it would never hold the thematic weight of a presidential campaign. If hope were something endemic to the nature of humanity, it would not capture our imagination to the extent that it does. And it certainly would not hold us in its wake as such an integral, if mysterious and hidden, principle for a better life. That said, as difficult as it seems to find hope in our lives, the audacity of hopelessness seems equally shocking to me.


The train stops for the final time, and I wearily climb the three flights of stairs to the surface. The sky has begun to fall, and the tall glass buildings outside the subway seem almost liquid in their reflections. I pause at the hot dog stand just outside the exit. They remind me of times when I was young, when my friends would come over during the summer months, when we would play basketball in the driveway and the carport would be filled with the sounds and smells of hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill. I'm still deciding if I should have one when a man in his mid-forties wearing a gray suit and red power tie steps in front of a woman in line and orders before she has a chance. The look she gives him could scald a small planet, but he blithely ignores her and takes his time fixing his food. The look on his face is as empty as his actions. I shake my head, my decision made, and head toward my car.

Unlike many, I do not believe hopelessness to be merely a reflection of our education or circumstances. Hopelessness is a reflection of our attitude. It is true that often it is hard to find our way, when unmet expectations and disappointments crowd our life. People lose hope (especially as they age) because, like the woman at the hot dog stand, they realize that things will never really change. That people will be selfish. That people will disappoint us. That life will never be truly easy. And that the distractions so easily available in our culture are probably worth more of our time than the relationships around us, the ones that too often break our hearts. Hopelessness, I think, is a direct result of our loss of faith in humanity. The Enlightenment taught us that humanity was progressing, that we were becoming more civilized. More just. More humane. But any casual glance at history, and at the world around us, reveals otherwise.

The church has done it too. Religion has often taught that to follow a particular viewpoint, a particular creed, is what we need to keep us safe and give us hope. If not now, then certainly in the afterlife. We hold fast to these creeds, cling to them as if our lives depend on them, because, in so many ways, they do. It is the way, seemingly the only way, we can justify the extremely un-relational tendencies in our lives. We pass the broken woman on the street corner, ignore the news about the poor, and then hand out tracts and pamphlets and argue with strangers to promote "God's love." And yet, in those small, still moments, we wonder why the darkness still follows us, don't we?

The day has turned to twilight, and the heavens burn a bright orange as the sun sinks low for another day. I hunch forward, pulling up my hood, eager to be home. I remember what it is like to be without hope. I remember because I still wrestle with it at times. What I've learned however, is that often my lack of hope is a result of my own unwillingness to spend my life for those around me. It seems a paradox, but I've learned that the only way to find hope, is to give it away.


My car is alone on the street. I'm the last one to go home tonight, it seems. About ten feet from my car, an elderly couple is crossing the street. They walk slowly, holding hands. At the sidewalk, the man gently helps his wife up onto the curb. She smiles at him, and her smile says more than words could convey. I watch them shuffle past me, their hands gripped tightly, their bodies leaning together, until they pass from view. My stomach clenches, and I can feel the emotions rising inside me. I shake my head, breathing deep, happy to have witnessed such a tender moment.

Hopelessness asks one simple question: "Why bother?" A person of hope has only one answer: "I exist to love the people around me. It is who I am. More importantly, it is why I am."

To my knowledge, serving others is the only way to stay off the inevitable treadmill of self-perpetuating disappointments in the endless search to "have more" and "get more." And accepting God's help is the only way I know to keep us on the right path.

The truth is that we will never find the life we seek through our successes. Not through our accomplishments or even the recognition we receive in the moments we are unselfish. Hope, real hope, the kind that breathes into your life and fills your soul, exists only when we accept what it means to be human. So long as our lives serve to echo the love that God offers to us, so long as we do all we can to give encouragement and love and yes, hope, to the people around us, we will know what it means to walk as we were meant to walk, and to live as we were meant to live.

My car starts easily, and for a moment, I am still. I breathe a prayer of thanks for my job and my life, for those who have made my life possible.

There is an audacity to hopelessness that most of us do not like to admit. Some days I prefer to dwell on what isn't. On what I've lost and on the failures and disappointments in my life. It's easier then working on this thing called hope, and this other thing called humanity. People may never change, but we can.

You have much to offer the ones around you. Over the years I have no doubt that you have faced discouragement, that people have cut you down and cut you off, that loved ones have abused your love and taken advantage of you. I understand it because I've been there too. We all have.

My prayer then, this week, is that you will realize how much God loves you. Not one we so often create, the one we remember from our childhood, with all the petty rules and harsh vindictiveness of humanity, but the Creator who is so much greater than we could ask or imagine. The One who loved us so much that for a time, He joined our race to help lead us toward home. Toward a life of hope. More than any religion, precious is this understanding, this understanding of a God who longs to extend his love to us, and to those in our lives who need it most. I believe it is in those moments, when we are able to ignore the pressing urge to serve ourselves, when we see in others what we so desperately long for in our own lives, and when we push through our own struggles to offer just a bit of light to those around us, that we will find our path, and hope will come home to stay.

-Steve

When Autumn Leaves

The breeze was gentle, enough to ruffle the leaves still clinging to the branches. I hustled along the sidewalk beneath their bright oranges and golden yellows towards the subway. About half of the leaves had already fallen, and every few strides, another would drift from the branches at the gentlest push of the wind. It was hard to believe that autumn was nearly gone, and that very soon winter would be here, in all of its dark and icy coldness, with its blustery winds and heavy snow storms.

It wasn't that I didn't like winter, even the long winter here in Canada. Every season had its high points, and for every storm was a night of peaceful snowfall, when the sky seemed luminous, and the world quiet and restful. No, it wasn't about the approaching winter, mostly it was about time. How fast life moved as you got older. I slipped on my toque. Summer had just left and already I could feel the iciness in the wind.

Seasons change.

I left the sunlight as I moved down the endless flight of stairs and into the dark tunnels, past the elderly Busker playing a polka on his accordion. The music brought back memories. Family gatherings and weddings growing up. I remembered taking my first sip of wine at my cousin's wedding when I was fifteen, procuring a cigar from my uncle and doing Humphrey Bogart impersonations all night. I remembered the laughter and careless joy that seemed so easy and endless. Mostly I remembered the striking sense of hope and optimism that permeated the clinking glasses and fresh scents of cologne and perfume. Through it all we danced, polkas and waltzes, and of course, the chicken dance, my favourite as a teenager. (What kid knows how to do a waltz?)

The subway is nearly empty. Finch station is the start of the line, and we will pick up people as we approach the downtown core. The train fills up slowly, and I watch the people as they file in. Some are smiling, but most have that faraway glaze to their eyes so common on public transport. With my shaved head and relative bulk, no one sits next to me. I'm not offended. Subway seats are too small anyway.

The music from the accordion is still in my head. Usually I work on my files or study on my short trip to work, but today I am able to let go the ever pressing urge to "be productive."
I haven't been to a family wedding in a long time. The gatherings stopped about ten years ago, and when I moved seven hours away to Ottawa, my contact with my extended family dwindled.
Unfortunately, the little contact I've had hasn't been encouraging. Some of the relationships have lasted, but not many. The hope and idealism I felt as a teenager at those gatherings now rings false, and if I dwell on it for too long the disappointment becomes heavy.

Seasons change.

The sky is bright as I leave the tunnel, but the tall buildings of downtown Toronto cast the busy sidewalk in a cold shade, and the new winter wind already has people hunched over as they hurry along. This is my third job in a year. The gym is a bright and positive place, and I like both my co-workers and clients. I never expected to be working as a personal trainer at the age of thirty-six. By now, I assumed I would be a senior pastor somewhere, established, wearing collared shirts and greeting families every Sunday morning as a religious shepherd.
These days, I wear workout clothes and running shoes, working alongside people whose backgrounds in science and kinesiology and nutrition dwarf my years of personal study in those areas as I study and struggle to catch up. It isn't what I expected, but in so many ways, I am doing what I have always done. Working alongside people to help them grow and adapt, as life casts upon them the sorrows and heartaches and disappointments endemic to the human experience.

Seasons change.

We all have our stories, don't we? We all have our youthful memories, when everything seemed so alive and full of possibilities, when we looked upon the world with eyes of hope, when our desire to change the world and our expectations to create change were not just dreams, but living realities. As we get older however, it becomes increasingly difficult to hold fast to what we once dreamed so vividly. The weddings become bitter divorces, the smiles we remember seem fake now, and through our adult eyes, we recognize the too often desperate nature of "celebration."

Buried in these memories, even when do not articulate them in a conscious fashion, it becomes increasingly easy to allow cynicism to rule our hearts. It becomes easy to say to God "you don't exist; my life is not what you promised." It becomes easy to let the burdens of care for the world to be swallowed into the winter wind and the seemingly endless cycle of disappointment, to stay behind the mortar of our black and white "realities" and let hope stay buried in the past.
We all make choices, and our past struggles often make it difficult to choose hope in the face of such an absurd and tragic existence. Our memories tell us that all does not end well, and that most things actually end very badly. Perhaps it is this loss, the loss of our idealistic innocence, that is the most difficult to overcome. It takes away our ability to believe that something more, something greater, is still possible. And when that happens, the lights in our imaginations, which once burned so brightly in every room, slowly flicker and die. And as they die, we die along with them.

Seasons change, as they always will. And as in our life, the question becomes simple. What will we do? Will we allow ourselves to be permanently trapped by that which has come before? Will we forever hold ourselves prisoners of our mistakes and errors of years past? Or will we resolve to make the present, the now, a place of possibility once more?

I still remember vividly those times with my family. And while I am saddened by the losses and heartache that has followed so many of those hopeful moments, how so many of the people close to me have suffered, colouring those memories with sadness seems not only unfair, but also wrong. They were happy moments. Were they true? Did I really understand what was going on? Perhaps not. But it shouldn't diminish those times.

Sorrow casts about like pigeons in a downtown park. It is easy. Hope is more difficult, and sometimes we must strain to look forward, to use our imagination to see past the hurts and tragedies of our memories and the lives around us.

Seasons change, my friends, as we do. My prayer this week is that you will not lose yourself in the disappointments of unmet expectations, but that you will reach forward and embrace the possibility of a new season. The world is not what we make of it, but what we make of our world lies within our own willingness to adapt to the seasons that inevitably come and go. My prayer is that despite what you see around you, despite the struggle and tragedy of life, that you would dip into your imagination and see again what it could be, and find hope once more.

-Steve