The One Thing Every Dreamer Must Do

The house is quiet today. Bethany works late on Tuesdays, and its just me and our two Garfields, Octavian and Nelson (17 and 23lbs), who are lounging by the front window. As someone who has waited their entire life to write professionally, it's now time to make up my glamorous to-do list for the day.

1. Sweep
2. Straighten
3. Clean the bathroom
4. Grocery shopping
5. Clean the litter box
6. Edit a piece written by a friend
7. Write a blog
8. Clean Bethany's lunch dishes from today
9. Make and prepare Bethany's lunch and dinner for tomorrow
10. Clean kitchen and put all dishes away
11. Prep coffee for tomorrow.
12. Write 2000 words in my new novel, Storms
13. Edit early chapters from previous novel
14. Spend at least an hour reading fiction (Not a chore, but it needs to be included, writers HAVE to read)
15. Three twitter comments a day
16. Attend to various social media platforms


Welcome to the life of a professional writer! And if it looks vaguely familiar, perhaps something some of you from a certain vintage remember, Yes. I, a 210lb weightlifter with a shaved head, is a traditional housewife.

Four months ago I was fired (something I will talk about later this week. Teaser: let's just say don't stand up for yourself if you don't have a union.) and my wife picked up a new job the same day I was released. For a variety of reasons, I decided to take a shot a becoming a pro. Which meant I needed to assume all those other jobs that my wife had previously shared.

That list may not look like much, but if you TRULY want your house to be clean, that list is a fourteen hour day. And its every day. My one break comes on the weekends, when I don't blog. Can any women relate to this? Anyone at all? (And I know that I have a number of readers who also have kids, on top of that list, and they're still working on pursuing their dreams. Which, I have to say, totally kicks ass.)

Which leads me to the point of this post: I was raised in a traditional home, my mom worked part-time and stayed home with the kids. She did the cooking and cleaning while my dad went to work every day from Monday to Friday. He handled the cars, the house repairs, the bills. back in the eighties, in the small Catholic town where I was raised, this was not unusual.

Maybe it was because I was the youngest, I don't know, but I was a dreamer from the time I was a kid, though it wasn't until I was twenty-four until I figured out what I wanted to do. Only problem was that I had no idea how to get there. I worked as a youthworker during the day and wrote at night. The writing only paid sporadically and the youth work paid little.

It didn't matter. The point was the dream. I liked helping kids and I loved writing stories, so I went my own way.

It's the one thing every dreamer MUST do, and there is no compromise here.

EVERY DREAMER MUST WALK THEIR OWN PATH, REGARDLESS OF WHAT OTHER PEOPLE TELL THEM.

Obviously, that doesn't mean everyone needs to quit their job and become a full-time house husband or house wife. (We must still be responsible.) But you can't be ashamed of it, either. I know a lot of men that would never do what I'm doing, because they would feel (wrongly) diminished by it.(This is particularly true of those of certain vintage and culture. My hope is that we'll move away from that towards the equality. True equality.) Frankly, it doesn't bother me. It doesn't bother me that Bethany knows more about cars than I do (I like the red ones) or that she fixes things around the house or that she handles the budget. What matters is that I do the things I'm good at, like care giving, and write.

You can't let others dictate who you are and who you want be and where you want to go. You have to walk your own path. You have to own it. You have to be proud of it.

This has been a big year for me. When Storms, my latest novel, is done, that will be four novels in sixteen months. I'm proud of all of them. An editor is looking at my last three this month. If the situation for us changes the next two months, I'll find a job, and we'll figure out where we'll go from there as a couple. But no one else will dictate what I can or cannot do. What I should or should not do. Whether it's because I'm a man or because it isn't "normal" for a man to do the cooking and cleaning or for any other reason.

Dreamers choose their own path. Why? Because they must.

Whatever your goal in life is, whatever your dream, don't let anyone tell you what road to take. Choose the one that causes your stomach to dance and your heart to beat more quickly. We only go around this planet once. Why not make the best of it?

Missing the Miracle - Part III

*****
The religious leaders were waiting for him. David bit his lip and watched the young boy scuttle off into the crowds. The large man spoke first, rustling importantly under his robes.

"It is good that you came to the Temple to give glory to God, because the Rabbi who healed you is a sinner."

David let his jaw drop. As a blind beggar, he'd learned little about politics. Most of his life had been about survival. But still, it didn't make any sense. Why weren't they praising God for the young Rabbi? He remembered what his father had whispered to him however, and how scared his parents had been.

"I don't know if he is a sinner or not." He paused. "What I know is that I was blind and now I can see."

One of the other priests, a short, bristly man with thin shoulders, shuffled his hands together.

"What did he do to you? What kind of black magic did he use to open your eyes?"

David stared at the intent faces looking at him. Among them, there was not a hint of joy or compassion or excitement. He glanced over their shoulders and up towards the rising columns and sacred carvings of the Temple. The idea of the Temple, of what it meant, was taught to every Jewish boy growing up, including those born in sin like himself. Somehow, David knew that his faith would never be the same. It was as if something had died inside him. The Rabbi had opened his eyes, but David was no longer sure it was a gift.

"We asked you a question."

"What do you want me to say?" David said. "I told you already. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you want to become his disciples?"

He bit his tongue as soon as he'd said it, but it was too late. The group of them, as one, seemed to rise above him.

"You little jackass! What the hell do you know? We follow Moses!"

"You're nothing but an ignorant little piss ant! You probably do follow that blasphemous rebel! We know where Moses comes from. Where does he come from?"

David felt his ears burn. He'd been called names and insulted his entire life, and for the most part, he simply accepted it. Not today. Not in this place. Not after what he'd been given.

"What? You don't know where he comes from? He opened my eyes! God doesn't listen to sinners! And no one has ever even heard of a man born blind suddenly able to see! If he wasn't from God, he couldn't do anything."

The large man moved suddenly, at a speed that belied his size, and seized David by the back of his cloak. He dragged him to the top of the stairs in the outer courts and threw him down the stone steps.

"Guards!"

He moved down the steps to where David lay groaning, and kicked him roughly.

"You ignorant piece of pig swine. Of all people, a sinner from the time you were born. How dare you lecture us!" He paused and stepped back. "You will never set foot in this Temple again!"

A squad of six Temple guards came running. He pointed to David.

"Get that little turd out of my sight."

Two of the guards picked David up roughly under his armpits and dragged him through the courtyard. People looked over in astonishment, but moved quickly out the way. They dumped him outside on the Temple steps.

"You heard the priest." The guard said. "Don't come back."

David watched them tromp back inside, and lay in misery as the crowd flowed around him. Some of them glanced at the bedraggled form and offered a look of sympathy, but most passed without noticing, or seemed offended by his presence. David felt himself grow small inside. It was horrible to beg for your survival, but never before had he witnessed such cruelty. His eyes had been opened, and as a result, everything he had ever believed in, everything he'd ever hoped for was gone. His parents would disassociate themselves from him after what he'd done today in offending the priests. He would never worship at the Temple. And the only friends he knew, the community of beggars and poor, were gone as well.

Maybe the priests were right about the Rabbi. David closed his eyes and felt the tears run down his face, remembering the way Jesus had touched him, had spoken so gently. He pushed himself to his feet. It didn't matter now, what was one beggar to a man like that? David crossed down in front of the steps. His feet lurched and a sharp pain in his side forced him to go slowly as he looked for a new place to beg.

******

-Steve

Missing the Miracle - Part II

It didn't take long for David to find his feet, to match his steps to the cacophony of sounds around him. He walked in wide-eyed wonder, gawking at the colours and people around him as if he was in a trance. Women strolled by in bright, shiny robes. The merchants flagged their wares, and David had to resist the temptation to touch everything. His hand brushed against the stucco walls and he watched as a group of soldiers tramped by. He could not seem to stop smiling. The hot air swept dust into his face and he ducked his head to avoid it. When he opened his eyes, his step faltered as he thought about what God had done for him, and for a moment, he could not move.

What have I done to deserve such a gift?

"Hey! He looks like one of the beggars over by the pool." A woman's voice said.

"What are you talking about, Myrna?"

"I'm telling you, he's the blind beggar."

David had a hard time locating the people talking, as he was still adjusting to associating sight and sound. He finally saw them, off to his right. A small group had gathered, and they were pointing at him. David recognized some of the voices. He recognized the voice of a large, bearded man, who was wearing an expensive looking robe. The woman, Myrna, was older, and she was staring at him as if he was a murderer.

David walked a few strides towards them.

"I'm telling you, Myrna, that can't be the beggar. He was blind!"

"No, um, sorry to interrupt." David said. "I'm that man."

"How were your eyes opened? Do we look like idiots?"

David glanced nervously at the people starting to gather. He swallowed and forced himself to continue. God had given him this gift, and it was his responsibility to tell the story.

"It was the Rabbi they call Jesus. (David had learned the young Rabbi's name from Benjamin) He put some mud on my eyes and told me to go wash in the Pool. So I, um, I went and washed, and now I can see."

The bearded man did not seem impressed. He stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully. After the burst of emotions from his friends, David did not understand why these people were not happy for him. Why were they so upset?

"And where is this young Rabbi now?" The bearded man asked him.

David looked around the milling street and realized that in his excitement, he'd briefly forgotten about the one who had opened his eyes.

"I don't know."

The bearded man looked at David one last time and strode away, along with the woman, arguing about something to do with the Sabbath. David watched them go, watched the crowd disperse, and took a deep breath. He looked up at the sky, and at the sun. He wished he could identify the colours, but it didn't matter. It all seemed so beautiful. He slowly started towards the Temple. He hadn't forgotten it was the Sabbath, but he wondered what it had to do with him. The people flowed around him, and David felt small and lost in the crowd.

The sun was high now, and it was hot and oppressive as he made his way to the Temple. His dingy robe clung to him like a second skin. He narrowly avoided being run down by a cart, and when he finally looked up a few paces later, his breath caught at the sight in front of him.
The dome rose majestically, shimmering under the afternoon sun, the gleaming white porticoes and columns rising so high they seemed to reach Yahweh Himself. People swarmed up and down the Temple steps. The bleating of the sheep and goats blended with the acrid scent of burnt meat and the sweet perfumes and sweated stench of the people. All of it rising towards God from the most sacred of places. David swallowed hard and started nervously up the steps. He wasn't sure what he was to do. He needed to find a priest, but he didn't have money for a sacrifice. He spotted a priest near the edge of the outer court and headed toward him. He would know what to do.

*****
David sat in silence. He'd been waiting for an hour. His thoughts kept turning over the events of the day. The young Rabbi who had healed him. Leaving his friends. The shock of witnessing the world with his eyes for the first time. He'd told his story to the priest, who had listened in sympathetic silence, though David had no idea why the man was sympathetic. Didn't he know that he had witnessed a miracle?

"Is this him?" The voice was loud and imperious.

"Yes, sir."

The second voice belonged to the bearded man David had met earlier. He did not recognize the first man, but judged from his robes and manner that he was somehow important. A few others followed in behind, and soon David was the center of the group, where he was quickly hustled into a private corner.

"Now then," the first man said, "Tell us how you were healed."

David shifted from side to side.

"Um, the Rabbi Jesus put mud on my eyes and told me to wash them off in the Pool. I did, and then I could see."

The bearded man coughed and put a meaty hand in the air.

"I told you that rabbi is not from God. He heals on the Sabbath!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Elam. How can a sinner heal?"

The group of clergy turned towards each other, and soon David was forgotten. He slid back further into the corner, thinking about the kindness with which the young Rabbi had spoken to him. He ran his hands over the carved stone wall, and kept his head down while the leaders argued.

What did I do wrong, God? Why are they so angry?

"What have you to say about him?" One of the leaders said suddenly, stepping close enough that David could smell the garlic on his breath.

"I-I think he is a prophet."

"Bah! I don't even believe this boy was ever blind! How do we know he's not just creating some great story for himself?"

The bearded man frowned.

"I thought you'd say that. I had his parents brought here. Bring them in"

David's eyes widened. His parents!

"David?" His mother's voice was shaky. She was smaller than he thought she would be, bent a little from age, with a wide face and long hair. A tremulous smile crossed her face. Standing beside her was a tall, lean man wearing a worn robe.

"Mom?"

She nodded, and David rushed to hug his mother. Tears flowed down her face as she embraced her son.

"Mom! I can see, mom!"

"I know, son." She cupped his cheek and stared at him. His father stood stiffly to the side. He pulled himself from his mother's embrace and moved to his dad, who seemed to be battling his own emotions.

"Dad..." David's voice trailed.

His father gave him fierce, quick hug. David closed his eyes, remembering the sour smell of his father's reassuring embrace from his childhood. His father suddenly whispered into his ears.

"Be careful what you say, son. The priests are going after that Rabbi."

David was confused but didn't say anything. He moved to the side as his father addressed the clergy.

"We can tell you that he is our son, and that he was born blind. But how he can see now, we do not know. Ask him, he is of age."

David watched his mother tuck herself in behind his dad. Both of them stood rock still, and David realized that they were scared. But why? Why would they be scared?

The priests looked at the small family and waved them away, with a warning to David not to go far. They would speak to him again. David walked to the edge of the outer courts with his parents.

"What did you mean, dad, about the Rabbi Jesus?"

His father's lips were tight.

"The Temple doesn't like him. They say he is a blasphemer. The crowds follow him, and he is very... unconventional. He says things about Samaritans and women that, frankly, are pretty upsetting." His dad paused. "Protect yourself, son. Say what they want to hear and get out. Remember, you can live in community now. I think I can help you find work!"

At this, David's mother broke down and embraced her son.

"I'm so happy for you, my son. So happy."

David felt tears come to his eyes as he let his mother go and waved goodbye to them. He watched as they made their way slowly through the gates and out of sight. A few minutes later, a small boy ran up to him, and told him the elders would see him again. David nodded, looking back where his parents had just disappeared, and followed the boy back inside.

*****

-Steve

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