At theend of the day, after all is said, and all is done, you want to be home.
Enclosed by four walls, it's the place where you can be the most comfortable.
Every utensil, every book, every piece of furniture is mapped out in your brain. Temperature controllable, doors lockable, and lights adjustable, it's your space. The world is now a guest, that you can invite in or keep out.
It's no wonder the slang word for a close friend is Homie. Although often surrounding, strangers summon loneliness. In dark cold streets, little safety or comfort can be found. Your heart may beat the rhythm as baseball fans, Homerun...Homerun...Homerun!
After the player has hit the ball, thrown down the bat, dodged getting out, he must then run home. Sometimes he may even have to slide, jump, or crawl. But once there, he is safe. No matter how dirty, torn, or scarred he is, his team rejoices.
Look up on your computer screen and you will see home is just a click away. You can always return to where it all begins.
Wherever you are you want it to feel homey, but you don't want to look homely.
Being home for long periods of time makes you crazy, yet being away for long periods of time makes you sick.
Ultimately after after all is done, you look homeward "...you realize that the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore...all of the sudden even though you have some place to put your stuff, that idea of home is gone...or maybe it's like this rite of passage...you will never have that feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, for your kids, for the family you start. It's like a cycle or something" (Garden State).
I live it daily. The older I get the more I realize how little we all know. Everything we do is an act of faith. We are constantly in the ring fighting our challenges. Some of these challenges are self imposed, most however come naturally without coxing. As we grow older and toughen up, the challenges do as well. They just change form.
Gratefully we have our coaches and our fans cheering us on. But ultimately, its us that throws and takes the punches, not them.
Family may at times tap in, but we are the main fighter in our ring.
We must practice, we must prepare, and we must pray. These actions come from our choices.
Choices are like friends. We meet them daily. We worry about them. We want lots of them, yet once we do, we find we only really want a close few.
How then do we win? What is winning? In the game of Life, the fastest person, with the most money and cards won. But, in boxing and in life, that's not always how it works.
The fighter who fights a good fight and overcomes his opponent wins.
A winner lives his life.
Daily pour yourself a big bowl of life, savory what you know, toughen up, and fight faithfully.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, the clock says. I can't ignore it. I can't escape it. I can't function without it.
Father time has been with us since we were born. The hour, the day, the month, and the year were all recorded by him. And in the inevitable future, the hour, the day, the month, and the year of our death will all be recorded by him.
Although he's old, he's quite the runner. Often so fast that I get left behind. If only I could keep up, then I wouldn't be late. If only I had his time management, then I wouldn't miss out on anything. But I don't.
It seems as though we spend our whole lives trying to please him and master his schedule. We are slaves, wearing his numbers on our bodies. These numbers change, causing us to check and recheck our status. He keeps good watch on us, each area in a different zone.
He even adjusts his schedule twice a year to keep us on our toes. Does this daylights savings time really help us? Maybe its all a big lie, an advertising angle thought up by Mr. Time to confuse and control.
I had dinner with Father Time the other night, of course at his table. The oven timer sounded and dinner was served. After seconds were eaten and my stomach was full, we spoke of times past, memories, and the future. He didn't say much, mostly listened, then pulled out the present. The alarm then sounded, it was time to get up. The sun had risen and life had begun, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
Music somehow combines various vivacious voices into a vibrating victory. Each instrument plays a part, producing a distinct sound or tone.
Similarly, in public education, in college, and in the workplace comes those great group projects. Although everyone is trapped with each other in the same square building for a few hours daily, often with the same purpose, everyone is different. Relationships are formed at various levels, from "I only talk to you here," to "lets hang out after," and to "I don't know that person." Then suddenly by fate or some force, these social boundaries are disrupted. The assignment comes, to work with an intimate few of these people.
Parents teach their children not to associate with strangers. There is danger, ulterior motives, and the unknown. Do these fears apply to group project members?
Its only one grade. Its only one assignment. Its only one project. Yet, how much energy, time, and thought is put into this work? Well it depends on the individual within the group. There's the person who does nothing. The person who does everything. The person with all the ideas. The person who has good ideas, but says nothing. The person who takes charge, and everyone else who secretly disagrees with this self-appointed leader.
We learn and accomplish so much from these assignments. There is a reason they are called Group Projects and not Projects Done by a Group. Math projects have to do with math, science projects have to do with science, financial projects have to do with finance. Thus, group project have to do with studying groups.
Maybe the assigners of these projects are conducting social experiments. Maybe its just plain entertainment, forming odd combinations of personalities, styles, and values. Either way the composers would echo, their is much to be observed and studied.
Everyone is different. These differences are exciting. We all have our quarks, judgments, and talents. As they combine they form some sort of musical symphony. At times; wrong notes are played, people forget their parts, or fail to tune their instruments. Yet with some effort and preparation, music is played and projects are completed.
As children we were all asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” With light glistening from our wishful pure eyes we responded. “An Astronaut!” “A teacher!” “Oprah!” “The President!” “A Scientist!” These same ambitions carried over to Halloween. It was the one night of the year when we were those people. We had the mask, the cape, or the boots. We often pretended to be Superman, Wonder Woman, Spiderman, or Batman. We saw those people as Jerry Seinfeld would say not as fictional characters but as future career options. We wanted and expected to save the world, because the world revolved around us.
Sadly these dreams and free candy lose their savor during the teenage years. We soon indulge in judgment, envy, laziness, failure, and presumption. Like candy we find it easy to devour and give freely. However, unlike Halloween it’s passed out daily. The supplier is expectation.
We expect a future. We expect success. We expect an ideal partner. So what do we do? We learn and we work even when we fail. We date, we judge, we breakup, we love, and we marry. We are somewhat still our selfish kid self dressed up as an adult. The expectations change from a bag full of candy to a bag full of ideas.
Expectations are like celebrities. We all have our favorites. We idealize them, emulate them, and we follow them. Yet seldom if ever meet them. And when and if we do they may not be what we thought.
These dreams, hopes, aspirations, or standards affect everything. Tomorrow you will get up in the morning because you expect the sun to have brought up the day. You will drive to work because you expect to get there. You will do your job because you expect a pay check. However you also expect some things to go wrong. Your alarm may not go off. You may get in a car accident. You may even get fired.
Good or bad, expectations bring power. Without them we would never be able to reason or respond rationally. Nothing would happen. There would be no advancements in technology. No books to read or blogs to write. There would be neither school nor work. We would starve, having no food for why would we farm if we don’t expect fruit? Why would we raise livestock if we didn’t expect to use them?
Why? That is the ultimate question. Without that reason, without that hope, we would be hopeless. Life would be nothing but despair.
The wishful light from childhood is still glowing. It may have dimmed, but it can be brightened. We can put on our daily costumes as an employee, a teacher, or maybe The President and head out into the world assured that there is good ahead. Keep expecting, but expect the unexpected.
The pop can, the crumbled up tissue, the Albertsons' bag, the Snickers' wrapper, and the McDonalds paper bag. We have all seen them, stepped on them, or walked around them. Our minds have subconsciously calculated the spot where the half eaten Big Mac was flung from the car window, as we examined the Mcfries travel path on the road. This garbage is everywhere. Who is doing it? More importantly why are they just throwing it on the ground, when they could be throwing it into a bag that will be hauled off and then put under the ground?
As I often ponder over this question and weigh the reasons as to why they do this, I'm quick to think they must hate Mother Nature. They love their mothers enough, not to throw their waste on the carpet inside her home. They give their mothers Mother's Day cards and the men honor her, being called Momma’s Boys. Yet, when was the last time anyone did anything for Mother Nature on Earth Day? Those who love Mother Nature are not even named after her; they instead are called Tree Huggers. Apparently Mother Nature is some faceless woman, whose words go unheard, but whose wrath is felt seasonally.
However, it’s been said that imitation is the biggest form of flattery. Some might argue that Mother Nature herself is a literer. With autumn, she gets sick and tired of her leaves and flowers only to cast them off for someone else to rake up and put in plastic bags to be hauled off to the dump. Winter's waste, Snow, covers the streets, forcing someone else to shovel, plow, and lift it away. Mankind learns from its Mothers.
Mother Nature is like most mothers. She has her scornful seasons, but she is quick to forgive. She does her housework. The leaves decompose, snow melts away, and dead animals are consumed. Mother Nature's fabulous friend fungi eat away tuff trash and rain rinses sticky stains away. If Mother Nature didn't do her job those litterers would be different. Litterers rely so much on Mother and her faithfulness, that it's easy to simply toss that cigarette carton out the window. They know she will come for it. I mean she’s Mother Nature.
Most litterers are rarely seen saying “Take that Mother Nature,” as they slam the plastic bottle on the ground. Instead very quietly, with a wave of the hand or the soft release from the fingers the rubbish free falls to the ground. All of those plastic white straws, foil granola bar wrappers, and krumpled K-Mart ads are just little reminders to Mother. Each litter letters the testament, “I love you Mother Nature.” Litterers: Lovers of Mother Nature or just plain lazy?
On my honor the truth is what we want to hear.
