Raining. Pouring.

Seven months into the year and I've already heard of more hardships among people I know than perhaps I've heard my whole life. A friend lost two brothers and her mother within 13 months, another, after losing her first baby moments after birth, lost her second child in a miscarriage, another lost his wife of 40 years, another, a father of two, was diagnosed with terminal lung and brain cancer, and last weekend a friend lost her husband and the father of her toddler. It keeps piling up.

Last Thursday Candy was outside spray-painting picture frames to display some of her photos. Our darling daughter was tooling around in our driveway playing with sidewalk chalk. I was inside taking a moment on the couch when I heard a giant cracking sound coupled with a scream I'd never heard before, followed by a crash. I tried to react as fast as I could, but like a cartoon character revving up for a race, my socked-feet pedaled like they were on ice, leaving the rug rippled behind me. When I got out the side door Candy was clutching our beloved. A dead tree-limb on our neighbors lot had fallen onto his house then tumbled onto the hood of our car in the driveway. The car was a foot in front of our gate, our daughter was a foot behind the gate. In tears, Candy tried to explain the sinking feeling she had when she heard the initial crack and saw the shadows above her shift. We caravanned inside, sat down, holding each other, we thanked our lucky stars that the limb crushed our car, not our child. I never want to hear a scream like that again.

In these moments we're forced to contemplate what we'd do if the unthinkable happened. Who would we become? How would we continue to live? And yet, people do it every day. They adapt, against their will, to living with new realities, and without the sight, sound, smell and feel of their beloveds.

Part of me wants to turn this into a railing against anyone who tries to comfort those left behind with classical notions that their loved ones are in a better place, or they're at peace now, or any of the other things people like to say when they want to make sense of the senseless. But this is not that time.

I have no wisdom to share. I have no experience to aid. I have no words to comfort.

But god-dammit I'm thinking about you all. And wishing you didn't have to deal with any of it.

I can still hear the echoes...

A couple months ago an article was published about a tattoo shop in Grand Rapids newly residing in a former hotel that is thought to be a Prohibition-era drop off point. Before the article dropped I had a behind-the-scenes look because my brother-in-law's girlfriend, Stephanie, tattoos at the shop and they were renovating the space together. After finding a secret room filled with vintage-y items they knew this new space was special, but beyond that, having been there mostly by themselves they had to confront a more grim reality about the space: that it's haunted. Strange sounds, smells, temperature changes, and even visions of other-worldly residents have been frequent. Stephanie has at times even felt a sense of dread, like the presence in the room wanted to harm her. Both she and my in-law are reasonable skeptics, neither of whom carry faiths that guide them toward or away from believing in after-lifes, purgatorys, or spiritual limbos. They're not bullshitters. They have no agendas. They're just trying to explain their experiences. Which is why hearing their first-hand accounts is all the more potent.

Last month we visited the shop to see all the renovations. Upon entering, three of the four of us said they felt "something." I felt nothing. After foolishly voicing this I was challenged to spend some time in the basement by myself, which I quickly declined. Though I don't really believe in supernatural things like this, the experiences of others can be quite convincing. I'm open to the possibility of the supernatural, but I'm more amazed by the vibrancy of my imagination and am fully aware it is filled with all sorts of terrible things extracted from fictional and non-fictional outlets. (It was late college before I was able to not look over my shoulder for Michael Myers while climbing the stairs of the parsonage.) Would I have experienced something in the basement? I was too chicken to put it to the test.

I can still hear the echos..."the greatest trick the devil can play is to convince us he doesn't exist."

In the last ten years I've pretty much whittled away the idea of a literal Devil. Every day people hurt people in such ways that it's easy to feel like there must be some divine-being orchestrating the terror. It's the only way to make sense of the pain we're capable of causing each other, especially when the pain is so heinous that it's beyond reason. The idea that my seemingly rational deduction, that humans are the lone culprits in the world's suffering, could be the magnum-opus lie of a master-deceiver chills me to my bones. This seed was planted in such a way that it's grown stems beyond it's purpose. It's the seed of doubt, of mistrust...in myself.

In my early teens my dad recounted an evening in which he came home late, and upon entering the bedroom he felt the presence of evil in the corner of the room. My mom sleeping in the bed while this presence awaited him, he conjured his nerve and with 'the power of Christ compelling,' shooed it away. Sounds like he could've been on the cusp of some real Exorcist shit. I imagine an experience like that wouldn't change in his mind over time, but memories are funny. I called him the other night to see if he remembered it, or if his understanding of it changed in any significant way. It hadn't. He remembers it just fine, but hadn't thought of it until I brought it up.

The movie, The Sixth Sense, touches on childrens' ability to sense the supernatural better than adults can. Once in a while I'll catch our precious baby girl talking to someone who isn't there. Most times it's obvious she's just talking to talk. I know imaginary friends are a thing, hell, we even watch Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends with her here and there. I feel confident I can tell when she's just being silly or kid-ly, but there are a handful of times since she's been talking, when it's felt different. Like the one time she was yelling, "NO! You go away!", at the corner of our bedroom. It was probably just Buzz, the cat, whom she was yelling at and I couldn't see, but my imagination coupled with the fact that a former owner died here in the house doesn't help. Of course I automatically rationalize that it must've been the cat. It's always the cat in horror movies, at least in the false-scare scenes.

I was talking with a coworker the other day who was quite open about being a paranoid guy. I tried to talk him into using the word "prepare-anoid" to better describe himself. He wasn't having it. He doesn't believe the boogey-man is out to get him, or even the man neccesarily, but he fears the possibility of these things and potential harm in general. He said he doesn't believe in the supernatural, ghosts, what-have-you, but still said, "I'm definitely not going out of my way to mess with that stuff." Part of me thinks it would be bad-ass to go all Leiutenant Dan on it all: "It's time for a showdown! You and Me! I'm right here!" But I learned humility, thankfully. And I listened to Operation Ivy years ago and the words "All I know is that I don't know nothin'" still rattle around a good bit.

Since I've entered my thirties I've made a concerted effort not to fret about things that are outside of my control or don't directly affect me. I can't tell if it's wisdom acquired or futility realized. I've just wasted so much energy getting wrapped up in what others are doing, saying, thinking, or feeling. See The Reformer for thoughts on this. But perhaps this effort is why these witnesses peak my imagination and inspire piloerection (sounds dirty...but it's not...), but do not ultimately affect the way I live or think about about things I can't explain. All I can do is listen to the haunted tattoo slingers, Christ compelling Fathers, and precious-little-baby-cakes-of-wheat-who-yell-at-corners of the world and live and let live...and hope that Michael Myers is not actually behind me right now waiting to pin me to a wall with his big knife.

And our new road was paved.

Great Reversals had just played our second show in our friend Dana's basement. Afterward we went to a newer film-house spot, The Burton, to see the modern blaxploitation spoof: Black Dynamite! As the opening credits rolled and I'm yucking it up with the dudes, my pocket vibrated with a text, a picture from Candice. I open the phone to see a positive pregnancy test with a giant "OMG!" attached to the image. Holy Shit! I disconnected from the gang, and we talked. It's real. The movie no longer seemed important.

December 26th, 2009, in the basement of a repurposed middle school, my life changed with the delivery of one digital photo.

About two weeks later we miscarried. It was a whirlwind of beginnings and ends to so many worlds our minds had created in that small window. She, of course, took the brunt of the blow. From those we foolishly told too early came waves of support. The bodies familiar with our loss came out of the woodworks. We hadn't known how common our grief was until we were in the same boat. We were not alone. It had only been 2 weeks of awareness, but it took it's toll. It was 3 months before we could think about trying again.

Trying didn't come easy. A fear of the whirlwind hindered our ability to be care-free about it. Once we were comfortable with those intentions, it was slow going. The first round had come within one whimsical moment where we agreed on the spot we'd take the risk. Now that our minds had intentions, our bodies couldn't seem to get on board. And so we tried, and tried, to no avail. For our second anniversary I organized a surprise stay at a B & B downtown with dinner in Mexican-town and a trip to the DIA. Within this weekend we had both independently come to the conclusion that there would be no more trying. And like a goddamn cliche' that I still resent to this day, that night the seed was sewn that would again create new worlds in our minds and lives. This time we waited the recommended twelve weeks before telling anyone. We made it through Thanksgiving and Christmas without cracking. Obsessively watching the hands on the clock's face, we waited for the doctor-ensured safe-zone. We had faith that if we could make it to three months everything would be fine and there'd be no more pain until labor. Luckily, we were right.

And our new road was paved. The ones who'd turn into Mamoo and Papa returned to snowy Michigan, from adventures out West, to help prepare our household. The hand-me-downs started pouring in. Trips to second-hand stores became regimented. The stuff accumulated, paraded as necessity, we'd eventually learn we wouldn't need much at all. Candy's body was changing, but not quickly enough, which she found frustrating. But when it did there was no denying she had more than a pot-belly under her shirt. At nearly nine months we went camping with friends in South Haven. In a tent, we slept on a borrowed air mattress with a bum-seal. By that point Candy had developed what I called her torpedo belly. She looked like a fit, regular gal from behind, but the moment she turned it was terribly evident she had an alien within, defying gravity as it pointed the way on her behalf.  Children on the beach laughed and stared when they saw her bikini-revealed belly, it was spectacular!

We were due Thursday, August 11, 2011. Saturday, August 13, the adventure began. We had woken early to attend a farmer's market, meeting both sides of family, we ate pizza and hoped for the excitement to come quickly. That evening, the labor-signal they always show in movies made it's mess and we headed to the birthing center. We arrived to find my best friend and his wife in labor one room away. It was destiny. While I dealt with paperwork, Candice heard their delivery on the other side of the wall. Hoping for a girl, a cacophony of laughter and disbelief came as they realized they had yet another boy. On our side, it seemed we jumped the gun. Upon assessment of minimal dilation and spaced-out contractions, we were sent home with orders to have a bath and a glass of wine. Just as things settled, the chaos began. Candy couldn't keep anything down, the contractions and back pain hit her, inspiring a wail I'll never forget. I felt helpless. We called our Doula and the birthing center and piled back in the car. I drove too quickly, clutching the wheel. It was like a familiar dream, living in the re-runs of sitcoms portraying the very same scene.  It was 3 a.m.

Everything was slow going. Back labor runs in the family, and so it reared it's ugly head, relentlessly staring us down. Heating-pads, baths, back massages, water-shots, yoga poses, sipping juices and broths, the "baby-friendly" playlist on the ipod, and nervous inquiry our Doula, and Midwife, made up the entire next day. Candy was dehydrated and unable to eat or sleep. It was the perfect combination of factors to drain her completely. She was given a sleeping aid that helped her sleep for about an hour, waking within a dream where she forgot she was pregnant. She was given an I-V to hydrate. I felt guilty for wanting to sleep. She selflessly assured me it was fine.  11 p.m. Sunday night, after a manual dilation and intentional breaking of waters, it was determined we needed to transfer to the other side. We had hoped to do it all the old-fashioned way, but the alien within was being stubborn.

Pitocin is the devil. We had done everything up to this point to maintain natural methods for delivery, but there was concern now. It was not in our plan to use any drugs for anything, but it became a necessity. She made it through two rounds of contractions without an Epidural, it was grueling. My wife is a bad ass! Dehydrated, famished, and exhausted, it was time to give up a bit of control. The Epidural had to be installed twice. Just as the I-V, Pitocin drip, catheter, and fetal heart-rate monitor had been as well because that is how this had to go. There were no breaks cut. As the fetal-heart-rate was causing concern, bless her heart, my wife, numb from the gut down, wired like the Matrix's harvested humans, graciously turned herself onto all fours in order create space for this precious baby. To no avail. It was time, the final step, the final concession. A Caesarean was necessary.

7am, Monday, August, 15, 2014. As they prepped my beloved, I suited to be by her side. This was the first time we were apart. I entered the operating room, Candy and I locked teary eyes. The last two years had led to this moment. I peeked over the curtain, I couldn't help myself. On pins and needles, we waited, to hear something, anything, to tell us he or she was now with us. Eyes blurred with tears and joy I looked up to see...no penis....NO PENIS! IT'S A GIRL! The whole time we had felt it was a boy. But that doesn't matter at all, nothing in this moment matters except the cries of our beautiful baby girl! Arms tied on the cross of her Papoose board, precious baby girl was draped, bare skin to bare skin, on the bosom of her mother. The same body and grace within which she grew, now experienced in the harsh world. And, Frances Jane, your mother and I wept, tears we may never weep again. Tears that if bottled, might heal all the wrongs in the world.

There is no hell, Mother, that you will not walk through for her. No sacrifice you will not make. And so we celebrate you, with flowers, and special breakfasts, and preparing ways so you don't have to. And with this, the story I've said I'd write someday. Hopefully I painted the right picture. I love you. Happy Mother's Day.

Do not knock.

Sophomore year of college I discovered a book called Diet for a New America, by John Robbins. Robbins was heir to the Baskin-Robbins chain, but before he took the reigns, he wanted to see where BR's dairy came from first hand. He discovered the grim realities of factory farming and decided to forsake the family business. His stories immediately inspired me to change my dietary leanings and delve into the world of animal rights literature, philosophy, and activism. I wrote several papers on animal rights for classes, printed up essays I'd found and shared them with others, left pamphlets at cafes around town, even protested (gently and respectfully) a fur shop and rodeo. The strangest part of this expedition was the opposition I found in the Christian community I was a part of. I was on a campus that declared Jesus the Prince of Peace, but any time I even mentioned I had recently gone vegetarian/vegan I was hit with waves of confrontation. I had found a new way of living that meshed perfectly with the ideas of the figure-head of my faith, but those around me just wouldn't have the same epiphany I had.

When we had the sweet-baby-cake-O'-wheat a few years ago, we had issues with solicitors knocking on our door and throwing wrenches in our newly-found routines. After visiting a friend down the street, we stole her idea and put a colorful sign on the door that said:

 Please, no soliciting. Sleeping baby inside. If we do not already know you, DO NOT KNOCK.

Last summer that sign wore thin and fell off. Luckily, our picture window lends me a heads-up so I can see them coming. Though I feel like a jerk about it because our baby is older now, I've taken to just not answering the door. They usually leave a pamphlet rubber-banded to our door explaining how I need their cable services, lawn-care services, meat-delivery services, or church services, etc. More often than not, it's a local church trying to gather a constituency. This struck a conversation with a neighbor, she said, and I'm paraphrasing: If they truly believe we'll be condemned to eternal torment in Hell if we don't embrace their belief, I guess I respect that they're reaching out and trying to save our souls. I just don't want to be interrupted by strangers, no matter their agenda.

As I found all this AR literature I was also making a case to present to other believers that the animal-concern was also a faith-concern. Aside from what I deemed ethical responsibilities to "do justice and love mercy," I remember talking to my dad on the phone about the story in Genesis where god gives man the freedom to eat animals after the fall, the story every voice of opposition would site. The point I argued was this:

After the fall, Eden's paradise was no longer an option, so god allowed humanity to kill after they'd turned their backs on innocence, it was a concession, not god's ideal. And if we're to be praying for life here to be "on earth as it is in Heaven," surely Heaven is god's ideal and free from concessions. Thus, if "the lion will lay with the lamb," how can we willingly take up the knife here, but pray for the opposite? Isn't that prayer hoping to re-establish Eden?

It's a solid argument, and one that opened him up to vegetarianism as a faith-based way of life. Two points for the boy! But even though I felt completely comfortable arguing this to other believers, even my father, the Minister, arguing my faith itself to non-believers always left me feeling inadequate.

My Genesis argument (stolen from greater thinkers) exists in the theoretical realm. I would never have tried to convince someone who didn't believe in the Genesis story in the first place that any of this was a legitimate reason to consider vegetarianism. Believers have already accepted the Eden story, whether as allegory or literal, and the fall of man is ever-present at the pulpit. But for me the very reason to find this argument and transmit it was inspired by tangible and unequivocal evidence about animal practices. However, the need to save souls from eternal condemnation draws inspiration from a few passages, and one very colorful (and terrifying) final chapter, in one very disputed book. What allows people, with only their faith in the stories of an ancient book, to feel comfortable claiming they know what happens to everyone's souls after death? The other extraneous reasons aside (the way, the truth, the life, etc.), this is the brass-tacks reason why people are knocking on my door and leaving flyers inviting me to their church barbecue next Sunday. It's in the book.

Last week, a few days before Easter, an elderly customer approached me at work, this was our exchange:

Lady: Oh there's Aaron!

Me: (thinking: do I know you?) Hi there!

Lady: That's such a good biblical name! 

Me: (thinking: oh noooo...) It is? 

Lady: You didn't know that? 

Me: No, I did. 

Lady: I belong to a nice church, would you like to come with me Sunday for Easter?

Me: No thanks.

Lady: Well, that's disappointing....

After a final greeting, smiling through my teeth, I professionally turned my cheek. No matter how condescending I perceive her to be, she's simply trying to reach out, the only way she knows how. Several deep breaths later, I let it go, because it doesn't matter. She has her views, I have mine.

No matter how clear the evidence is, people want to accept information on their own terms. Whether it's the effects of our cultural-dietary-habits, or the knockers' offer of eternal paradise, no one wants to be interrupted by someone else's agenda. I toned down my rhetoric years ago, partly from dissolution, but mostly because I see the grey areas in life a little more every day, allowing the Golden Rule to be my rule of thumb.

Change and inspiration must come naturally through relationships that are unfettered by agendas. Though I think my motives from once-upon-a-time were righteous, my methods were innately wall-building. It seems clear that no one wants to be cajoled, argued, persuaded, pushed, reasoned, or guilted into a different point of view, even if it's smothered in bbq-sauce. 

By the power of Greyskull...

A few nights ago I watched an episode of TED Talks: Life Hack, hosted by Amy Cuddy, entitled "Your body language shapes who you are." The gist of it, warning: spoiler alert, Cuddy says her research shows that not only can your mindset affect your body language, but you can trick your mindset by changing your body language. They found positive and negative changes in brain-controlled-body-chemistry based on "powerful" and "powerless" body language. She argued that as little as 2 minutes of "power-posing" can trick your mind into being more confident in stressful situations. Fascinating stuff right? At a friend's house for dinner last night I joked with Candy asking her if I looked powerful as I sat sprawled in a chair, legs slung open, and hands cradled behind my head? She responded with: "uh, you look kinda yucky." Had I sat that way for 2 minutes though, I may have convinced myself to be more powerful in the conversation that followed. In conclusion, Cuddy put a twist on "Fake it til' you make it" changing it to "Fake it til' you become it!" She scientifically proved that simple changes in how we hold ourselves can make big differences in how we see ourselves AND how others see us.

I've never been much of a powerful-sort of person. I like to joke that my sister is the Alpha-Male of our family. Perhaps it's simply my chemical make-up. Amy Cuddy explained that higher Testosterone levels tend to create the need-to-succeed, while low Cortisol levels allow for easy stress management.  If high testosterone levels and low cortisol levels are found in powerful-leader-sorts, maybe I'm somewhere in the middle on both. Or perhaps it's the examples before me: my father tending towards diplomacy and compromise, my mother assertive, or even aggressive at times, and I just lean towards the former. Or maybe it's passages like "the meek shall inherit the earth" that resonated with me early on. Probably a combination of these, and then some, as it usually is.

I can count on one hand the amount of times I've felt powerful.

I hate that word: powerful. It has so many negative connotations in my mind, as I'd imagine it does to most left-leaning thinkers. It's been ruined by those who abuse it. Power-hungry, Power-tripping, Power-mongering...okay the last one I haven't actually heard, but it's a feasible extension of the others. They all make me think of Skeletor. But if I subtract those feelings I have around the abuse of power I can see it more clearly as the feeling that comes with standing firm in what you believe is right. What is right is subjective of course, but the feeling that comes with boldly representing it can still exist even if you're in the wrong.

Maybe a week after it opened, my dad and I went to see The Dark Knight Rises. I was hesitant about seeing it as a new release because I generally hate crowds at theaters and was worried a crowd would ruin my final experience of the final installment of Chris Nolan's grande Bat-dream. Low and behold, the previews run and 4 aisles ahead and 10 chairs to my right, a woman sits with her cellphone outstretched, with maximum screen brightness, like she's far-sighted and the miniscule words on her device are only readable at arm's length...my eyes can't not see it. But it's only the previews. My heart has faith that surely, surely, this woman will put her phone away and partake with us in the most important movie of 2012. She doesn't. We're on an airplane meeting Bane for the first time and I'm rage-sweating over this illumination in my periphery. (Why I care so much is something I'm working on, but I'm sure you can relate.) I lean over and tell Dad: "I'll be right back." In my calmest tone, I say to the woman: "Your phone is making it hard to watch this movie. I'd really appreciate it if you put it away." Trembling, I walked back to my seat. After a moment, she put it away! I suddenly felt the air conditioning applying itself to my skin, and, with the exception of the way Bane's voice was mixed, enjoyed the rest of the movie! When that phone was out of sight, I wanted to raise my magical sword and yell:

"I HAVE THE POWER!!!"

It's a rare moment when a confrontation allows me to speak my mind clearly. Granted, I had practiced what I was going to say probably ten times before approaching that woman, but still. Usually I intend to speak my truth, but the stress of the situation makes me bobble words and stumble making my case. And then I daydream about how sweet it would've been if I had just said this-or-that. I've spoken before of the need to be or feel right. I wonder if this feeling of power comes to most of us only when we believe our stance is righteous? Do those who seem power-hungry believe their attempts are righteous? Could this be the difference between making some of us lions and some lambs? At what point does one choose to become Skeletor over He-Man? This is delving near the topic of good and evil, which is way bigger than I could ever handle. 

My old MySpace account used to have the quote, self-written, (yes, I quote myself sometimes): "live and let live while keeping your spine in tact." All power-poses aside, I am hungry for those moments when my spine feels forged of steel. 

The Reformer.

My Uncle works at a community center that serves the homeless. He's a retired minister (as was his father and my father) and is given the opportunity to teach classes on various interests. The past few times I've seen him he's talked most about his class on The Enneagram. The what? The Enneagram. (www.enneagraminstitute.com, check it.) It's a personality test that assesses a dominant personality-type that describes how we see the world, or really, react to the world. The test is accompanied by a logo that resembles a sweet-super-hero-emblem-looking-pentagram with 9 points on its star; The 9 points represent these dominant personality types: The Helper, The Achiever, The Individualist, The Investigator, The Loyalist, The Enthusiast, The Peacemaker, The Reformer, and The Challenger.

The Enneagram system believes that we are born with a dominant personality type which is determined by "inborn temperament" and "pre-natal factors." As the system explains, we all have various pieces of each of the 9 types, but one is always dominant, and this dominant type does not change. If it's determined I'm a Helper I cannot suddenly be a Challenger, even though I may start feeling more like the description of The Challenger.

As my Aunt and Uncle were discussing their types my Uncle said: "I generally feel like I'm doing things the best way and want everyone else to do them my way too." I can't remember positively, but based on the description below, I think he's The Reformer.

The Reformer: Reformers are conscientious and ethical, with a strong sense of right and wrong. They are teachers, crusaders, and advocates for change: always striving to improve things, but afraid of making a mistake. Well-organized, orderly, and fastidious, they try to maintain high standards, but can slip into being critical and perfectionistic. They typically have problems with resentment and impatience. At their Best: wise, discerning, realistic, and noble. Can be morally heroic.

Something clicked: This is exactly the way I think!

Fatherhood has been a strange journey toward finding methods that work for me when Candice is not around. Our household is Mommy-centric by design. Candy bravely accepted the havoc that pregnancy wreaked upon her body and spent 30 hours in the labyrinth of labor as Franny begrudgingly required us to surgically-extract her. She's willingly given her time and body, since day one, so Franny can eat, sleep, and cuddle as she needs to. I do my best to hold her hand and support her so she can do these things and still keep her sanity. I take an immense amount of pride in the times when I'm able to keep Franny engaged enough that she forgets Candy is gone. But when Mommy returns and does something differently than I have, or think I would-have, that pride turns me into a scum-bag who creates the air of "I told you so." Really supportive Aaron, really supportive. And how easily I forget the incalculable amounts of times when my wonderful wife saves the day by doing exactly what our baby needs at the exact time she needs it, evading all complications.

A question weaseling its way into my mind: What are the potential reasons that influence why people make the decisions they make?

If there is one thing that my folks are good at complaining about, it's other drivers. Without her being in the car I still hear my mom's classic "Get it rollin' Duuuude!" every time someone is unaware that the light turned green. It's become a household favorite for us as I imitate it with a vibrato-warble in the "Duuuude!" Makes me laugh every time! A buddy of mine once told me he read a study where a survey concluded that something like 93% of drivers think they're better at driving than everyone else. Nowadays, I think righteous-road-rage is a little more understandable as the youngsters text and Facebook their ways to-and-fro while their knees hold the wheel. But I'm guessing, for as mad as we get at those obvious hazards, most of the time people are probably just distracted for the moment: lost in thought, or conversation, or a story on NPR. Innocent reasons.

A few months ago I had a run-in with a coworker, whom I actually love dearly, about something that was left in his way. He had a decently narrow path to traverse and someone placed something in the way, preventing him to get by. Rather than move it to wherever he'd deem a better spot and carry on, he proceeded to berate the theoretical "moron" who made the decision to leave the obstacle where they did. I was having a short-on-patience kind of day, and this was the straw that broke me. I tore into him for what I saw as his sheer arrogance at thinking someone intentionally tried to screw him over. With vitriol, I sarcastically spewed forth: "Yeah, of course, if everyone did everything the way you do it everything would run perfectly!" There's no way anyone could have had any other reason to put that there than to fuck-you-up right?!?" After I was done raging, I explained why I got so riled up, and asked his forgiveness. He obliged.

Really, the source of this explosion was the mirror my buddy was pointing at me. He was saying things that I hate, but I used to be right there, damning "culprits" for being "morons who are doing everything wrong." In the past couple years I've worked hard to embrace what should be obvious: people think and do things differently than I do. This inclination towards judgement is a demon I wrestle with regularly.

The grace within the Enneagram system is that it explains no personality type is inherently positive or negative, and none of them are better than others, they just are. They have strengths and weaknesses, room for growth, and each hopes to present opportunities for introspection about how we think and react. I've not taken the test, who knows, maybe The Reformer wouldn't encapsulate me after all. But the mere title of it, The Reformer, struck a cord, for good and for bad.

If I am to be a reformer, let it be me who is the subject of the reformation.

Red is red.

In college I learned about Jurgen Habermas' concept of the lifeworld. As I remember it, the lifeworld is the sum of everything we've learned in life, from birth to the present, about how the world works. It is a universe which encompasses what can be deemed objective-truth, mostly things we understand but do not have to think about, because they are just given. It is the overarching context that all of us draw from as conscious human beings. While it's acknowledged there are universal aspects of the lifeworld, Habermas was interested in how personal lifeworlds could be infiltrated by information which would set them apart from other cultures. The more I read the more complicated the concept seems to get, and Wikipedia is weaving a web that is trying to entangle me beyond my scope. So we have this knowledge-universe, which, upon preliminary examination, may seem obvious; things like red is red, or food is necessary to live, or everyone eventually dies. Children tend to ask about these in the 'Why?' stage and we do our best to explain, realizing that until that moment, we hadn't really thought about it for a while either...they're just truths that we've come to accept.

I've opened a larger box than I intended to, but what I'm trying to wrap my mind around is that, for as much effort as I put into trying to understand why I am who I am, and what my lifeworld has determined as given, I'm baffled by the possibility that I also have an unconscious existence that could be influencing me in ways I'm unaware of, or at least locking away some of the answers I seek. The aspects of our shared lifeworld can be analyzed and theorized up and down by those who find that to be their passion, but my unconscious mind is a mystery even to me.

Though it didn't originate with him, Freud popularized the idea of the the unconscious mind. By his estimation it is a repository of collected experiences and memories, specific to individuals, that manifest themselves in dreams, thoughts which seem to have no origin, and skills that take no thought to perform, i.e. riding a bike (once learned that is.) He might assert that Jason Bourne was able to kick-so-much-ass-without-knowing-why because of his unconscious retention. His ability to act, after the name of my old Karate Dojo, was "Mushin," Japanese for "no mind." But, obvious, super-hero-like abilities (and analogies) aside, what in the heck role does my unconscious mind play in my daily life?

From the browsing I've done re-familiarizing myself with it, researchers widely agree that we cannot access unconsciousness through introspection. And because of this, I find the possibility that memories and experiences could be locked away, without an obvious key, disconcerting. In my darkest days, when I'm feeling the most doubtful that I'm doing things right in life, it'd be nice to take a stroll through fields of forgotten memories that might impart new opportunities for insight. But for now, as I've been, I will keep trying to see things as clearly as I can...then ask why I see them that way, then I'll go to sleep, because that shit is tiring.