There is nothing better than a cold beer on Opening Day, and being in love.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
"I hate Winnipeg"
It just
occurred to me that this is my first entry in months. I meant to blog a
lot, honest I did. Right around Christmas I had something deep and
wondrous to write about, about the faces in my church's old sanctuary,
and about how another forced candle-lit service was suddenly special to
me, a Christmas miracle in my heart.
I was going to write about
how I missed Towson, that place I hated so much. I was going to write
about how the ultimate team is doing, how great the guys are, how
perfect it is to play my favorite sport day in and day out with some of
my favorite people. There's a lot new in the family to write about too.
Both Nelly and Daniel are at Messiah now with me. I can't think of
anything better than having my siblings so close.
I planned on reflecting on the New Year, and the New Year's party, and new friends, some new stories.
But
I've been restless. Mike and Sarah got me a book for Christmas, an
illustrated book from Starbucks, where they work. It is about a boy
named Charlie. He has everything, but something's not quite right. So
he packs up all of his time into a suitcase and travels the world. He
sees
the world, learns new things, changes his life. But he can
never find something that he wants to spend his time on. At the end of
the book, he opens up his suitcase.. all of his time is gone.
I need to focus. I need to move away from the literary Charlies (Perks of Being a Wallflower, The Traveler) and start to live.
How come that is so much easier said than done?
occurred to me that this is my first entry in months. I meant to blog a
lot, honest I did. Right around Christmas I had something deep and
wondrous to write about, about the faces in my church's old sanctuary,
and about how another forced candle-lit service was suddenly special to
me, a Christmas miracle in my heart.
I was going to write about
how I missed Towson, that place I hated so much. I was going to write
about how the ultimate team is doing, how great the guys are, how
perfect it is to play my favorite sport day in and day out with some of
my favorite people. There's a lot new in the family to write about too.
Both Nelly and Daniel are at Messiah now with me. I can't think of
anything better than having my siblings so close.
I planned on reflecting on the New Year, and the New Year's party, and new friends, some new stories.
But
I've been restless. Mike and Sarah got me a book for Christmas, an
illustrated book from Starbucks, where they work. It is about a boy
named Charlie. He has everything, but something's not quite right. So
he packs up all of his time into a suitcase and travels the world. He
sees
the world, learns new things, changes his life. But he can
never find something that he wants to spend his time on. At the end of
the book, he opens up his suitcase.. all of his time is gone.
I need to focus. I need to move away from the literary Charlies (Perks of Being a Wallflower, The Traveler) and start to live.
How come that is so much easier said than done?
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The audacity of hope.
Many times in my life, I have told people that hope is a waste. That hope is, in fact, hopeless. Hope, to me, represents faith, only without the grounds for faith. Faith is something you have in your family, in your teammates on the sports field, in the decency of people, in the American dollar (maybe not so much anymore), in your friends that you find most dear, in God. There is no proof that God exists, at least not in a scientific sense. Your friends could abandon you, people could watch someone hurt die without a second thought, Dean could at some point drop a disc. These things are not law. And yet you believe, with all of your heart, and you are seldom wrong.
You believe because you want to believe, because somehow you know that what you have faith in will not fail.
It is an exercise in futility to spend time hoping. Hope is rooting for the Orioles, desperately trying to will them to a World Series from my couch. Hope is a lottery ticket. Hope is wishing that people who have left you will come back and it will be the same as always. It's hoping that there's a mistake and a free pizza gets delivered to your house. It's dreaming of that foul ball, curving perfectly into the stands and into your hands off the bat of your favorite player. Hope is a selfish (or sometimes unselfish) prayer. It's wishing upon a star.
Just like faith, there is no proof that you will have this happen to you. There's simply no way of knowing which lottery ticket wins. But unlike faith, it would be foolish to believe in your heart of hearts that the ticket in your hand is the $4.7 million jackpot. Hope is a bad Bon Jovi song.
After all of this, after years of disdaining every second that I have had to rely on hope, something amazing happens. Barack Obama, a black man with just under four years of experience in the Senate, a man who had to overcome near impossible odds to reach this point, told me to hope. To bank on the relatively unknown. To hope that change is coming to our dying country. The sort of change that seems more impossible than the odds he has already overcome. This man will become the president of our country, the country that I am so often glad to live in, but that I am so often not proud of.
I don't have faith in him yet. I don't know what he will do. Who knows what our new government is capable of? Who knows if the hole is already too deep?
And yet, on Tuesday I voted for him. I went home and sat down. I remembered the way I felt as I stood in line in Baltimore City to vote, and how the air tasted in that stale church, as people buzzed in excitement. No one said the name "Obama" as I stood there, but the news later confirmed what I already knew: Obama had taken 90% of the vote in the city. I knew. I had seen those people on the buses, on the street, in the parks, by the Inner Harbor. They had changed, something had filled them.
That night my eyes clouded with tears as I watched thousands cheer on my television. It was over, and it was all about to start. And I felt something. Something more than just the moment.
So this is what hope feels like, I realized.
You believe because you want to believe, because somehow you know that what you have faith in will not fail.
It is an exercise in futility to spend time hoping. Hope is rooting for the Orioles, desperately trying to will them to a World Series from my couch. Hope is a lottery ticket. Hope is wishing that people who have left you will come back and it will be the same as always. It's hoping that there's a mistake and a free pizza gets delivered to your house. It's dreaming of that foul ball, curving perfectly into the stands and into your hands off the bat of your favorite player. Hope is a selfish (or sometimes unselfish) prayer. It's wishing upon a star.
Just like faith, there is no proof that you will have this happen to you. There's simply no way of knowing which lottery ticket wins. But unlike faith, it would be foolish to believe in your heart of hearts that the ticket in your hand is the $4.7 million jackpot. Hope is a bad Bon Jovi song.
After all of this, after years of disdaining every second that I have had to rely on hope, something amazing happens. Barack Obama, a black man with just under four years of experience in the Senate, a man who had to overcome near impossible odds to reach this point, told me to hope. To bank on the relatively unknown. To hope that change is coming to our dying country. The sort of change that seems more impossible than the odds he has already overcome. This man will become the president of our country, the country that I am so often glad to live in, but that I am so often not proud of.
I don't have faith in him yet. I don't know what he will do. Who knows what our new government is capable of? Who knows if the hole is already too deep?
And yet, on Tuesday I voted for him. I went home and sat down. I remembered the way I felt as I stood in line in Baltimore City to vote, and how the air tasted in that stale church, as people buzzed in excitement. No one said the name "Obama" as I stood there, but the news later confirmed what I already knew: Obama had taken 90% of the vote in the city. I knew. I had seen those people on the buses, on the street, in the parks, by the Inner Harbor. They had changed, something had filled them.
That night my eyes clouded with tears as I watched thousands cheer on my television. It was over, and it was all about to start. And I felt something. Something more than just the moment.
So this is what hope feels like, I realized.
Friday, October 31, 2008
All my mistakes have become masterpieces
It's been a different kind of fall than those in recent memory.
I'm back in central Pennsylvania, where the leaves are fiery and the stars are inches from your face on the right kind of night. Most everyone seems slightly annoyed, perhaps because the sudden drop from crisp and clear to cold and blustery came before they could completely unpack their winter clothes and stock up on hot chocolate and tea.
The Philadelphia Phillies have just won the World Series. This is as earth-shattering an event as any I have encountered. It was big when the Diamondbacks knocked off Mariano Rivera in 2001, when the Red Sox and White Sox won their first titles in a lifetime in back to back years, and as a Maryland resident, when the Baltimore Ravens won the Super Bowl back before Kerry Collins was washed up for the second time and Ray Lewis hadn't been mentioned in murder cases. But never has one of my teams won a championship, and for a team from Philadelphia (where I am more comfortable than nearly anyone else) to win is something that made me tear up. The city hadn't had a title in any of the four major professional sports since the 76ers won the NBA title in 1983. The Phillies themselves are even more endearing than nearly any other team. In nearly 130 seasons of play, they have lost more games than any professional team in any sport in North America, over 10,000 losses. They would need two completely undefeated seasons (162-0) before they pulled above .500 all time. On top of this, they had just one title, in 1980, in those 130 seasons. Until now. Beautiful.
There is a presidential election happening in four days, and an enormous one at that, one that will almost certainly end up being the most important of our lifetime. I've watched a man who I rarely agreed with but who was the politician I respected the most, both for his heroic life and his record of voting for what he thought was right whether or not that was popular, become someone who I never agree with and who I do not respect at all in a matter of a month or so. As John McCain wrapped up the Republican nomination, I thought it was safe that we would be getting a great leader no matter the outcome of the general election. Since the RNC, this hope has tanked as McCain and his campaign use highly irresponsible scare tactics, hinting at Obama's ties to terrorists among other things. The old McCain would have never done this... though we can always count on Christians to swing below the belt, be hateful and fear-mongering in order to push their own agenda. As my friend Brian said, I doubt very strongly that Mr. Whitaker from Focus on the Family's "Adventures in Odyssey" videos I watched as a kid, would agree with this letter from the future that was found on the Focus on the Family website and was later discussed on CNN. It makes me sad that so many Christians choose to be hateful. Jesus didn't hate. Though Jesus never had to listen to Kenny G...
But this fall isn't completely different. Halloween is tonight, which means that "the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it" is here. That's pretty consistent. The Redskins have a new offense for the fourth time in five seasons. My fingers lose circulation when I play ultimate. The Charlie Brown specials start and run through New Year's. Movie nights happen more and more often, with more people piled under more blankets.
And memories of autumns long gone descend on me. A deep breath will remind me of Icy Hot and shorts that showed off our bright white legs in a long thigh-high stripe across the starting line. Knit blankets remind me of basement couches that I haven't seen in years, and that may well have been in a dumpster not long after I left them. Cigarette smoke mixing with fog from a cold mouth, a cloud with every exhale.
I'm back in central Pennsylvania, where the leaves are fiery and the stars are inches from your face on the right kind of night. Most everyone seems slightly annoyed, perhaps because the sudden drop from crisp and clear to cold and blustery came before they could completely unpack their winter clothes and stock up on hot chocolate and tea.
The Philadelphia Phillies have just won the World Series. This is as earth-shattering an event as any I have encountered. It was big when the Diamondbacks knocked off Mariano Rivera in 2001, when the Red Sox and White Sox won their first titles in a lifetime in back to back years, and as a Maryland resident, when the Baltimore Ravens won the Super Bowl back before Kerry Collins was washed up for the second time and Ray Lewis hadn't been mentioned in murder cases. But never has one of my teams won a championship, and for a team from Philadelphia (where I am more comfortable than nearly anyone else) to win is something that made me tear up. The city hadn't had a title in any of the four major professional sports since the 76ers won the NBA title in 1983. The Phillies themselves are even more endearing than nearly any other team. In nearly 130 seasons of play, they have lost more games than any professional team in any sport in North America, over 10,000 losses. They would need two completely undefeated seasons (162-0) before they pulled above .500 all time. On top of this, they had just one title, in 1980, in those 130 seasons. Until now. Beautiful.
There is a presidential election happening in four days, and an enormous one at that, one that will almost certainly end up being the most important of our lifetime. I've watched a man who I rarely agreed with but who was the politician I respected the most, both for his heroic life and his record of voting for what he thought was right whether or not that was popular, become someone who I never agree with and who I do not respect at all in a matter of a month or so. As John McCain wrapped up the Republican nomination, I thought it was safe that we would be getting a great leader no matter the outcome of the general election. Since the RNC, this hope has tanked as McCain and his campaign use highly irresponsible scare tactics, hinting at Obama's ties to terrorists among other things. The old McCain would have never done this... though we can always count on Christians to swing below the belt, be hateful and fear-mongering in order to push their own agenda. As my friend Brian said, I doubt very strongly that Mr. Whitaker from Focus on the Family's "Adventures in Odyssey" videos I watched as a kid, would agree with this letter from the future that was found on the Focus on the Family website and was later discussed on CNN. It makes me sad that so many Christians choose to be hateful. Jesus didn't hate. Though Jesus never had to listen to Kenny G...
But this fall isn't completely different. Halloween is tonight, which means that "the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it" is here. That's pretty consistent. The Redskins have a new offense for the fourth time in five seasons. My fingers lose circulation when I play ultimate. The Charlie Brown specials start and run through New Year's. Movie nights happen more and more often, with more people piled under more blankets.
And memories of autumns long gone descend on me. A deep breath will remind me of Icy Hot and shorts that showed off our bright white legs in a long thigh-high stripe across the starting line. Knit blankets remind me of basement couches that I haven't seen in years, and that may well have been in a dumpster not long after I left them. Cigarette smoke mixing with fog from a cold mouth, a cloud with every exhale.
And there comes a time,
You must stay in the moment while your heart's still bleeding
And there comes a time,
When you must walk away though your heart's still beating.
Who is to say who wins or who loses?
I sing to myself at the end of the day when I know
what the blues is.
And all my mistakes have become masterpieces.
All my mistakes have become masterpieces.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
mmmmmm capitalism!
In light of our country's recent economic downturn, I bring you an entry from my old blog:
Just a few excerpts from my economics professor [at Community College of Baltimore County Essex in the fall of 2007] during a class lecture. For those of you (Mohar, this is you) who know Obed [an education professor at Messiah]... this is Obed if he taught economics. None of this quotes are out of context. Sadly.
"The money makes you great! It gives you the will, the power, the love, to get up another day."
[To me, knowing I am a history major:] "If you don't plan what with to do with the knowledge of history, Magna Carta, and save all of your riches you receive from your knowledge, you will end up homeless, living on the street. You know what I am saying?"
"Profit Maximization is the goal! Cost Minimization is the key! If you have making six figures for IBM, you don't just be happy. You start your own business! You hire men in suits to work for you for six figures and they will be happy to work for you...but! You will be making ten tiiiiiiiimes!! that amount! You know what I am saying?"
"The knowledge of money is important, like the air we breathe."
"This money, it makes you have value. And this value is what makes America great."
Amen.
Peace,
Charlie
Now I would later find out that this man was not in fact my professor, but rather a professor who had been fired that week but was somewhat confused by what that meant. He apparently thought he was fired at the end of that semester. This explains why he sent away a lady at the beginning of class who said she was going to be our substitute, saying that he wasn't sick. It also explains why our real professor, a six foot tall black woman, stared him out of the class the next week.
If only I could have caught his name. This great country needs him now...
love,
Charlie
Just a few excerpts from my economics professor [at Community College of Baltimore County Essex in the fall of 2007] during a class lecture. For those of you (Mohar, this is you) who know Obed [an education professor at Messiah]... this is Obed if he taught economics. None of this quotes are out of context. Sadly.
"The money makes you great! It gives you the will, the power, the love, to get up another day."
[To me, knowing I am a history major:] "If you don't plan what with to do with the knowledge of history, Magna Carta, and save all of your riches you receive from your knowledge, you will end up homeless, living on the street. You know what I am saying?"
"Profit Maximization is the goal! Cost Minimization is the key! If you have making six figures for IBM, you don't just be happy. You start your own business! You hire men in suits to work for you for six figures and they will be happy to work for you...but! You will be making ten tiiiiiiiimes!! that amount! You know what I am saying?"
"The knowledge of money is important, like the air we breathe."
"This money, it makes you have value. And this value is what makes America great."
Amen.
Peace,
Charlie
Now I would later find out that this man was not in fact my professor, but rather a professor who had been fired that week but was somewhat confused by what that meant. He apparently thought he was fired at the end of that semester. This explains why he sent away a lady at the beginning of class who said she was going to be our substitute, saying that he wasn't sick. It also explains why our real professor, a six foot tall black woman, stared him out of the class the next week.
If only I could have caught his name. This great country needs him now...
love,
Charlie
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Factories and marching bands
This morning I woke up to the sound of "Holland" playing, off of Sufjan Stevens' beautiful album Michigan. It lyrically paints an August on the lake, and it is a warm day in mid-September as I write this, but still the song always makes me think of late fall..
Fall is my favorite time of year. The crisp taste in the air is perhaps God's very best creation. But "Holland" is for when that has come and gone. There are soft flurries with huge snowflakes out the window and I sip on some tea, curled up with a book under a quilt... all is calm, all is bright.
Fall is my favorite time of year. The crisp taste in the air is perhaps God's very best creation. But "Holland" is for when that has come and gone. There are soft flurries with huge snowflakes out the window and I sip on some tea, curled up with a book under a quilt... all is calm, all is bright.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
"And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper..."
I recently heard of an old friend who was going through a tough time, and everyone seemed to know exactly why except for that person.
I'd like to think I'm more self aware than that, but I'm not. My problems are simple and not devastating by any means, and yet I walk myself into the same troubles again and again like a lab rat who hasn't yet figured out that, no, neither door one nor door two has cheese behind them. I face setbacks and turn to my friends, confused at how this new set of circumstances could have possibly cropped up, like William H. Macy's character in Fargo, shocked that his plan (which involved thousands of dollars and staging a kidnapping) isn't still completely on track.
I am certain that my friends want to smack me awake, to show me my own reality, just as I wish I could with this old friend of mine. Perhaps they know more about me than I know about myself. In fact, there's a good chance of that.
Life is easier to view from the glass above it. Living it is the messy part. I'm saying nothing profound.
I love you guys,
Charlie
I'd like to think I'm more self aware than that, but I'm not. My problems are simple and not devastating by any means, and yet I walk myself into the same troubles again and again like a lab rat who hasn't yet figured out that, no, neither door one nor door two has cheese behind them. I face setbacks and turn to my friends, confused at how this new set of circumstances could have possibly cropped up, like William H. Macy's character in Fargo, shocked that his plan (which involved thousands of dollars and staging a kidnapping) isn't still completely on track.
I am certain that my friends want to smack me awake, to show me my own reality, just as I wish I could with this old friend of mine. Perhaps they know more about me than I know about myself. In fact, there's a good chance of that.
Life is easier to view from the glass above it. Living it is the messy part. I'm saying nothing profound.
I love you guys,
Charlie
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