On Finding Peace

I’ve tried to rationalize lots of things in my life; not studying enough in college, not moving to London in 2007, taking a job I didn’t really like. But as I switched over to CNN on Sunday, I was met with a whole different category.

Violence.

My fathers generation remembers where they were when Neil Armstrong landed on the moon. I remember sitting in my living room alone as the second plane struck the Twin Towers. Zach, Sarah and I were driving back from The Cheesecake Factory as a stunned reporter kept fumbling to tell everyone that Osama bin Laden had been killed. I sat in my little yellow truck outside a pool supply store as they announced the first bombs were being dropped on Iraq. I was in a theater in Houston when 12 people were killed in Aurora, CO.

There’s something about violence that stays with us, quickens us to the core and makes us take note of life. So as I heard the news of the people that died while worshipping in a Sikh temple, my heart broke. Just about every Sunday I show up to a house of worship in a similar fashion and to think that someone would bring violence into such a place of peace is beyond rationalization.

While I was in London I had the chance to visit the Gurdwara Sri Guri Sing Sahba, Southall, the leading Sikh Gurdwara outside of India. A truly magnificent building with a massive, open hall for worship throughout the day, I found great peace sitting and listening to a language that I had no hope of understanding. Even though Sikhism is vastly different than my own Christian religion, I found something compelling about the ethics and motivations behind it. The people were all welcoming of the curious Westerners that observed there worship service. I sat on a padded floor with a crude bandana wrapped acting as a turban as I tried to grasp at what I was witnessing.

The thing that impressed me the most on my visit was the Langar, a community kitchen that serves vegetarian meals to anyone who comes. It was in the Langar that my religious education was turned upside down. Just like in Christianity, the Sikh worshipers understood the importance of meeting peoples needs, physical and spiritual. Compassion and love aren’t virtues that live in isolation inside a religious institution, but in people.

I felt peace in that Gurdwara, just like I’ve felt in various churches in the Midwest, a Bob Dylan concert, a home for the elderly and sitting along the Thames.

I think this is why violence leaves such a mark on us. We are people built for peace but bent on corruption. Different religions explain it many ways, but I recognize it through a Christian lens as the fall and depravity of man.

After the tragic spike in shootings that have plagued our country, and our world, its inevitable that people will blame guns, mental illness and political systems. In some ways they may even be right. I think the problem is more personal. For starters, I’m the problem. I believe in peace, non-violence, harmony and finding a better way. Yet so many times I find myself just going along with the current climate and rationalizing violence like it was my choice to not move overseas. It was Thomas Merton that said “If you yourself are at peace, then there is at least some peace in the world.”

I need to learn to be at peace with myself before I can truly understand what peace in the world can look like.

Untitled #11

Stifling passion

underneath folded arms,

intently gazing at

a world so foreign.

Neutral colors.

Chestnut locks.

Wicked eyes.

Tempered cheeks.

Dropped like a tulip

among roses.

Silently sitting,

fists clinched.

Waiting on the

world to move.

Table #3

Pale green

the grass in early Spring,

up, like her eyes.

Freckled nose

worn, as the

tops of her hands.

Safe,

glimmering eyes.

Not so different

than dew on glass,

pouting slowly

at my approach.

I wonder what

she’s thinking?

Paris In Winter – A Lament

Part of me remembers Paris in a strictly romantic sense. Memories of walking along the Seine at 4am, seeing the hulking mass of the Eiffel Tower unlit and wrapped in the cold of February’s arms. Watching the sunlight slowly engulf the spires of Notre Dame as couples hold hands and take in the beauty.

Still, part of me remembers Paris the way it really was. Gypsies crowded around the Eiffel Tower and rats freely roaming the plaza in front of Notre Dame, looking to feast on leftovers from Asian tourists. Fights in the Metro and endless strikes making the morning commute nothing short of a disaster.

Somehow, both of these are correct.

I find myself talking about Paris a lot these days. It shows up in random conversations and then slowly takes over my thoughts. It’s as if I can’t escape my time in the City of Love.

I came to Paris in the winter of 2009. Novelist and playwright Irwin Shaw once said “Paris in the winter is for connoisseurs of melancholy”, and I’d tend to agree. The city was gray and full of unease as I rode my first metro into the heart of Montparnasse to meet the people I would be staying with. I had never endured a winter overseas before. My trips to England had been summer excursions when tourists are in full force and the rain merely washed off the streets from the constant parades and celebrations in the city. But this was different. There was sorrow and hesitance hanging in the air. It was as if someone I didn’t know died each and every morning. The tourists, those who couldn’t afford Paris in the summer, huddled in lines, a clever ploy to keep warm and ward off the gypsies as they waited for elevators up to the Tower’s observation deck.

This melancholy that Irwin talks about gripped me too. I had just left behind someone that I very much cared about, only to find myself in a cold and blustery facade of what I had expected. Sure I was excited to be there and to experience a new culture, but a part of me knew I had done the wrong thing. Did the cold last forever?

As the months went on, my situation began to mirror the weather. An inordinate amount of snow blanketed the city on more than one occasion only to be followed by a day of sunshine. My mood, and the weather, was a yo-yo in the hands of a 5-year old. I lost weight due to stress and walking around 5-7 miles a day. My hair grew out to its longest point in my life. I was a person that I didn’t even recognize. My connection back home was slim.I was living in the greatest city in the world but slowly fading into an apparition.

My time in Paris ruined me physically, mentally and spiritually. The thing is, I wouldn’t trade that time for anything. Every morning the city tore me to shreds, punching holes into my tiny frame and inserting its philosophy, humor, and heartache in small doses. Each day was a struggle to keep my head above water and paint a smile on my face. But then, drained of everything but existence, I would turn a corner and see the sun reflecting off the face of a girl reading a book in a cafe in Montmarte, or birds skimming the Seine as lovers embraced on Pont Neuf.The city would force its brilliance on me like a mother giving medicine to her child. It was worth it for these moments.

I remember Paris for a lot of things; romance, heartache, contradictions, sentiment. But most of all, I remember Paris because I have to. I am Paris, in all it’s gritty glory. Beautiful, misunderstood and reckless.

A Bright Sadness

It’s 2012 and I’m continually struck by how fast things change.

For me, 2011 was a year of ups and downs. The first half of the year saw a very precious relationship deteriorate faster than I ever could have imagined, but was followed by a season of growth, music, creativity and soul-searching. There are things that brought happiness and even more that brought about growing pains and heartache.

2011 seems ever-present to me right now. Nothing sums up this fact better than when I found out that the person, with whom my relationship fell apart, is now engaged. Words don’t even come to mind to describe the range of emotions that I experienced upon receipt of this news. Anger, hurt, relief, happiness, sadness, and general melancholia.

The best way I can convey what I feel about the situation now is a new term that I’m learning to love, “bright sadness.”

I first heard the term “bright sadness” at the end of 2011. It comes from the Eastern Orthodox Christian tradition to describe the season of Lent. It is simply a season of grief that ends with a great and happy celebration. The season of lent Lent, the “sadness” portion, is a time of mourning and grief over the impending death of Christ. It’s capped off by “bright” Easter where Christ returned from the dead.

No, I’m not comparing a breakup to the death and resurrection of Christ, but merely taking the term to show my progression throughout the last year. At first I was heartbroken and stunned, then I did whatever I could to move on. This was simply a mask for the grief, or “sadness”, that I didn’t want other people to see. It was a front for piece of me that wasn’t mended yet.

Fast forward to now, the “bright” portion where I’ve realized that things are better off this way. I’ve met truly amazing people on this journey that I wouldn’t have if things would have continued in the relationship. Plus there’s the fact that she’s happier now than I could have hoped to make her, or will be able to make any girl in my future.

Sure there are days that I wish it would’ve worked out, but I’m not  the kind to start looking back. It was Oscar Wilde who said, “No man is rich enough to buy back his past,” and I’m pretty sure he’s right. As much as I kicked and screamed through 2011, I know that this year is going to be better because it has to be. No more looking back.

There’s good thing on the horizon and I’m intent on finding more of the “bright sadness” in life . After all, if things were good all the time, we’d never appreciate life. It’s in those moments of heartache and despair that we realize how beautiful life is.

Slow Decay

I’ve been looking back over old blog posts and this one in particular, from mid 2009, caught my eye.

 

I recently decided, recently being around 9:04 p.m. on June 18th, that I am no longer content with being single. In the words of “How I Met Your Mother’s” Ted Moseby, I’m just not good at it. And it’s totally true, I am no good at it. It was only about 3 months ago that I decided that I actually wanted to get married, and yes there was someone in mind when that conclusion was made. Before then, the thought of spending the rest of my life with one single person scared the living crap out of me. Now it just doesn’t sound so bad.

Back to my current dilema, this isn’t a problem I can fix on my own. I’ve sat down with girls and tried to figure out why I am prone to be “the friend” almost 99% of the time. Patterns have been analyzed, suggestions have been given, and yet here I sit by myself.

I’m pretty sure there’s nothing wrong with me, although my exes may have a different idea about that statement. Sure I’m not the buff-est, tallest, or best looking, but that can’t be the only thing that girls look for in a guy. If there’s some secret code that I have to crack to get a girl to notice then I’m pretty much screwed because puzzles and games aren’t my thing.

Sure I’m complaining right now. I honestly don’t care. Everybody needs a little bit of self loathing sometimes. And yes I probably will go out and buy a new iPhone tomorrow just to make myself feel better. It’s just what I do. Call me a girl if you want, I really don’t care at this moment. I’m just sick of having so many girls call me their friend and never once even consider me as a viable option for a date. I’ve got a decent self-image but man can that crap wear on you after enough times.

Just once I want to be a first option and not the guy that “maybe I could see myself with if no one else works out.” Just once.

 

I’m not so sure I’ve strayed too far from how I felt in 2009, even though a lot has happened since then. It seems as if the names just changed, and possibly the scenery. I know I’ve learned a lot of lessons and moved forward but some days it doesn’t feel like it. This is one of those days.

An Open Letter to Girls on Internet Dating Sites

Dear Hopeful Digital Female Prospect,

I’m so glad that you are taking hold of the reins of your personal life and trying any new way possible to find that perfect person for you. Seriously, I commend you for taking a chance and trying the roller coaster that is internet dating.

With that said, I’d like to point out a few things that might help you break through the digital barrier to actually going on a real date with someone. I’ve bridged that gap before so let me give a few ground rules for the first thing a guy see’s, your profile picture.

1. If you show off an inordinate amount of cleavage, or even pose in a swimsuit, you better show the exact same amount on your first date or he will be disappointed.

2. Don’t use a group photo. If a guy has to work to try to figure out who you are and if you’re attractive enough to contact, he won’t.

3. Costumes. Cool for kids or when at Comic Con, not when trying to find someone to spend your life with.

4. Pets are the ultimate pickup line, when in person. A digital dog or cat just says I want kids now  but this will have to do.

5. Smile. There’s only a small fraction of guys who openly look for depressed women, and that fraction doesn’t want a relationship.

Alright girls, now go out there and browse and be browsed to your heart’s content.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Man

Hello Morning, My Old Friend pt. 2

Apparently there’s a category for someone like myself and to fit into that classification you have to watch way too many romantic movies, be addicted to soccer, not mind having a dog who snores, be used to rejection, and care way too much about how others perceive you.

I’m not quite sure what that little list says about my life but I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to know. My friend Candice called me a romantic by nature. Unlike a lot of guys I’m completely okay with that label, mostly because no matter how hard I try I can’t change it. I will always be the nice guy who lets people off the hook, opens doors, is cordial and poised even when someone is ending or changing a relationship, and will still try to salvage something when its been made clear that there is nothing left in the wreckage.

That’s just who I am.

Yesterday I wrote about being hopeful for the new day. This may seem like a departure from that, but it really isn’t. I’m not hopeful because I choose to be, I’m hopeful because I literally don’t know how to be anything but. I’m slowly realizing that no matter what happens I’m gonna be the nice guy and one day someone is going to like that. If that means I’m going to get taken advantage of at some point along the way, then it’s probably gonna be partly my fault. I’m 27 years old and I don’t know how to be anything but that person.

So am I hopeful?

Yes.

Am I hopeful in the same way as yesterday?

No.

Will I ever be hopeful like that again?

I really hope so.

 

 

 

 

A man can only take so much before he starts blaming himself.

Secret

It’s as if someone didn’t tell me.

 

The earth never stopped moving.

Time didn’t stand still.

Little pieces of confetti stayed tucked in their bags.

Yet she walked into the room.

 

I’ve always believed in love at first sight

but normally it’s followed by fireworks

or the demolition of an old building.

How can this be so simple?

 

No opera’s, royal ballets, or tired

renditions of classic Aerosmith song’s.

A calm smile, cheerful eyes, and

nothing happened.

 

Two decades of emotion wrapped

up in a little grin and not so much as

a hair raised on the back of my neck.

Either I don’t know what love is

or I’m just too blind to notice.

Move Along

I think my iPhone just might hate me.

As I got into my car on Tuesday morning, after not actually going to sleep on Monday night, my little audio/visual companion decided it wanted to throw out the following tunes for me.

1. Heartbreak Warfare – John Mayer

2. Champagne High – Sister Hazel

3. This Love (Will Be Your Downfall) – Ellie Goulding

4. Rolling in the Deep – Adele

5. There Is – Boxcar Racer

6. In Love With A Girl – Gavin Degraw

7. Move Along – All American Rejects.

This ordering of songs can only mean that my iPhone hates me or that it has somehow contracted ESP capabilities with the last iOS update from Apple. As cool as the ESP thing would be, get to work on it Steve, I’m not quite sure I want my music always mirroring my moods. When I clean my house I listen to classic folk with lots of Simon & Garfunkel and Bob Dylan. Not only does folk have nothing to do with cleaning, it might even be counter productive because of its calming tendencies.

I also tend to listen to heavier, please don’t think Metallica or Megadeath, music when I want to feel on top of the world. Before I would go on dates you could hear things like Shipping Up To Boston by The Dropkick Murphy’s or basically any song off of The Juliana Theory’s Love album. For some reason I just like the way louder and more upfront songs make me feel. Faster by Third Eye Blind is still the easiest way to get me excited about something that I could normally care less about.

So when my iPhone decided to help channel all my inner angst on Tuesday morning, I almost rebelled. Part of me wanted to turn on the few crappy Houston radio stations but I don’t think I can handle anymore Usher, Sugarland, or whatever tacky crap is being thrown out on Top 40. So I stuck with my “old sad bastard” music and a strange thing happened, I liked it. I was equal parts angry, hurt, furious, broken, and determined and somehow the exact songs that played tapped into each one of those emotions.

Being a musician, I tend to channel emotion through music but that morning I think it was backwards. My iPhone was channeling music through me and in the process, pushing me forward. Am I quite ready to let it all go? Probably not. Will I? Depends on what song comes on next.