Not a post post

This is not a substantial blog post. I do apologize for the shortness. It's Halloween. Not many trick or treaters. The last trick or treaters were not even in costume. I said to one kid, “Who are you supposed to be?” And he said, "You, I'm supposed to be you."
Woah.

O-Dark-Thirty, Part Three

From "Morning Has Broken" by Cat Stevens:

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing, fresh from the word

And then there is this from Nick Drake's "From the Morning":

A day once dawned, and it was beautiful
A day once dawned from the ground

One of my most bittersweet and beautiful pre-dawn morning was on the morning of September 8, 2000.  It was the morning of my second major open-heart surgery. My family and I were staying at an auxiliary house associated with St. Louis University Hospital for families visiting patients. It was right across the road from the hospital, where my surgery was to take place. I had been hospitalized a week before due to some heart-related issues and so they just let us stay in this house after I was discharged.

It was my sister, mom, dad and I all staying in one room the size of your standard hotel room.

The night before I was nervous about what would happen the next day, but in a lot of ways I just felt like I was going to have a nice, enjoyable long sleep.

And hopefully I would wake up. But if I didn't, I was certain about where I would be headed. I was really sad for my family having to go through this again. Actually, I should say, I was sad for my family having to go through this all my life. I mean, this was only my second major surgery, but they have lived through my first two surgeries as a baby, my life dealing with a kid who had yearly heart check ups, monthly blood draws, minor dietary restrictions, etc., and I was still pretty much all boy. I don't think I ever really took my own health condition that seriously. That changed after the surgery in 2000.

And my poor little sister had to deal with an older brother that already loved being the center of attention getting even more attention.

At any rate, I spent some of the evening writing out some of my favorite scriptures on a small piece of notebook paper. I used to carry a notebook in my back pocket. I used it to jot down ideas, poems, quotes, etc. I wrote these scriptures as a meditation exercise, but also to give my mom something to focus and read while I was in surgery. There was a good chance she might be nervous.

I remember waking up in darkness the next morning, possibly around 4:45 AM. I don't recall if it was to the alarm or not, but I slept pretty well so I may have actually just woke up. I walked into the bathroom, took off my clothes and jumped in the shower. I then got ready to prepare my chest for the surgery. The doctors and nurses told me it would help if I could shave my chest (which is funny because I have hardly any chest hair), and also swab down my chest with the iodine rub. I think that's what it was. I also already had a hospital gown that I could wear over my jeans on my walk to the hospital.

So I stood there in front of the small mirror and shaved my chest. It was kinda fun, I guess. And then there was the next step, which just felt weird. I opened these packets of iodine and rubbed the cool, orange liquid all over my chest and belly. A lot of it dripped into the sink and onto the floor. I repeated this process until I looked like a Jersey Shore wanna-be. At that time I would have called it a fake'n' bake. I think I then slowly put on the hospital gown shirt thingy, underwear, jeans and socks.

My parents and sister were up and getting ready.

As I reflect on it, I'm certain everything felt surreal for all of us. For my parents, well, they had been through this before, so they really knew what I was getting into. My sister really had no idea what would happen, but I think she was just devastated by the whole thing. I was at peace. I believe God gave me this peace, but I also believe I had no idea what was going to happen (as I said, I was a baby during previous surgeries). And maybe that was part of the peace God gave me...the unknown. I wanted more than anything to transfer this peace to my family, but I had hoped that my sense of peace would help them feel at peace.

I remember joking about things. About my chest being orange. Should I just wear my pajamas?

I remember receiving a phone call from a friend, Walt Howard, I believe, because he had just found out about this. I felt horrible I hadn't let him know, but I was so appreciative of his call. I think someone else may have called too, but I can't remember.

We left the house. And this is the part that I remember really well. Or at least, my mind has retained this image of my memory, but it may have been altered over time.

As we walked across the road, I looked to the east and caught a glimpse of the morning sky. I don't believe the sun had started to peak over the horizon yet, but it was illuminating the sky with grey, white and purple colors. I remember feeling this sensation that I often felt at rather inspired moments in my life. It's this feeling as if the world is lit on fire.

Elizabeth Barret Browning said it better than I ever could:

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries,

I had this incredible sense of God's presence and the beauty of life all around me. I think I smiled. I remember looking at my family and smiling as we walked into the hospital.

It was a morning that felt like the first morning and the last morning. It was a time when I was completely in the now. My past was behind me. My future was uncertain, so there was no point in planning, making to-do lists, or anything like that. I was on a precipice.

I have shared this moment with other people. I've journaled about it as well. I still find that my words fail me, and they fail you. This moment was a gift. 

Surfing Lake Michigan

Ugh, this has been a long day. Every Monday is a long day now. If I don't get time to blog over my lunch break, I pretty much have no time for a substantial blog post at all. I know, faithful reader, you may be disappointed in another brief post. It's past ten. Way past ten.

And then there is Sandy the hurricane. Actually she has nothing to do with the the brevity of this post, but I was surprised to find that she was having a marked effect upon Chicago. At work we got an email alert from our building manager that said there would be gale force winds up to 40-50 tonight and tomorrow. And there was an increased chance of flooding downtown due to waves reaching up to 33 feet on Lake Michigan.  33 feet! I guess there were even surfers catching the waves. I really don't know a better way to write that sentence. Surfers riding the waves? Surfers catching some hang time? I don't know. I feel so old sometimes.

They say that all water activity is banned, but that didn't stop the surfers. Then again, would we be able to accurately describe how high the waves were without the surfers? Just think, now we can say, dude, the waves were so high there were surfers riding the waves.

Please pray for those in the wake of Sandy.  

Brief Post

Honestly, it's the tail end of our anniversary weekend and we are still just trying to cram a whole lot of "us" time in before the week begins, so this will be a brief post.

We had a great time in Galena and the surrounding area. We loved the Irish Cottage and all of its amenities, including the swedish massage, breakfasts, and the friendliness of the staff. The Frank O'Dowd's Pub attached to the hotel was great. Unfortunately we missed the Irish Dancers, but we were  regaled with some wonderful music from the Irish balladeer, Noel Cooney both nights. He even played my request,  "Long Black Veil."

On the second night we had the privilege of having a snug all to ourselves. Snugs are popular in Britain and Ireland. They are small four-walled rooms attached to both ends of a bar. The bartenders or owners would often meet customers in the room and have more intimate or private discussions. Heather and I just enjoyed some pints, played some Monopoly and enjoyed the music.

I will probably write more about our trip later, but not now.

I think it moved.

Heather and I are getting Swedish massages today. A couples massage is what they call it. I'm glad it's not my first time getting a full-body massage. Otherwise, I think I would be a bit edgy. Of course every masseuse is not the same. I just hope I get a woman. That sounds bad, but really I can't understand why a man who is pretty comfortable with himself would want a man to give him a massage. It might just be me.

My first massage was at a place in Springfield. It was in a salon. Everything was very private and relaxing. I had this image that I would be naked with only a small t-towel covering my heiny. Instead the massage therapist invited me back, asked me about health concerns, tense areas, and of course, was this my first time. Then she said she would leave the room and allow me to take off my clothes to "my comfort level" and get into the bed thingy. It was really like a cozy envelope of sheets. I was completely covered up to my neck.

When she reentered, she started some soft New Age music and then informed me about the process. At no point during the process would I ever be fully exposed or anything like that. Basically she worked on each section of my body. My right leg, thigh and feet. And then my left leg, thigh and feet. Kinda like a butcher preparing a piece of meat. Not the best simile. Anyway.

Her hands worked and molded my skin and muscle until I felt like, well, almost nothing. Like I was not there. I felt like I left my body, and was floating in space. Really. It was amazing. I truly felt like God was present with me, and that I could see things pretty clearly. I also felt really idealistic dramatic things like if the leaders of all countries could convene and have these massages they would just get everything resolved. Ever. No more wars, poverty, disease, etc.

But that is the world you visit during a massage. At least that was my experience. When I left, I felt so relaxed.  I felt as if I had a whole new body. It was an appropriate feeling considering the fact that I scheduled the massage for the day ten years after my second major open-heart surgery.

I know a lot of guys are fearful of this sorta thing. Get over it. Really. When you have one, you will be mad you didn't get one sooner. I can't guarantee it will be the same. I'm sure I took a lot of my personality in with me. For example, if the idea of touching a stranger or shaking hands with someone or hugging bothers you now, maybe it's not the best idea for you. But if you are worried about being self-conscious or if "it" will move, I wouldn't let that get in the way. Unless you want it to move, but then we are probably not talking about the same type of massages at all.

Well, now we are off for our couples massage. It's nice to know we will be together, floating in space, smiling like fools.

Update: Just came back from couple's massage. Heather and I feel wonderful, but this was not the dreamy, floating in space experience like the first one. It was still great, but apparently city-living or my work existence behind a desk is taking a toll because I had some really tense areas. And she worked on them. And worked on them. It's interesting to feel a tense area in your body for the first time. I really had no idea these knots were there. In fact, the main tense and sore area of my body didn't involve any substantial work at all. She just found these spots, like a, like a, like a professional therapist. And she worked until I felt them quiver, loosen and retreat, in a sense. It was great afterwards. In fact, I feel great now, but at certain times it was rather uncomfortable. When I asked Heather about this, she said it was normal. She also said she loved it when they found those tense spots and worked on them. Really. She was totally into it. Sometimes she really surprises me.

And yes, I still recommend massages.

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Anniversary Honeymoon

Heather and I are headed to Galena, Illinois today for our one year anniversary. It's a few weeks after our actual anniversary, but it's the first time we've been able to get away. I keep saying it's our honeymoon, Heather keeps correcting me. It's pretty funny.

I wonder if I keep saying that because I'm not used to being married or because it still feels like we are in the honeymoon phase or because I'm, as my dad used to call me, a royal space cadet.

A royal space cadet. That's pretty much the best kind of space cadet. My wife is definitely a princess. I'm so thankful for her and her gracious heart. And her understanding. And her ability to listen. And her sharp wit. And I could go on.

The leaves are past their prime. It is colder much faster outside now. We are both working at an Oasis just outside of Belvidere, Illinois. After working for a few more hours, we will head onto Galena for a weekend of relaxation and celebration of our life together. My posts may be brief.

Happy Anniversary Honeymoon to us.

O-Dark-Thirty, Part Two

Okay, so as I established in the previous post I am not much of a morning person. And I have developed a love/hate relationship with my alarms. Actually, it's more accurate to say it's a like/hate relationship. But the alarm discussion was really peripheral to the thrust of my post, which was about early morning events I've had. Since this is a rather casual and open medium, I don't mind distracting myself from my intended purpose. I do hope I can always circle back around and focus on the original intent of said blog post, especially if I declared it at some point in the post.

There are probably two to three reasons we get up early.

1) Education or work. If you plan on attending your 8 am class, you must get up somewhat early, and if you are me and only need an hour or so. Or if you work, and your hours are in the morning, you have to wake up for work. That is, if you want to keep your job.  Then of course there is the work you do around home, like cleaning, yard work, etc. This work may require getting up early as well.

None of these events are really "exciting" reasons to get up, though. Unless you work at Sea World or Google.

On the Numeric Rating Scale for pain, 0 being no pain and 7-10 being severe pain, getting up for any of these reasons usually hits a 10. I know some say if you get enough sleep, it won't be as bad, but I don't know that I have ever heard my alarm or had a wake up call and afterward just popped out of bed with a spring in my step. Usually I moved like a sick wildebeest in a swamp.

If the reason for getting up is high on the "no fun" scale, the pain definitely stays between 8-10. Drugs must be taken to cope with said pain. Drugs like coffee or some caffeinated infusion.

2) Emergency/Drunk Friend/Drunk Friend Drama/Regular Drama/Mother/Some Girl Claiming to be pregnant with your love child. This is never a fun wake up, mainly because it's so incredibly alarming. The event itself is an alarm. An alarm that is blaring in your head, in no certain order, "What the hell? Who the ? Someone's dead! Someone's hurt! What is my company's policy on on such and such family-related death?" Well, this is what goes through my head. But here's the catch. These tragedies are almost always never the reason someone has called me at an ungodly hour.

My poor (in the bless your heart sense) father received a phone call in the early morning once while I was away at college. The girl on the other line proceeded to tell my father that I got her pregnant at the county fair that past summer. Since my dad believes in my innocence in most things (even though he probably has plenty of historical evidence to the contrary), just said something like, well, I think you have the wrong Jason, and I don't think Jason was at the fair last summer, and he's at college now.  Now that I've written that out, it does look a bit like something for one of those 48 Hours/Discovery ID shows, doesn't it? "Little did they know about the secret lifestyle their son had been living with carnies..."

At any rate, I feel like I should say this, just to be clear for everyone who might be reading this, the accusation was completely false, and we are still uncertain who the woman was. I will say this, I think it could have been a mistaken identity situation. While in high school, we had a wilder, less-inhibited neighbor also named Jason and who was about my age. We always wondered. The other theory was that it was some former high school student harassing my dad. He was a high school principal, so that did happen.

At any rate, on the pain scale, this pain falls somewhere between 5-10. It's really hard to say. It depends on what the news is about, how long you have to be on the phone, and if you can't get back to sleep because of said wake-up call.

3) Vacation/Praying with Monks, Quiet Time or Devotions/Meteor Shower/Bird or Animal Watching/Christmas and Easter. While it still may be incredibly difficult to get out of bed at 3 AM or 4 AM, if the reason is rewarding, it's easier for me to motivate myself out of my cocoon of blankets.

Some of my fondest morning memories as a child were the times we all had to get up early on the first day of vacation. It was almost always dark, but everything seemed to bright. The air tingled with possibilities of driving to far away destinations and visiting amazing places like the Corn Palace, Prairie Dog Town, Bedrock City, WALL DRUG. And on the way, we almost always stopped for donuts at a place called the Donut Hole. I was usually so excited the night before I didn't get much sleep, but that doesn't mean I didn't hop out of bed in Christmas-morning excitement.

Then there are few times I've been to monasteries on weekend retreats. The retreatants are encouraged to join in liturgy of hours with the monks. My favorite hour of the day was typically the first, Vigils. It was usually around 3 am. I usually just slide into jeans and a t-shirt or sweatshirt and trundle into the sanctuary or nave. The vast room was dark except for a candle symbolizing the presence of God burning at the far end. Then the monks with tousled morning hair and disheveled robes waddled into the sanctuary as well. A few more lights would come on, but not too many. After they finished filing in, they would then begin chanting their prayers for Vigils. Wikipedia used the words, "purposeful sleeplessness" to describe this time. I like that. We were keeping watch for others, praying for the world while it slept. The last few times I did this I had this beautiful image in my head. I could see my niece and nephew sleeping. In some sort of cosmic and guardianesque way, I felt like the monks and I were keeping watch for them through our prayers.

And then when it was over I went back to bed until the next hour of prayer.

These experiences rate at about 2-4.  No, it's not absent of complete pain. I still have to get up. And more than likely, I didn't get enough sleep the night before.  But the reason for waking up far outweighs the pain.

I'm not a morning person, but these were some amazing pre-dawn moments.  I want to continue this series on early morning, but right now I need to get back to work.

So, yeah, microblogging.

I posted a short blog entry this morning and expected to follow it up later with a longer post, but then someone called what I did "microblogging." And said it was nice.

So it's a thing. Brief, meaningful or well-thought blog posts are a thing.

Yay!  So with that in mind, that earlier post will be my main post for the day. I will try not to make it a habit, but...sometimes I just feel a creative urge. And believe it or not, I spent more time editing and reworking that post than I have on other much longer posts.

Game 1 of the World Series. The Giants are killing the Tigers, 6-0.  Go Giants!

Image(s)

While paused at a traffic light during my pre-dawn commute, I noticed the silhouette of a woman (presumably) in the car in front of me styling her hair.

Through the dew streaked rear window of her car, it looked as if she was conducting an orchestra of her hair. Her elbows jutting out and bowing. Hands diving and disappearing into the headrest.

Or perhaps she was assuming a pose of a Hindu goddess. And for that moment,she was bathed in the divine artificial glow and hum of the red light.

And then it changed to green.

O-Dark-Thirty, Part One

I am not a morning person. It usually takes me awhile to roll out of bed in the morning. Normally I hit the snooze button at least 5 times. That's on a good morning. A bad morning consists of of sleeping for an additional hour in 9 minute increments. 9 minute increments. Why is it 9 minutes? Is it 9 minutes? I heard somewhere it was, and I think I confirmed it before. Anyway.

There is more lucid dreaming that goes on in that 9 minutes than my nocturnal slumber, at least that I can remember. When my alarm goes off the first time, it usually feels like my soul is being ripped out of me by the jaws of a steam shovel. Seriously, I think of that steam shovel in P.D. Eastman's book Are You My Mother? My soul is that baby bird. Sleep is my mother.

Up until the time it died, I had the same digital clock and radio for around 20 years. At least. It was a rectangular. It had a wood-colored top where the small panel of controls sat in the lower left corner. The front had the digital read out as well as the old-style radio dial.  The digital numbers had a dimmer switch too.

I remember sneakily reading Garfield books by the digital numbered lights while in bed as a kid. And I remember its soul-ripping klaxon. It pierced my slumber as a child and all the way up through high school. I don't think I took it to college with me, but when I moved into an apartment near home I got the digital blaring banshee back. The default alarm sounded like an elderly deaf woman wailing. I think that's the best description. Remember those deafening radio signals in the story Harrison Bergeron? It was also like that...but for my sleep...my dreams. I usually have no idea what I was dreaming or thinking before it went off.

At some point I started using the radio alarm option. Regardless of the alarm change, waking up was still like leaving a swamp while weighted down with 20 sleeping, easily-irritated little people. Notice, I said little people, not midgets.

At any rate, I think I will have to continue this post later today or tomorrow. This was meant to be a post about the peaceful time and nice experiences I've had in the early morning hours, despite the fact that I am not a morning person.

So, stay tuned for the next post where we may have a special guest appearance from Ted Knight.

Tired and Tardy

So, I think my policy is that if I don't get to start a blog entry before 10 PM on a week night, my post will be brief. On purpose. It's the last game of the NLCS. San Francisco Giants vs the St. Louis Cardinals. It's pouring at AT&T Park in San Francisco. It's the top of the ninth, two are on, and the Giants are winning, 9-0. 9-0. Yeah, it's not looking good for the current World Champions. Still, never say die, right? Right. I think the umps are considering delaying the game due to the rain, but really, it's the top of the night, two out, two on. The Giant's fans and players are dying to see this game end. They are putting in Sergio Romo to close out the game. The umps are working on the mound now for the pitcher. This is October baseball.

I definitely have some ideas for the next two blog posts. I would share them, but I won't. Which, I guess that means I wouldn't share them because I didn't.

My mom and dad came up to Skokie to visit this weekend. We had a nice and relaxing time. We didn't need to do much driving around or entertaining. We just visited, ate some good food, and laughed a lot.  

One strike away. Matt Holliday is batting.

Am I really live blogging a game now?

Holliday pops it up and the game is over. Giants win the National League Pennant.

Oh well, there's always next year. However, my next blog post will be tomorrow.

Full Count

The St. Louis Cardinals are in post-season baseball again. It's amazing to me that they manage to make it into post-season, but I am always excited when they do.  I'm excited and nervous. I get nervous because, well, "I am" a member of the team. I am a co-manager, co-owner, bat boy, a pitching coach and the batting coach. For most of the 162 games in a given baseball season, I am not as involved in the day-to-day games, in fact, I am more like a hot dog vendor. However, when it comes to post-season, that's when I'm called up, that's when my team needs me to play a vital role in the Cardinal's post-season success.

Well, that's at least how I feel.

And it's really no picnic. I'm sometimes relieved when the Cardinals don't make it into post-season because I won't be a nervous wreck for late September and most of October. When I say nervous, I should say an anxious, pacing-the-floor, face-palming, mouth-frothing basket case. I go from utter extremes and saying things like, "They suck. They don't deserve to win" to "Is this team unreal? They are unbeatable!" I try to pretend I'm not interested, but it's just no good. As soon as I think they are completely out of a series, they rally in the ninth inning on a 3-2 count. And they really do this! They rally on a 3-2 count! They just did this against the Washington Nationals. The Washington Nationals were the new hopefuls and the Cardinals ruined their chances.

The Cardinals were in the post-season last year. They made it in on the Wild Card and then won the whole blasted thing against the Texas Rangers who were in the World Series a second time in a row! And I believe the Cardinals were one out away from losing it all. Then David Freese hit a beautiful home run that sent in three runs for a walk-off victory.

I was raised a Cardinal's fan. And in small towns in southern Illinois, you were pretty much three things: Christian, Republican and a Cardinal's fan. The Cardinal fandom is largely due to the AM radio frequency of KMOX. Most people in southern Illinois, Arkansas, northern Kentucky, southern Indiana and almost all of Missouri listened to KMOX out of St. Louis for sports. KMOX had all the Cardinal games. They gave up the rights for the broadcasts for a brief period, but now they are back to running every Cardinal game.  Their best broadcaster was Jack Buck. I grew up listening to him on a crackly AM radio while riding in the truck out to visit my grandpa. It's another one of those warm nostalgic feelings.

I have not always been a baseball fan, but I've always been a Cardinal's fan. By that I mean, my passion and zeal for baseball has not always been there, but my default setting has always been the Cardinals. Much like some Christians are Christians in name only. They've not stepped inside a church in twenty years, but when they are asked on surveys they usually mark Christian.

I stopped being a fan for a variety of reasons, but I think some of it was tied to some weird rebellion against my dad. Dad and I didn't always get along. I was a difficult, jerk-of-a-kid at times. I really was. I don't think it was just normal adolescent/teenager stuff because I continued to be a jerk, especially towards my dad, long into college and graduate school. Why? There are a variety of reasons, but I'm not sure it's important to go into those things here. Nothing bad or horrible happened between us. Nothing like that at all. My mom and dad were both incredible parents that did an amazing job raising me and my sister. I was a very difficult person to get along with for a long time. I'm sure my parents would say I wasn't that bad, but it's in the past now.

Back to baseball. I think when I started to really reconnect with my dad is when my interest in baseball was rekindled. And when I started to get back into baseball, I really started to reconnect with my dad. There's something about talking baseball with my dad. I expect some men out there have similar feelings, but perhaps the sport is football or basketball, but not soccer. Never soccer. Just kidding. Sorta.

Over the past ten years I've been following baseball and my Cardinals with greater frequency. Been following spring training. Listening to the Cards games on the radio, which is still my favorite medium for following baseball, streaming radio, TV or an app called Gameday which gives play-by-plays with pitch placement, at-bats, etc. But there is still nothing like post-season baseball. There's this excitement and electricity in the air. As I said, I go from a passive watcher/follower to a member of the team. I feel like an overenthusiastic mascot that really believes he is instrumental in his team winning. And no matter what time it is, if the Cardinals clinch a post-season series or world series, my dad is the first person I call. After all, we both know the Cardinals couldn't have done it without us.

I take requests

So I was a DJ for a wedding reception last night. My wife's good friend and co-worker Katherine, asked if I could DJ her and her husband's wedding reception. I was honored and nervous about this request. I love music. Well, I love my music. And I have an eclectic blend of music. I have everything from Colbe Callait to Justin Timberlake, from My Morning Jacket to Cat Stevens, from Nina Simone to Metallica. I don't like all music, I just like great music no matter the genre. My favorite genres of music are probably Alternative, Electronic, Folk and Classical. And Jazz. And some Blues. And Country. Okay, basically, if I hear of a great album, no matter the genre, I will check it out. If I hear about a list of the best albums of all time, I will want to go through the list and try and listen to each album. I am not saying I will like each album, but I will try to appreciate the music on some level.

I think it's because of my love for such a broad range of music is the reason I have developed a large and eclectic library of music. I think it's for this reason I've developed a reputation for creating playlists and mixes for my friends and family. And I love that. I love sharing my music with people, especially when they enjoy the music.

As I prepared playlists for this wedding reception, I had to really put aside my musical interests. In fact, I had to do something I normally shy away from when it comes to my tastes in anything - I had to think mainstream. I had to think of what people love to hear at weddings and what they are willing to dance to at a wedding. I had to, in a way, be really unselfish with my music.

Katherine emailed me and several of other people invited to the wedding about our favorite love song and dance song. Several people responded, so I used that list to fill the playlists. My favorite love song was "In Your Eyes" and my favorite dance song was "Billie Jean." These were both safe wedding reception songs. I will say "In Your Eyes" doesn't have the danceability factor with it, but it is a very familiar and often nostalgic song. The other requests that came back were quite diverse. There were standards like "At Last" by Etta James and the more recent dance hit, "Gangnam Style" by the Korean rapper, Psy. Neil Diamond, Tony Bennet, Frankie Vallie and Chuck Berry were on the list as well. I ended up having to download around 15-20 of the songs. It was fun discovering more new music.

After I downloaded and compiled all the music, I then built a playlist to play dinner music and one to play during the dance. My dinner playlist had a lot of easy listening, jazz and soft pop music on it like Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Eva Cassidy and Jack Johnson. My favorite playlist, or at least the one I was most excited and nervous about was the dance playlist.

Would you like to know some of the set list? Okay, I will tell you.

I started with four standard, get-the-party started songs: Celebration by Kool and the Gang, Funkytown by Lipps, Inc and YMCA by the Village People. I then moved into a more contemporary song, Let's Dance by Lady Ga Ga. It was around this time I moved to some slower tracks with Elvis singing "I Can't Help Falling in Love" and Connie Francis' "Anniversary Waltz." And the next round of dance was kicked off with Billie Jean.

There was something really unique and beautiful about creating a playlist of music and watching people really enjoy themselves to the music. When I have created mixes and playlists before, I didn't always get to see people enjoy my music. This was different. If the dance floor was empty, I knew the song was not as danceable or as well known. Or the place was clearing out.

And then maybe there are a lot of people dancing, and the crowd starts to thin out, and like a conductor, I raise my hand and move some songs around play the ultimate crowd pleaser - the dance along song. For example, Cupid Shuffle, Chicken Dance, or the Electric Slide. I am not usually a fan of these songs because I normally get out of step or something, but I have to say, sitting back, watching the huge crowd of people on the floor dancing in unison is a pretty awesome feeling. I was thinking, I did that. Or at least I helped do that.

There was an ebb and flow of people on the dance floor all night. However, there were always my biggest fans, the kids. For the most part, the kids were the most vocal about requests and always the ones most appreciative the music. I was so glad when I already had some of their requested songs already ready to play. And usually I bumped it up the list for them. It's really hard to turn down the kids. And when they came up to me with their parents, I was like, woah, they think I'm a professional. I'm just a dude. I'm just a friend who was asked to help out.

One thing I learned is not to always trust my musical gut. My wife is an amazing, on-the-spot editor of musical selections. She would look at the crowd, look at my playlist and help me gauge if the song I had on the list was the best next selection. We were a great team. She really helped me out by getting me to remove some of my "favorite" dance tunes but ones no one would probably recognize.

And that's what it really is. Familiarity. You are there to celebrate the union of a man and a woman. You have known them for years or maybe just months. You are seeing people you maybe haven't seen in for a long time. It brings up all this gooey, sentimental feelings about family, friends and your past. And then you hear "Blister in the Sun" by the Violent Femmes and you feel like this is the single greatest event in your life and grab people and start dancing like you're back at the first time you heard that song.

I always thought I wanted to be a DJ because I wanted to introduce my music to the musically challenged. I wanted to impose my playlists, my tastes on other people who simply didn't know better. But I also never really understood that that's not what being DJ is about, at least ones who DJ weddings and Bar Mitzvahs. It really seems about pleasing the people. It's about making people happy. The next time some of these people may be together is for a funeral, so you want this to be one fun event they can refer back to that wasn't involving someone dying.

It's really much more selfless than I realized. I felt like all I had to do was create a list of music, move some songs around, take a few requests, and maybe announce a dedication, but I felt like a conductor. I know, I'm exaggerating the whole experience. I'm sure the alcohol helped out everyone's willingness to dance. That's fine. I'm not a miracle worker.

But it was down to three more songs in the night: Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, December 1963 (Oh what a night!), Hot Chocolates' You Sexy Thing, and AC/DC's You Shook Me All Night Long, and the dance floor was packed with everyone, including the bride and groom, and they were forming circles and circles of people dancing with mini-dance-offs going on in the middle, and you could just see this amazing aura of joy and happiness, and I knew that I couldn't turn water into wine, but I could serve it to the party.

With some sick beats.

The Boy Who Cried "This will be my shortest blog post"

Okay, seriously, this one is going to be short. I know I've said that before, but this time it's for real. Today is going to be a long and busy day. I would use some colorful expression to describe how busy, but I can't think of a good or funny one. No wait, I got one. I'm going to be busier than a cat covering crap on a hot tin roof today and won't have time for a substantial blog post.

There. See, I told you, shortest blog post yet.

Really.

Yards from my youth

I grew up in the rural areas of southern Illinois. I have lived most of my life in rural areas, including my time at a small, private college in Kentucky. And while I felt like Springfield, Illinois was the "big time", it still had a very "rural juror" (30 Rock reference) feel to it. With the exception of the years spent being an apartment tenant, I have always had a yard to look out onto. If the view was not immediately from my living room window or bedroom window, there was a way to go to some porthole and view a lake, sea or ocean of grass, trees, and whatever else was out there. And then there were the drives to pretty much anywhere. Wide open spaces filled with corn fields, prairie grass or tress existed almost everywhere. It was very easy to get visually lost in the wide open spaces.

Since I've moved to the Chicago area, I have missed taking all of this for granted. Thankfully, I first lived with my wife in a dorm on the campus of Trinity International University in Deerfield. My drive every morning and evening took me by open fields, forest preserves (almost like preserves in a jar when you consider it's only seconds away from a gated community or shopping mall) and generally some untouched areas. I would often see coyotes, deer, various birds and quite a few trees. In a way, I was eased into the absence of wide open spaces. In another way, I was gently lowered into the terrarium that is living in the suburbs and/or metro city area.

Because that's really what it is. A terrarium. Well, I should say it's mainly just city and the organic areas are preserved in terrariums of tamed wildness. If that makes any sense. I don't even know if the people around here realize how neoclassical and old this idea is. I believe it was in the 16th century when poets and philosophers were writing about their gardens, mazes and long hedgerows because it was a relatively new concept or idea. All of this was cultivated landscape just outside their mansions or castles. They were domesticating wildness as well.  At any rate, it's so absurd to me at times. I walk in a concrete, glass and metal jungle downtown only to come across lovely potted plants on street corners. On the 21st floor of my building at work there are long rows of windows decked with ferns and various other plotted plants. And the men and women water and care for them like we have a nursery.  Well, I guess it really is a nursery.

So what's your point Jason? Well, Heather and I bought a house over six months ago in Skokie, very near Chicago. A much more crowded community. Fewer wide open spaces.  And compared to southern Illinois standards, the house is small. I like to think of it as cozy. Comfy. Cuddly, if you will.
Built in 1938, it's made of beautiful brick, has wooden floors, and is generally well made. And the basement...man-cave...is fully finished. We pretty much knew the first time we visited the house that it was exactly what we wanted.

And we loved the yard. We both love to sit and just look at our small yard. Thankfully a previous owner built on this small addition to the back of the house that opens up onto a deck/porch. It's just large enough to fit two chairs, a book shelf and a few end tables with a lamp. It's great for our quiet time in the mornings, visiting with people and my mother-in-law loves it. Actually, every one who visits loves this small room. As I said, it's small, but everyone loves to go to this room and sit around or stand at the entryway. It's quite an interesting phenomenon. They say most serious discussions end up in the kitchen, but in our house most discussions about anything seem to end up in that little add-on room.

I think it might be the view, though. The view from both swivel rocking chairs is of our small backyard. The north side has a line of ferns with a small tree (not sure what it is) in our yard that branches into the neighbor's yard as well. Along the north side of the yard is our small garage.  I mean very small. Small-European-car small. Along the garage are hastas (I think) and vining roses that snaked up the white trellis this past summer. It was neat.

And on the south side of the garage, the yard extends back farther to a taller fence. Along this fence is our majestic tree, the stalwart sentry of the yard. I believe it's a silver maple or some sort of oak. I really need to look this up. Its beautiful yellow leaves have blanketed most of the yard now. And honestly, its not the best sentry because it provides easy access for varmints to get into our yard as it branches into the alleyway and next to cable lines. We don't mind squirrels and chipmunks. However, rraccoon  opossums and skunks seem to lack certain social graces, though. And they love the area underneath our porch. They do tend to make things interesting, at least.

Along the south fence is a sidewalk that leads up to a latched wooden-door and kitty corner to the door is a small Joe-Pescia-in-Goodfellas-meets-Rasputin bush. Seriously, this thing is an unstoppable force of nature. When we first moved in, it was had covered over five feet of grass or so. With the help of a hedge clippers and other horticulture weapons mass cultivation, Heather and I reduced its Blago-hair to what we called the meth-head. That was a bit too far, so we decided to let it grow back to a good squarish size. We weren't sure it would grow back, but even with the horrible drought, it grew back to a nice size within a week. We  have to keep it under very close surveillance.

Heather and I have worked on our yard a good amount. We have planted grass where the Blago-bush once lived, and it's already greening up the whole area. I must add, planting grass and seeing it grow and how that changes the landscape is a pretty inspiring thing. I felt so proud.  I can grow grass!
I enjoy working in the yard, mowing and trimming bushes and the like. No, I don't always "like" it, especially when I have to do it after work, but there is nothing quite like that feeling afterwards. I often feel like the hard-working guy in a beer commercial who opens a beer and it makes that BUUUSSCHHH.  Head to the mountains. Or to the deck chair.

The first time we really worked on the yard I remember thinking, "I get it now, Mom and Dad. I get it." When I was an insufferable jerk of a teenager, my parents had the toughest time getting me to help with the yard. I hated it. I didn't see the point. Just let it all go! Let it be wild. And while I wanted to sound philosophical, I really just wanted to be inside playing video games, watching MTV or hanging with friends.
And now I get it. I'm living in a suburb of Chicago with a small yard. Compared to the yards of my youth, it's a patch on a quilt.  But it's our space with life. It's a small patch of earth where any sort of creature can sneak under a fence or crawl from a tree and play in our yard. The red, yellow and orange leaves are falling. And they will need to be raked because it will kill the grass. I get that now, mom and dad.

It will kill the grass.

File this under creative stealing.

From the Skokie News Police Blotter

A ravioli maker valued at about $150 was taken between 12:45 p.m. and 12:58 p.m. Oct. 8 in Williams-Sonoma at Westfield Old Orchard. Police said two females were seen standing by the appliances and one placing the ravioli maker in a bag. Police said the females were able to leave the store and elude a store representative.

Like most people, I think stealing is wrong, but honestly, stealing a 150 dollar ravioli maker? That's awesome. And they were able to elude the store representatives. I mean, I am sure the reps are trained to look for thieves, but they probably expect them to steal CDs, DVDs, clothing, make-up, or maybe some food items.  Certainly not a ravioli maker. There's so much I want to know about this story.  So much.

Why am I doing this? Part 2

I talked about this in my very first post, but I realize now I only explained what I'm doing and how I'm doing it. There a lot of people out there who have started blogs for various reasons. And there are a lot of people who never started blogs for various reasons.  Well, I will do my best to explain why I am blogging.

1) I love to write. I've been writing since I was in the third grade. My first story was what would now be termed fan fiction about Scooby-Doo.  My third grade teacher let me read it to the class. I'm almost positive a vampire was staked. I continued to write short stories and more V, GI Joe and A-Team inspired fan fiction, short stories and novels through junior high.

Then I moved to another town and got distracted by girls. Anytime you are the new kid, it's a lot like being the latest iPhone. Everyone wants you because you are shiny and new, but later on, when the new one comes along, they are ready to move on. It wasn't that devastating to my self-esteem, and I did make some nice girlfriends out of the experience, but the point here is that it distracted me from writing.

I resumed writing in my Junior and Senior years of high school. And it was mainly poetry. A thesaurus rex of angsty poetry heavily influenced by Poe, Frost and the made-up tragedies of youth.  My writing went into dormancy until intermittent periods in college. I was pretty much always a journaller, though. Well, an intermittent journal. And by intermittent, I mean, journal steadily for a few weeks and then pick it up again 4 months later.

Then my Creative Writing - Poetry - class reawakened the writer in me. I found my voice. It was awesome. Then over the next several years up to the present, I lost my voice, neglected my voice, abused my voice, threw my voice to the pigs and dogs, suffocated my voice with a novel of the French Revolution, left my voice in a road-side ditch, and finally found my voice all over again. However, I'm still not sure what to do with it.  Next point, please.

2) I have almost no discipline. This is where the idea for forty days seemed like a good idea. I think I could do this for forty days. Just forty, I said to myself. But I must say, it worried me. Could I really do forty days? Forty days!?!?  That's a long time. Every day!!  Oh no, it's perfect because it's symbolic and I love symbolic stuff.

I am ashamed to say this, but until I write the blog entry for the day, I am internally (sometimes externally to my wife) whining about having to write. It's not as much fun as it used to be. It seems like work. In fact, it is work for me: I write for a living now. Sure, it's boring, technical instructions on how to use software, but I'm writing 8 hours a day, five days a week.

Still, I fear the blog post. I think all day about what I will write. Really. Before I started doing this SIX DAYS AGO, I would occasionally journal. I would write down sermon notes, great quotes and great experiences, and my reflections. I also would write down my creative ideas, usually an idea for a poem, short story or novel. And there were many of these ideas, sadly, that just disappeared into the fog of my brain before I got around to writing them down. It really does make me sad to think about that.

Why wasn't this good enough? Well, it was really just for me. Sure, like all writers, I half-hoped someone would discover my journals after my death and be able to form some brilliant and probably embarrassing bio about my life. Or at least I would be worthy of some Phd candidate's 20-year long a dissertation. Ultimately, the journals were for myself, and unfortunately those creative flourishes never took root. Which leads me to my third point.

3) I need an audience. I don't know how many people read this blog. I thought I would care a lot, and in fact this kept me from even starting one for quite some time, but really it doesn't bother me that much. That's the personal and emotional side of me.

The writer side of me needs an audience. As I learned in creative writing class, a writer operates as if someone is looking over their shoulder. This is how it is for me. Writing a public blog forces me out on the stage. I have to attempt to edit, proof and rewrite things. The nice thing is that since it's a blog, I can go back and edit anytime I want. Recently someone told me they liked my post but I made a grammatical faux pas. It was nice to know I could just go in and edit the document and click Update.

The blog form is liberating and vulnerable at the same time. I want to become a better writer. I know I can't really become a better writer by just journalling. I'm aware a blog is not the best answer for receiving criticism and feedback on my writing, but it helps me begin the slow and steady journey to joining a writer's group or taking some classes.

4) I feel like I have something to say. When it comes to writing about one's life, I still feel very young. I have not had enough life experiences to justify an autobiography or even a memoir. And I am not a fan of online catharsis just for the sake of vomiting feelings.

However, I feel like God has give me a unique perspective on life. This perspective was largely shaped by my beliefs, relationships and experiences. Some of these experiences are worth sharing. Some of my insights may be worth sharing too.

I'm not sure if anyone out there was wondering why I started a blog. As I said before, people start blogs all the time.   It's staggering to think about how many blogs are out there. This is mine, though. This is my attempt to figure out what to do with my voice. Thanks for reading.

Red Rum

I'm reading the Shining by Stephen King. According to Kindle, I am 40% through the novel about Jack Torrance, a disgraced school teacher, who takes a job as a caretaker of the Overlook Hotel in Colorado (really called the Stanley Hotel, built around 1909). He takes his timid wife and eccentric but wise and psychically gifted son with him during his stay over the winter months. It's his last chance to complete his great novel and a chance to get his life back in order after he was fired for hitting a boy at a private school back east. He is hoping for time away, to work on his novel, his family, and enjoy the mountain air. Nothing says writer's retreat like being secluded in a snow bound mansion emptied of all tenants and workers, right? That seems like a good plan, right?

I can't imagine that ever being a good idea for anyone, especially a recovering alcoholic with anger issues. It's almost as if the house and its history beckoned the writer and his family to come to the hotel. Or perhaps the idea of being alone or almost alone in large houses, hotels, etc is relatively scary, lonely and overwhelming to me. As I read about the labyrinthine halls, basement rooms, huge dining rooms and lounges I'm reminded of a short period of time in my life where I stayed in a manor in England.

It was the summer of 1998, I believe. My girlfriend suggested we take summer classes in England that were offered in conjunction with another university in Indiana. The place was called Harlaxton Manor, and it was located near Grantham in Lincolnshire. The manor was actually used in a few films, most notably a remake of The Haunting. And let me tell you, this house was an actor in its own right.

See, we didn't stay in a normal looking manor that you might imagine in some British novels. No. We stayed in this mid-19th century mansion-manor-castle that was a blend of Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Baroque styles. The architect was named Gregory, I believe. It was beautiful but incredibly ornate. And unlike some ornate objects, it dominated its environment. It sat like an elaborate crown on the earthen horizon. When you turned into the long drive to the manor, its points and lines always seem to draw your attention first. And as you got closer, the golden hue of the stone structure shimmered in the evening sun. There were stone lions positioned at entry areas near the gardens. As there should be, right? And there large glass paned windows in the front and small cups and half moon windows on each column or minaretesque spire.

Once you entered the structure, it was immediately pedestrian. There were retired policemen as guard, a card swipe system and a room converted into the cafeteria for students. But later we were assigned our rooms.

My room was towards the back and middle of the manor, I think, and had a window looking towards the storage shed and back gardens. It seemed there many halls and stairways to take me to my quarters. I had a roommate, but I hardly ever saw him.

When the place really took on a role of its own, at least for me, was at night. The halls were lined with oriental rugs, large mirrors and occasional paintings of unknown lords and such. And yeah, their eyes seemed to follow me. I was really pretty scared walking alone in the halls at night. And often, I admit I was scared of my reflection. Honestly how often in America are you walking in a hall and see a five foot tall mirror? You really don't. So since I wasn't used to this, I would often scare the crap out of myself. The years of filling my head with horror movies didn't help, no doubt, but still.

I don't have a ghost story to share. I just had this overwhelming feeling of dread or loneliness in such a large place. I felt small. Yeah, I have expected to see some sort of phantasm, but in truth, just wide open halls and high ceilings were enough to frighten me back into my room. Oh, and there were trapdoors and secret stairways, too.

It's not hard to understand how a place like the Overlook hotel could drive a person mad. I think we aren't meant to be so isolated in such large places. I think the architect of Harlaxton might have gone crazy. And of course there was the Winchester widow who kept adding and adding onto her house in California up until her death. And wasn't Howard Hughes going crazy when he made the Spruce Goose? I suppose there is a lesson in here about hubris, but I'm just interested in the idea of a man made construction making humans feel small, lonely and scared. And at the same time, we are drawn to things that are much larger than we are.

I still think of wandering those Harlaxton halls late at night. The gaudy trim and vaulted ceilings with peeling tapestries normally inspire and peak interest. But at 1 am they become scary and grotesque. Eyes of chubby angels looking down from high ceilings. They hold banners with Latin phrase. It's maddening.

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Papyrus Yellow

I spent considerable time discussing the first year anniversary to my wife, Heather, in a previous post. Today is the day, though. Today is the actual anniversary day of our wedding. It seems unreal and very real at the same time. It seems like the year has moved quickly and slow at the same time. And while things changed a lot, things didn't change that much. I know, that doesn't really make sense, but maybe those of you who are married will understand that paradox.

The pastor who led the ceremony at our wedding, John Wentz, said something to me before our wedding that has stuck with me. He said the funny thing about being married is that things don't change nearly as much as you think they will. I remember hearing that and finding some comfort in it, but also wondering if he really understood how set in my ways I had become.

Honestly, though, I think things really do change in marriage. Quite a bit. But I think what happens is that your perspective changes.  As long as you love the other person, and you are willing to grow, you (meaning me) end up changing the more and so does your perspective on things. And so later, when you look back on several years of marriage, you have this case of happy forgetfulness for the way you were before. In fact, I have already begun to forget what it was like to be single.

Public Service Announcement on behalf of Single People

If you are a newly married person, be very careful how you listen and talk with your single friends. Once you get married, you have left the solidarity you once had with single people. You have left the homeland, crossed the picket line, whatever. You think you remember what it was like to be single, but you really don't. And never repeat that expression or anything like to a single person. It doesn't help. If you want to help a single person, just hang out with them. Don't patronize them with cliches about finding the right person. Just invite them to be a part of your life. Or don't. Either way, you must remember you have given up your single-person empathy card. 

Okay, where was I? Happy forgetfulness. I heard on NPR that they are working on  a drug that could help remove or block bad memories from our past. They say it could be especially helpful for those with traumatic or disabling memories (ones that normally required ECT). I hope this doesn't sound trite, but I think sometimes that having someone speak love and truth into your life about who you really are to God can go a long ways towards replacing those bad memories. My wife speaks truth and love to me in this way. Today, for example, she sent me a simple statement in a text message. It's one she has shared before, but it's still hard to accept. It's incredibly sweet, endearing and authentic.  And a little Charles Schulzish.

She says, "You're a good man, Jason Logue."

Okay, after this, I will wait considerable time before blogging about my amazing wife.

Black Balloons

As I approach 40, I often wonder where my parents were at this point in their lives. I know I am in a radically different place than they were at this age, but I am curious about the specifics. I try not to compare what they had accomplished by 40, but it's hard not to at least think about. So I did something that often has interesting (sometimes humorous) results, I texted my mom.

I wasn't entirely sure how old I was when dad was 40, but I know I was in junior high. She said I was 13. And that she was 40, I was sixteen.  So, basically, when both of my parents turned 40 I was in self-centered, growing pains, sand-in-my-underwear phase of my life. I don't really think I left that phase until my senior year of high school. That's not really what came to mind when she told me how old I was. I was actually thinking of a very short memory I had at the time.

My dad was a high school principal in a village in southern Illinois.  I would say town, but it's really smaller than a town. And I often heard people at the time say, this is a village not a town. So, there you go. My dad was a high school principal in a village. And we would normally walk to the high school with him in the morning because mom would drive to work to a nearby "town" where she taught fifth grade. Or maybe it was fourth grade at that time. I can't remember.

We walked with dad to his school because the grade school was in home-run distance of the high school. There was this small, paved walkway between the high school and grade school. Until that year, my sister and I would walk on the walkway to the grade school each morning after we harassed the cafeteria cooks at the high school. Seriously. We would try to scare them every morning in new and unoriginal ways. And then we would dance like idiots in the half-darkened, empty gym until it was time for us to go to school. Once again, I digress.

On the morning of my dad's birthday, we made our usual walk across Route 40, through Joyce's Cafe gravel-parking lot, across the high school parking lot and into the darkened high school halls. I think that's how it went. These are memories, you know, often subject to alteration due to sentimentality, age, and creativity. When we walked into dad's office that morning, there were black balloons, black flowers, streamers, and dot-matrix printed banners that spelled out things like, "Lordy, Lordy, look who's Forty." At the time I had no idea why everything was black. Apparently dad was over the hill, and I wasn't entirely sure what that meant either.

I think his secretaries or administrative assistants sat all of it up for him. I don't recall who it was because he fired her shortly thereafter. My dad hated surprises like that. I'm kidding. My dad laughed along with everyone else. And I probably just smiled like a goof, pretending to get it all.

It's crazy how much the age 40 has changed, though. It doesn't seem that old anymore. It doesn't seem "over the hill" anymore. Or does it? Is it because I'm turning 40 that it doesn't seem that old? Or is it because there are still so many hot celebrities over 40? Or is it because I just got married one year shy of forty? Or is it because I feel like I finally know something about life at 40?

I'll admit it, I don't feel as mature or as wise as my parents probably were at 40. I think that's probably why I respect and admire them so much. As a person who married late, I honestly feel like I was way too immature to marry young...or younger. I was too selfish, too close-minded, and really had incorrect expectations for marriage. I'm sure my parents would admit they certainly didn't have it figured out either. I'm sure they still don't feel like they have it all figured out.

So my experience of turning 40 is radically different from my Dad's. It's not better or worse, it just is.  I don't feel like I'm over the hill (unless the hill is my belly).  Sure, things are backed up a bit, but that's okay too. I feel like I have (my wife says the same thing, too) this amazing appreciation for all these new experiences that I think only comes from having to wait.

And you know, things will probably get better. Honestly, I fear writing that out, but God is working on getting me to let go of that fear. Because it's okay to hope. It's okay to expect the next ten years to be even better than the last.

Dude, seriously, the squirrels in our back yard are having a serious wrestling match. One just pile-drived another. 

Which reminds me of something else my mom said. Wait, the squirrels remind me of my mom, not wresting matches. She enjoys watching squirrels out of her living room window. (I probably shouldn't have said that.) At any rate, she texted me later that morning, as if she could tell what was on my mind, and said, "Your Grandpa Logue was 46 when Dad was born."

Grandpa also lived on a hill.

  

Red Potatoes

This may be a short post. My wife, Heather, is in bed. We celebrated our anniversary tonight. I grilled a steak, made mashed (red) potatoes and some asparagus. And we drank some port. We actually sat at the dinner table, which is not common for most of our meals. We talked about our first year together. Really, we did.  I know it sounds like something they would do in a TV show or movie, but we really did reminisce over our first year. Our first date. Our second date. Our third date. Our first impressions. And so on.

While talking to Heather about my impressions of her I noticed how she has become more amazing and beautiful to me since even the day before our marriage. I knew I connected with her on an intimate level. I knew I felt like I could be me, but I had no idea how awesome she really was until after being married to her. Is that wrong to say that? I don't know.

I told her it was kinda like holding one of those loops in a jewelry shop up to one spot on an a beautiful painting, like a Monet, Van Gogh, or a Pollock (I had to throw in a modern). The part that I saw under that magnifying lens was great, but I knew there was so much more. And yeah, sure, when you look with a loop, when you look close enough, you expect to see a flaw. But I have spent some time researching diamonds, and if there is one thing I've learned, it's that every diamond should have a flaw. If the diamond doesn't have a flaw, it's probably not a diamond. And I could never trust a person who didn't have flaws.

But I digress. It wasn't her small, barely noticeable (in case you're reading this, honey, I love you!) flaws that drew me in. It was the fact that I knew that this person was an amazing, well-crafted work of art. No, that's not right, not a work of art. A finished piece of art is somewhat static. Sure, I can revisit it at different times in my life and have a different response, but it remains stuck in time.

But here's the thing, Heather and I create this new thing together. By getting married, we really became different people. In a lot of ways, we became one person, but not in the way we think of personhood. I am thinking of the way personhood is represented in the Trinity. It's this ongoing relationship between all persons of the Trinity. Similarly, Heather doesn't complete me, but she compliments me, we enhance each other. She adds to my life. I just know my wife and I love doing life together. We are still these separate identifies, but we are also one person. I don't understand how that works, but I know that when I leave the house to run an errand, and she stays at home, I miss her. I think of her. If I'm in Walgreen's, and I see a bag of Twizzlers, I usually pick them up for her. And she does the same thing for me in so many ways, but not really with Twizzlers.

I don't know if I circled back around to the point I was trying to make about the mystery and beauty of our first year, but I'm tired. It's late. I want to watch something on Netflix and go to bed. One last thing, as a person who was single for a very long time, I do feel the need to give a PSA on how marriage will not totally fulfill you, etc, but honestly, most of you are tired of hearing that. I was tired of hearing that.

Some people look at art and say, I may not know good art, but I know what I like. Well, I say you should probably take an art history class because that would really help you make an informed decision.

And I love my wife.

Why am I doing this?

No really. Why am I doing this? Another blog to add to the already bloated blogosphere. One more blog that may end up in the proverbial cluttered, fire-hazard mess of deserted blogs. I know, it's precisely why I never wanted to start another blog. There, did you hear that? I said another. Yet another reason to not start-this will be my third blog. Third.
Here's the difference: I'm married.
Well, not just married, but married to an awesome woman who understands me and how my head works. She knew I needed to write, that I needed an outlet. She also knows that I make big mental plans and basically plan them out and shoot them down before typing anything. She's a genius, though. She thought and said (good thing she didn't just think it) you should start a blog forty days before you turn forty. Blog ever day for forty days.
Wait what?!? That's amazing. I usually never think that way. And by that I mean, I never think in a practical, shorter-term, goal-minded way. It's either all or nothing with me baby. And that's precisely why I would get stuck. Her idea is different. It's a manageable and attainable goal! She did it! She solved the Kobayashi Maru!
The other reason she thought of this is because I've been stressing about my career. Well, my creative career. I have a great job, but I feel like God has allowed me to have many experiences in life that, well, could help people. I also just love writing. I feel better after I do it. Seriously. Just ask her. I'm happy. She's happier. I think the opossum that lives under our porch is even happier. So, maybe, by my fortieth birthday, maybe, this may be a habit. And maybe some of my readers will experience a blessing, resonance, or some measure of not feeling alone on this big blue sphere hurdling around the sun.
Maybe my wife will let me finally feed the opossum and make it our unofficial, ungrateful pet.
And that's why I'm doing this.
Pretty sure.