The End is Near! Or, how I stopped worrying and learned to just to start write the stupid blog post.

I should have something to write, but I don't. I have ideas and images, but I don't feel inspired to write about them now. I mean, I have one or two huge themes I want to write about, but I can't bring myself to write about it right now. I feel like I need a huge swath of time, not just my lunch hour at work.

But I still don't know what to write right now. This is the part of writing I hate. When you sit at a keyboard, and you don't know what to write. And I've read everything about this by other writers. Some say if you don't have something to write, don't write. Some say if you don't have anything to write, write anyway. Even if it's mundane and crappy.

But now I have an audience. I really don't want to bore you my beloved audience to tears. I have page views to think about! I don't want to just quote poems or write my name over and over again. Albeit, this is the advantage of having a journal. If you feel the need to write crap, you can write crap in your journal. No one will see it. No one will see it except for my biographer who will probably just making a passing aside to the odd habit of mind during writer's block to write out my name over and over again or to write dictionary terms. And then maybe some grad school student will take that aside and turn it into their master's thesis that never gets finished because they end up hitting the same damn writer's block.

Okay, three paragraphs. There we go. I'm getting somewhere now. I wish I had words for conveying to you how helpful and how painful and stressful this process has been for me. It's like exercise for me...sometimes. There are some days I hate exercising, well, that's most days. However, if you make it something else, like playing on the Wii or xBox Kinect or playing Frisbee or something fun I will probably like it. Heck, even something practical like mowing the lawn or cleaning the house, and I can get over that hate hump. Because I really hate it. But here's the thing, I feel awesome after I'm finished working out. Every dang time. And that's how it is with these posts. There are days when it is a horribly mundane and tedious process, but I did it. And I can look at it online and say, ha, I did it. I showed you, Once-Unfillable Space.

And then there are days when words and ideas are just flowing. And I finish and immediately read the post. I will even do further editing. I preview it. View it in landscape mode. Put a fedora on it. View it with denim. I will also check back on it more often than usual. It's like my baby. And I want to show people my baby. But honestly, I don't want to hear if my baby is ugly, not right now.

Later I will be open to criticism about the baby. In fact, later I may realize that baby is pretty darn ugly. But it's done. In the past.

But I think that's how it is with writing. Maybe it's not why I'm the habitual writer I would like to be. Maybe that's why I'm following through with this 40 day plan. But I had no idea how much it would affect my mood.

You can almost use If/Then statements to predict my mood regarding the upcoming blog post.

If I have plans in the evening, and I don't have time during the day, namely over lunch, to blog, my anxiety level will peak and usually become an all out whine-storm around 10 PM. At that point I may have already convinced myself to make a brief post. And I may have invented a new rule about blog posts on days where I'm busy and have evening plans.

If I have no plans in the evening, and I'm looking forward to relaxing with my wife, and I don't get my blog post finished over lunch, I will not be that anxious, at least up until 8 pm. If I have not blogged or started writing a blog post by 8 pm, I will start to get irritable and crotchety. My wife may not know why, but after our little banter I will explain why I'm really bothered.

Okay, back to this part of the post. See, unless I told you, you would have no idea I was just back earlier in the post adding more content. In fact, I added around two new paragraphs, some metaphors and similes that may or may not work and a whole lot of self-conscious blathering. And now, I'm back here at this place in this post, and I feel like the end is coming.

The end is near.

Let's not even get started talking about endings. Writing a good ending is very difficult. I once had a creative writing professor tell me the most important parts of a poem are the beginning and ending. I tend to think that's true, inasmuch as that's what the reader remembers later. However, I would argue the beginning is the most important because you can decide to just not read any further. And you, the audience, have completely severed your relationship to that poem. And that's why your first line almost has to be a like a hook. You have to bring them into the poem. Take them on this journey. And then, at the end, you can choose where you want to leave your reader. Ambiguity? Optimism? Cynicism? Anger? Wrapped up with a nice bow?

Ok.

I think this is it.

The end is here.

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.