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Reflection on Notre Dame

In an effort to get back in the swing of writing, I wanted to take a moment to comment on the burning of the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris.

It seems most people felt at least something watching the burning of such an old and historic structure, and those seem to be the primary reasons Notre Dame matters to the modern world. It’s an architectural wonder, an old building in a cool city that tourists like to take pictures of. It also might be felt that it’s ridiculous to mourn the destruction or damage to a building, it’s just a building after all. Comments and articles from fringe non-Catholic Christians and secular people alike bear that opinion out. But, as many others have pointed out before me, Notre Dame is more than just a building, more than just a piece of Art, it is a testament to the fortitude of Western Civilization, an icon of what the human spirit is capable of producing. Most importantly, it is a shining example of the sublime, which points beyond itself, toward something far more true, more good, and more beautiful, a notion so profoundly lost on our modern world.

We arrived in Paris in the last days of November, 2018. Since we arrived on the continent I had been itching to get to the city of lights, and we arrived into St. Germain on a crowded metro train in the dark and in the rain. We checked in and drank wine and went to sleep. In the morning we set off on the route that we determined the night before. We meandered through the Luxembourg gardens, we passed the courtyard and Corinthian columns of the Pantheon and browsed for a moment at Shakespeare and Company before turning our full attention to our first truly sought-after site of the day. From the left bank of the Siene we took it in: the south rose window, the towering spire, the flying buttresses. Notre Dame is an architectural marvel indeed. We crossed the bridge to the Île de la Cité and came along its southern edge by the gardens, by the statue of St. John Paul II, and took in the iconic twin towers at the entrance. It’s dark inside, the massive interior stretches further up than you might expect, and unlike more modern cathedrals, the ceiling isn’t well lit. Banks of candles, lit with prayers light much of the interior, light or every color spills in through the rose windows. Some retro-fitted electric lights sit on the immense stone columns, they seem out of place. It’s hot with bodies studying signs and snapping pictures and bombarding the faithful trying to pray in pews or rows of wooden chairs.

Chloe and I worked around the northern edge, peering in on saintly shrines and artifacts. There is a long placard which shows the timeline of the Cathedral’s construction. Beginning in the mid-twelfth century, a date difficult to wrap your head around as we work further into the twenty-first, and continues for hundreds of years. After taking in just how old the place we were standing was, another thought hit me hard and stayed with me to this day. This building, church, place of worship, exemplar of Gothic architecture… was constructed by workmen, peasants, generations of laypeople who dedicated their entire lives to the building of this church. For what? So it could serve as an attraction in a cultural zoo of rare oddities? So tourists could snap selfies and commit hashtags to Instagram posts to get as many likes as possible? It strikes me that those aren’t things to live for, much less dedicate your entire life to. These craftsmen, generations of nobodies (so to say) gave everything of themselves: their time, their labor, their sweat and blood, their lives in service of the Glory of God in the only way they knew how; the only way they were capable. Notre Dame was built, as all Cathedrals are, as an offering of the creative gift back to the Creator, not only to show our love and our devotion to Him in its building, but also to provide a place for future generations to worship and marvel at the sublimity of God. A grand building such as Notre Dame does not even come close to it, but it may be as close as we can get to doing that glory any justice.

Furthermore, my Catholic Church, the heritage of my faith, professes to be and truly is a global body. Notre Dame isn’t just some foreign church, it’s my church, it’s the church of more than a billion Catholics worldwide. It’s an active congregation, holding daily Mass, a destination for practicing Catholics to receive the Holy Eucharist and hear God’s word. But its true that parishioners are dwindling, church attendance is down. We look less and less past ourselves toward greater truths, and more and more at “my truth.” I’d argue that in so doing, we aren’t even being introspective, but responding to impulses and taking the world and everything in it at face-value, assessing only the surface of things and how those things make us feel in the moment. It seems to be no great coincidence, and in many ways is, a cold irony that this fire seems to have began at the spire, that which points beyond, and devastated the roof, that which covers over the interior of that holy place. The pictures of the wreckage from inside are gutting. The smoldering mass laid bare at the feet of the mother of God cradling the crucified Christ in her arms, the world watching just days before we celebrate His death and resurrection.

I don’t write this as a sanctimonious diatribe about how I care and other people don’t, or how I’m great and other people aren’t. In fact, I’ve struggled and stumbled and been broken and felt on the verge of burning down all Lent long, and longer. I write it for myself, as a wake-up to live, no less dedicate my entire life, in such a way which points beyond me, or how I’m feeling that day. A way which outlasts my life because it points toward something eternal, not in some self-righteous, look-at-me legacy-building sort of way, but simply because properly orienting my life toward the true, beautiful and good is more sustainable than giving to any manic whim or depressive agony that might constitute “my truth” at the moment, but not the Truth.

This brings my mind to two points which I intend to write more on soon, namely the tricky nature of how we understand freedom, and the cognitive dissidence regarding the ethic of Christian life… something like that… more on that later. But I digress.

We honor and remember and mourn the damage at Notre Dame not only because it’s a landmark in an idyllic city, not only because of its architecture and artistic value. Notre Dame matters because it’s built on truth and beauty and goodness which has and continues to point beyond itself, and a world which forgot how, remembered for a moment.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Cracking at the Blue

I found this poem in a notebook, I wrote it probably around 2 years ago. It’s about what my poems are usually about. I love my grandparents dearly. 

The fence is down

and the winter is coming soon.

The garden needs harvest and

the wood needs splitting and

Mary’s shrine is cracking at the blue.

The lawn needs mowing but

the mower needs fixing

and the winter is coming soon.

She needs blanket red and

the cows need feed and

His picture needs hating or

adoration, but it really needs dusting.

The bed needs half-making and

the shed roof needs mending and

the fence is down—at the edge

of the field—just laying there

on the freezing ground—being

completely Fucking Useless.

The fence is down

the fence is down

the fence is down

and the winter is coming soon.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Leaving Home

I imagine its something like being swallowed—leaving home—like some deity devouring you slowly and methodically just to keep you. The construction was one thing. The dust and pounding and the nothing through closed lanes constricted the traffic and worsened in increasing degrees as the time for us to go came closer. When the trailer was all packed (later than we had expected) and we followed the river south at night, we slowed and halted on the bridge and the night crew reflected off the headlights, sweeping and patching the bridge in some last-ditch beautification effort to keep us. The decision had been made and departure came up with the sun, so they kept us—chewing on our prospects like some piece of fat, sucking out the flavor.

In the weeks leading up to it, the state choked my routes home and made me cut through the city and play nostalgic chutes-and-ladders up through neighborhoods and campuses I wouldn’t otherwise see. Winter’s a thing that never leaves you and a thing that never seems to end. Like being swallowed. It’s crippling, the four to six months of being buried alive in a thing equal parts heavy and cold and slick and beautiful. It convinces you that you love it while it devours you whole. The six to eight months when it recedes, us at home spend making up for it’s transgressions, smoothing out the gnawing. Everything is constricted, it’s meant to keep you there, down in the esophagus of the state, where it’s warm (not that bad).

It’s not that bad. It’s good living, but it can swallow you—like Stockholm Syndrome can swallow you—cold and bitter at first, then you adjust to the water and spit and acid and vitriolic niceties that become like after-diner mints (stinging and refreshing and familiar all at once).

We left. I won’t say it left a bad taste in my mouth and I won’t speak for her, but we left. The morning lanes were surprisingly open and we refueled halfway at the border before unceremoniously slipping into Iowa. I am always partially empty when the romance of a moment doesn’t occur (because it never existed), as if the state line were to be everyone we’d ever loved—waving—and the dead-zone between now-leaving and now-entering signs were a war-torn DMZ, craterous and desolate in some war over our presence. If leaving home is being swallowed, consider Iowa a stomach. It will break you down—go right through.

All future images aside, we came briefly into Missouri and then Kansas where we ate Bar-B-Que and knew nothing about it’s distinctions but it was meat and we drank wheat beers and the whole midwest erupted in opprobrious applause at our gastronomical choices (not really). A man offered to buy my dog, to which I declined because that’s a strange thing to ask someone. The far east part of Kansas is very unlike the central part. There among the pastures, I felt like a science experiment—like some massive dome had been placed on a table and God watched the ants traverse it in escape. I felt like nothing among nothing—just sky for miles and fleck of cattle in the distance—terror mixed with freedom (the good kind).

Kansas lasted forever. It flipped us off with Winner of Worst-Smelling Town in America (Liberal, KS) at the border and the panhandle brought the rain. It was night and you had to slap yourself to stay awake, but I was sleeping in the back seat and she was driving and I was guilty about that. She raced herself to Albuquerque at 3 a.m. where some turtle-man took his time at the pump and the guy by the door (just sitting there) asked us where we were going and I watched him closely. He just sat there. I took over and shook like a dog and slapped myself up and down the freeway until the border. I pulled into a Denny’s lot next to 3 hotels and parked the thing for an hour of shut-eye, worried the waitress mopping was going to force us into breakfast. We had stale donuts left over.

The sun came up and we took route through some decrepit places on decrepit highways that ran trucks along one-lanes that I passed before the road dipped down and out of sight. We passed the dank, murder-mystery towns into forrest then into mountain. I didn’t appreciate them. Right eye glued to gas gauge, left eye to driver-side mirror, hands overhand and white-knuckled to wheel. By power of suggestion alone, the trailer was an inch and swerve away from swinging out and careening off the cliff face, dragging us after. The trailer rode smoothly behind and we descended then ascended and descended and ascended 6 degree incline next 3 miles road work ahead 6 degree incline next 2 miles end road work thank you 6 degree incline 50 miles from next town. We entered the valley.

At the east of town came the stoplights where we counted the teeth marks. It’s a lot like being swallowed—fear—unknown and gnawing and dark and constricting and long and unknown. We tallied them and remarked at their edges, “back home (blank)”, “Remember (blank) had said (blank).”

I love the teeth marks. they remind me of home. I love the adventure and the tears and being swallowed, belonging to something that so tenderly fights not to let you go. It let us go, but I don’t think we will do the same.

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A Reflection On Losing a Legend

I am interested in talking about one of my favorite actors of all time. The world is shaken by his passing for several reasons, all of which are understandable. I do not wish to make any platitudes about, or even express my opinion about suicide or mental illness. There are both more severe and more lax opinions on the subject and I would rather not focus on a means and focus on the man, the legend that was and is Robin Williams. The social world always suffers some shift or tremor when an icon passes, but I have never seen it in this magnitude. It struck me today that, while his passing does permeate certain social issues like suicide and depression, I think there is a much simpler explanation for our collective heartache over the passing of a truly remarkable actor, comedian and human being. Yesterday, on Facebook, I posted something about life and entertainment and what life becomes when we attempt to replicate entertainment in daily life. In the case of many celebrities, I would place them in a category of entertainer, but Robin Williams was an exception to that rule. That is not to say that he was not entertaining, I think exactly the opposite is true, he was the most entertaining. As I thought on his body of work, saw examples of his stand up and heard stories of his personhood, it became quite clear to me that Robin Williams represented more than entertainment, he was life. He is art. Art, in all of it's beauty and fault points us to the focal points of human experience and forces us to examine them from any given perspective. This is who he was as an actor. If you watch his stand up, or listen to him speak candidly, he often operated on a seemingly impossible stream of multiple consciousnesses. What seems like madness brings us to our knees, doubled over in laughter at not only how he is saying what he is saying, but what he is representing by saying it. He is everyone at once. His film career solidified this idea, and on the drive home from work I was pleasantly reminded of many of his incredible roles. Hook portrayed Robin as the disillusioned, adult Peter Pan and he brought us back to our innocence. Mrs. Doubtfire was a misguided and beautiful display of love for family. In Aladdin, we are given the idea of a genie, all powerful and traditionally tricky, in need of a friendship built on trust and mutual respect. Bicentennial Man, he became a robot who fell in love, became a man so he could marry the woman he loved. He became a robot to wrestle with our personhood and teach us about our need for love. Jack taught us that you can age 3 times faster than your peers, or have any other sort of difference, but you're still going to want acceptance. Dead Poet's Society taught us to take life from a different perspective and that life, beauty, poetry, these are the things worth living for. His career could be discussed at greater and greater lengths, but I hope the point is sticking. Robin Williams was a friend, he was you, he was everything you weren't and wanted to be. He showed us our ineffable inconsistencies and swore by them with that infectious smile curling up in earnest. It occurred to me that, although it breaks my heart to see him go, and in such a way, it may be some sort of irony that the Julliard trained thespian stared in the lovely and visually stunning, "What Dreams May Come." The fitting namesake is familiar and poignant as we say goodbye to and remember one of the all-time great, "To be, or not to be--that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep-- No more--and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep-- To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause." Life, my dear friends, is a beautiful thing. We'll never forget it, Robin. Thank you.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Be a Man

A few days ago I was shown a video that was titled something like, “The single most damaging thing you can say to a boy.” Which particular video it was doesn’t really matter, but the basic idea of the video was suggesting that, “be a man” is the most detrimental thing anyone could say to a boy. Of course, since I have taken some time to write about it, I take some issue with this idea. Not completely, but I have some thoughts. 

This idea of promoting a non-gendered, your-emotions-make-you-special, do-what-you-feel mentality is nothing new on social media sites, and I guess my main issue is not so much with the aforementioned concepts… I think that is something else for some other time, but the point is well taken that that is where this sort of video comes from. 

Really, I take issue with the main premise, that saying “be a man,” is such a bad thing to say. I think people take it to mean “Don’t cry, get in flights,” or any number of antiquated male stereotypes. I think the phrase is naturally built on what our concept of a “man” is. Indulge me in a memory for a moment. 

I was probably around 5, maybe a little younger, and I had done something bad and I convinced myself that lying to my father about what I had done was a good option. Of course it wasn’t as my dad already knew that I was lying. I remember very distinctly that this was the first time that my dad told me to “be a man.” 

I am very lucky. The examples of men in my life are more than what I could hope them to be. From my big brother to my grandfather, the men that came before me represented strength, toughness, pride—the typical things that culture associates with a man. But being a man has always meant something more to me than just winning a fight. When my father told me to be a man, I knew full well what he meant: be truthful, live up to your word, try as hard as you can, love, protect and support everything you find worthwhile. 

I have seen the men of my family be tough and stubborn, but I have also been blessed with being able to see almost every man in my family cry and be vulnerable. Being a man didn’t mean close off your emotions, it never meant submit to them—it meant use them.

To me—and again, I want to reiterate that I count myself lucky—“be a man” always meant live up to your full measure—do the best you can, act morally and be kind in everything you do. It took on these meanings because the examples of men in my life were good examples of what a man should be. They lived that example and passed it to me. 

But these examples get passed on whether we like it or not, and other young men are less fortunate—the only idea of a man they have is a deformed and decrepit amalgam of violence and pent-up rage. 

I think the other flaw that this idea doesn’t really reach is that “be a man”—at least what I take it to mean—doesn’t just apply to men. Be a woman, the pinnacle of womanhood—strive, learn, live up to your full measure, no matter who you are. 

For the young men and women with a misconception of what it takes to “be and man/woman” and for the future generations that have yet to learn what that means—it is essential for us as men and women to live up to our full measure, make them see that they can use their emotions to express themselves and grow—that they can be truthful and moral. Men, show young men what it means to be man—for real. 

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Turning Left

A couple weeks ago, as I drove to work, my mind drifted to a time in my life that I will not soon forget and pray I never do. For a few years in high school and for a little while in college I had the pleasure of playing in a band with some of my best friends and had some hilariously great times just doing weird stuff, traveling on weekends and meeting new people. My mind drifted to the bands we played with, all the dumb stuff I did on stage like trying to be cool—trying to spray water over the crowd, but more or less just spitting on them—giving up on being cool—falling off the stage then rolling awkwardly back on stage then announcing to the whole venue that Mike had ripped his jeans wide open. This is the stuff you can’t soon forget. Two of my best friends were in that band with me and I can’t help but be nostalgic about those bygone times because those guys live in different states—we’ve taken very different, but very appropriate career paths. About a week ago, those guys, Mike and Brandon, were back in town for a concert and I was fortunate enough to hang out with them for a while. Hanging out to us means catching up and joking around, but mostly it means drinking really good beer and ripping on each other for anything we can. I’ve never been a guy who makes friends very easily, and I’m definitely okay with that, but that makes it difficult when your friends have to head out. Their trip, as I was involved, manifested itself in a lunch over a pizza burger, and bar hopping the best tap selections in St. Paul (and one brief stop at a bar crawling with college kids… Very brief). It was great. Lucky for me, I have a beautiful and supportive wife that I get to come home to every day. She truly is my best friend in the whole world (sorry guys) and she makes everything tolerable… She makes everything better. Our “floor dates” eating and watching the Olympics or Netflix are exactly what I want to come home to every day. I am truly a blessed man. On that drive to work, where my mind drifted back to those amazing times, I took a left off Lexington up in Roseville and my mind was pulled heavy back into the present. That left turn struck me as the single most routine thing I have ever done in my life. It was almost mechanical, like a heavy, content sigh turned the wheel for me. I was heartbroken by the time the car had straightened out. My mind went, for whatever reason, quickly to Nascar racing (a “sport” that I do not watch in any capacity). Of course Nascar is an activity in which drivers basically turn left some two thousand times over the course of a few hours. My left felt so mundane and pathetic, like that’s all I’d ever done. Then my mind went home, to my wife plugging away at her student teaching—working so hard to make a life for us doing something she loves and is brilliant at. It went to LA where Brandon’s foot is firmly in the door at a studio, making music with some huge names, well on his way to his no-longer-so-lofty goals. To Omaha with Mike pounding through his Doctorate studies to pursue something he loves (which is… I guess… Selling drugs or something… Hahaha gotcha). Anyway, I realized that that routine I’d carved out for my self, my series of left turns, are not the ultimate destination. But it is sometimes necessary to take a few laps before you can move forward and do something productive. The ultimate consideration, however, is to know you are going to move forward and take strides in moving forward or you’ll end up spinning your wheels or circle the proverbial drain or get caught in a long sentence with a few cliches thrown in… I’m right were I need to be, and I’m ready to move forward. Thanks for reading.

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Top 5 Reasons to Stop Using Countdowns in 2014.

Throughout our wonderings in the dense forest of internet content, we have all invariably encountered an innumerable horde of blogs, “articles” and lists that present information in much the same way: countdowns. We might find ourselves scrolling through the numbers, unaware that we’re crawling deeper and deeper into a cave that will lead to our inevitable doom. 

Too heavy-handed? Yeah, probably. But nevertheless, countdowns are on the rise and our intelligence, creativity and even our smartness are suffering the consequences. So here are my top five reasons to stop using countdowns in 2014. 

5. There are far better ways to organize data. Relevance and communality might be good places to start. What items on my list relate to each other and why is that important? These are good questions to ask before presenting information.

4. It’s soooo Vh1. Do you know how long Vh1 was cool? Zero. If you are huge on reliving the bygone decades with Michael Ian Black and his cohort of G-list celebrities, please be my guest, but I’ll be happy to call 2003 and ask if you can come out and play. 

3.Most countdowns are really just an excuse to not have to write anything worthwhile or cohesive. The majority of what I see on Buzzfeed or other content sites like it are not so much countdowns as they are a list of slightly-related gifs and pics that need no further explanations, but often times really, really do. Is it just me, or are we constantly looking at a mashup of Miley Cyrus and Carlton Banks twerking and dancing and wondering what we’re doing with our lives? Content, as far as I’m concerned, requires CONTENT. 

2.I remember living my childhood, I don’t need a countdown of 25 things that make me a ’90’s kid if I remember them to prove that to me. Typically it’s called nostalgia and it’s great to think about, talk about with friends. But if I am asked to like a picture of a Nintendo 64 if I remember it one more time, I’m going to explode like Uncle Andross at the end of Star Fox. 

1.Inevitably, all countdown content faces it’s Achilles heel: Attention. Countdowns, as I once believed, counted down from a number to the pinnacle of value on a given list. I cannot count the number of times I have read, “Top 10 reasons” for so and so, only to find that list has absolutely no rhyme or reason to its order. Perhaps more often, every countdown I have seen plague the internet does not count down, but up. By beginning at the top, posts lose all of their mystique. We see what is best first and everything else is, by comparison, lacking. Don’t do it. Now, all of this isn’t to say that a countdown well-done is unacceptable, but they are so few and far between, I felt compelled to make one for myself. 

If the irony of the list is lost on you, there is probably some site that can show you the top 43 uses of irony in 2012, but let’s just skip that for now. To use the strange logic that so many love to employ, it’s 2014!!! We’re advanced, why do we do certain things certain ways. Whatever, I never really understood how reiterating the year made any sort of point, but you know you understand what I mean. The internet is that jungle and it will strangle your intellect if you let it. Please, I beg of you, divest from countdown making, embrace the essay or any other, longer form of presenting information, so you can come to any sort of conclusion or form any sort of opinion. Write something down, take a stance, read something. It’s 2014 after all.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Being Better

Today I had the day off. I had one appointment back home in the morning and the rest of the day was wide open to me. There was nothing particularly unique about the day, but I was left feeling something I haven’t felt for a long time. 

I woke up and drove Chloe to the U of M campus. She began orientation for her education program that will culminate in her masters degree and teaching license in December. From there I drove down 35W to Prior Lake. I had a 9 a.m. appointment to get an estimate on my car which recently sustained some damage. The appointment lasted all of five minutes and I hurried up the hill to the Prior Lake gem, Edelweiss Bakery for some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. 

Prior Lake is one of those towns where it is all too easy to run into people you know. Typically I have some mixed emotions about that aspect of town, but today I couldn’t help but take exception to the beauty that waits in seeing familiar faces. I started the day hoping it would be just some typical day—and by all accounts it was—but typical rests in the missed messages. 

I used to work at Edelweiss so, of course, coming into the sweet aromas of cake frosting piping out of the back room or bread cooling on the shelves behind the counter, I am predisposed to seeing some old coworkers, but that’s not who I saw first. 

First—immediately—I saw the warm smile of (I guess I would call her) an extended-family friend. She is the friend of my friend’s mother, but when Chloe and I went over to her home around Christmas, we left with full stomachs and full hands. She is one of those people you couldn’t help but love. I hugged her, we talked for a moment, she introduced me to her friend and I went on with my morning. I had a few insurance phone calls to make. 

After the phone calls had been hung up and the food was a greasy memory on the plate, I turned my head into the book I’m currently reading—“Can Man Live Without God?” by Ravi Zacharias. I would suggest it to anyone who wants to be challenged and doesn’t mind rereading the brilliance just to make sure you understood it correctly. I looked up from my book to see another familiar face coming my way. 

I’ve known this man since I was three years old, he is father to one of my oldest friends and he is one of the most virtuous and kind-hearted people I could hope to know. We talked and joked for a moment and he asked me about my book then he had to be on his way. Mark, my old boss at Edelweiss, came to inquire about the book soon after. Upon hearing the title, he said, “I don’t think so.” I concurred but explained that the argument was a bit more tedious than that. We shared a pretty typical conversation and went our own ways. Mark was and is the best boss I have had to this day. 

Before I left, the first person I saw came to talk with me—as her friend had left—but I will save what I got from this conversation for later. 

I don’t make it to Prior Lake very often and when I do I like to swing by my old church to catch up with some other people that are just about the greatest people you could hope to know. I shared the same spirited and intellectually stimulating conversation that speaking with Pat Millea always entails. I hadn’t seen him since my wedding and it was nice to catch up with him. 

Leaving Prior Lake, I came back up 35W and waited for Chloe to finish at the nearby Caribou Coffee. A friend I went to Iowa State with, but now goes to the U, happened to text me and he stopped by to say hello. I hadn’t seen him in three years and we caught up for a few minuted before I had to go. He is a performance graduate student at the U of M, so we discussed being in masters programs at the U of M, as I am currently applied for admission to their writing program. 

Here is where I would like to bring back my conversation with that first person I saw. We talked about looking for work, out mutual friends and the Christmas past. I explained to her that when my car got hit, I lost my temper and severely overreacted to the situation. What she said and did next hit me in my core and set in motion the analytical process of pulling the lesson from this common day. She looked at me with a tilted head and squinted eyes—disbelief. “That just doesn’t seem like you.” 

It’s not. I would like to think that I have been able to lead a relatively laid-back existence and I know that I portray someone who is very kind and good to people the likes of which I saw today. The truth is that I want to be that person—I want with all that I am to be a good man—but for all that trying, I fail, forget, fall short and ultimately cease to care in some parts of my life. 

From the coffee shop in Minneapolis, I went to pick my wife up from her first day back to school since May. For those that know my wife, you must know that she is one of the kindest, gentlest, more good-hearted people you could hope to know. It is safe to say that I am lucky and blessed to call her my wife. 

She climbed into the car and we drove home while she told me about her day. I recounted mine like it was some typical thing with a few chance encounters sprinkled in for zest. My day, however, was transformative. I was told that my actions were outside of who I am known to be—then I was met by a string of virtue and hard work, and at the end of it, I was left feeling like a fraud. 

To my smiling wife, I could only think that she deserves better from me, more from me. My family and my friends deserve more from me. I have been complacent and angry and self-centered. I deserve better out of myself. 

I don’t really know the point of all this, it resonated with me through the day, but I guess my point is don’t miss the lesson, otherwise you’ll be alright being typical—and that’s a sleep increasingly more difficult to wake up from.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Don't Get Married If You're a Reckless Millennial

So my hot button got pressed in a big way. Here’s why:

http://wanderonwards.com/2013/12/30/23-things-to-do-instead-of-getting-engaged-before-youre-23/

Now, upon reading this emotion-laden diatribe, you might think that my button was pressed by this particular blogger’s ineptitude toward the existence of compound words such as “boyfriend” and “somehow,” or some other grammatical variant. 

No, my button got pressed when Pop Culture Courtney decided it was her undereducated responsibility to assign meaning to—and thus—trivialize the last 8 years of my life. I am 23 and I married my wife four months ago after nearly 8 years together…

Well, really the only thing I have to say in response to this blog post is this: Don’t get married if you think this way—now, never, whenever—If you think like this, you are not cut out for marriage. But for the sake of being even marginally more critical than this post was, allow me to categorize her cute little 23-item list into just a few items to show you just how idiotic most of this post was. 

Things I have already done:

1. Get a passport. I got a passport when I was 17 to travel with my parents and have used it a lot since. 2. find your “thing”. I went through college studying and falling in love with poetry. That’s my thing, independent of my wife. 5. Start a band. From 2007 to 2012 I had a band with four of my closest friends and had the time of my life. 10. Cut your hair… this should be on a list of general routines, right? 18. Make strangers feel uncomfortable in public places. Isn’t that something you do in high school? Coming across mature still? 21. Write your feelings down in a blog. Well shoot, isn’t that what I’m doing right now and have done for the past 5 years?

Reckless crap:

3. Make out with a stranger. So instead of creating meaningful relationships with people you care about, be intimate with someone you don’t know? Why? 7. Get a tattoo. It’s more permanent than a marriage. I’m not going to knock tattoos like you unabashedly knock marriage, but instead of getting the Chinese symbol for “douche bag” tattooed on your wrist, why not look like someone who could go get a loan or a job? 8. Explore a new religion. Why? Just because? How about Scientology or a snazzy cult? Learn about other religions because it is important to be a citizen of the world, not just because. 11. Date two people at once and see how long it takes to blow up in your face… no comment. Just, no comment. 15. Disappoint your parents. Because who are those people that supported you for your entire known life and love you? Those are the people worth disappointing because you’ll never need a favor from them again. 16. Watch GIRLS, over and over again. No, thank you. 19. Sign up for CrossFit. Honestly, I don’t know what this is so we’ll just put it in this category. 22. Be selfish. This is exactly what is wrong with this post and with the culture that this post comes from. Selfishness is not a positive quality and doesn’t belong in a marriage. 23. Come with me to the Philippines for Chinese New Year. No, thank you. 

Things that would be way better with your spouse:

1. Get a passport. I loved stamping my passport with my wife on our honeymoon. 4. Adopt a pet. Pets take a lot of responsibility and attention. A married couple can provide twice as much of those things. 6. Make a cake. Make a second cake. Have your cake and eat it too. Baking and eating with my wife is not only hilarious and delicious, I don’t feel lonely and shame eat the whole thing. 9. Start a Small Business. Who would make a better business partner than someone you share all of your money with and trust not to throw you under the bus? Marriage is about succeeding and failing together. 12. Build something with your hands. I built a patio this summer. My wife and I enjoyed the crap out of it. 13. Accomplish a Pinterest project. Our home will be Pinterested out, our wedding sure was. 14. Join the Peace Corps. My wife’s cousin and her husband are doing that. They will have someone who loves and supports them while they live in a new and strange place. 17. Eat a jar of Nutella in one sitting. Share that spread, yo! 20. Hangout naked in front of a window. Oh you know (wink). p.s. Bring the nutella?

There you have it folks, 3 categories. Most of these things people do independently anyway. People have a misconceived idea that marriage makes you into a conjoined twin and what one does, the other follows. Greg Kinnear and Matt Damon made it work out in the end. right? Stuck on you? Eva Mendes? okay… Also, a lot of this list would only be enhanced by sharing these experiences with someone else. Why not a spouse? The rest of the list is a slew of weird choices that people make between 14 and 18 because being a rebel is like so totally gunna be worth it, ya know? What future bro? I like, live in the moment bro! Moments pass and people lose patience with this kind of behavior. 

I understand why people might agree with this list. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the idea of being young and free, but there comes a time in everyone’s life when he or she must decide what they believe, what they want and why. It is not a bad thing—or even a weird thing—for a college student, employing critical, perhaps teleological (finding meaning) thought every day. 

In the end, madame blogger, I’m very sorry but your post leaves you sounding pedantic, bitter and compensating for the lonely feeling that sinks in your gut while your eyes roll at pictures of pretty rings. I agree with you, in some small part, that young people get married because they are scared, wanting to have sex or just can’t think of anything better to do, but your over-generalizations—and Macklemorian notion that my marriage is just a blanket that, “keeps me warm”—minimize love on a grand scale and that is a game I don’t play. Plus, weddings are like so totally fun. 

You probably don’t want to get married any time soon. I have some serious advice for you. DON’T. Enjoy your wanderlust until it hurts and dries up, I’ll take the whiskey, (cheers). Change nearly everything about your personality before you do get married, because your recycled rhetoric and unmitigated selfishness are not qualities to bring into a marriage. 

Sorry not sorry. 

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

The "So What?" of Social Issues

Recently I’ve read several posts on several blogs that have been shared around by several friends through Facebook, primarily. The general, overarching themes of these posts are the “isms” that have proven to have deeply negative social and cultural implications. Racism, sexism, I suppose the list could go on. The primary function (if you could call it a function) was primarily to implicate those that fall into the groups that have historically employed these “isms” for some form of gain in a power hierarchy in the past. If there is anything that my college education taught me, it is that stating an idea, (which is all these posts did) is not adequate in confronting a problem. Once a problem has been explained, there needs to follow a very crucial question that needs answering. So what? 

In the case of these “isms,” the “so what” seems to be implicit to the writers, although they never really seem to get there. In discussing institutional hegemony (we’ll just use a blanket term), these bloggers, “progressives,” college professors and the like use the tactic of explaining who has committed the crimes and tying up, or implicating, the people that fall into that group at present. Of course this hurts feelings. I’ve been in these classrooms, believe me, it does. As a white male who has never treated people differently because of their gender or skin color, but has in some unavoidable way benefitted from falling into a group associated with “privilege” is not an easy thing to swallow. Yes, it’s something that we need to swallow, drink it down. There are class, gender and racial hierarchies in place that are very fortunately being taken down, but the how of it all matters very much. 

So what? So we are implicated in a system of hate, whether we want to be or not. What do we do with that information? Progressivists, who love their social structuring of programs and curriculum and the like, fail to understand that that brand of education and change is not judicious. These ways of adjusting social structures do not represent justice. This claim is not to suggest that anyone should be let off the social hook easily or that the powers that have promoted hegemonic structures should not be judged, but it is to say that we’re doing this whole social thing very wrong indeed.

So I’ve presented an idea. So What? My father used to tell me something that I’m sure almost every one has heard. At the time I thought it was just some banal, platitudinous cliche that got flung around because he didn’t like the way I was acting, but I have found  it has more importance than most advice I’ve ever received. Attitude is the only thing you can change. Of course attitude is not the only thing that can be changed, but attitude is where change begins, particularly in the case of fighting the continuation of these harmful “isms.” This is, as most things are, easier said than done, but it is an essential thing to consider in working toward change. 

Washington, funny as it may be, is a pragmatic place. The tools that they have are policies and programs. The unfortunate thing about policies and programs is, ironically, that they are underwritten by politicians whose main goal is to be elected and elections are not won on smiley faces and good vibes, so these policies and programs largely discuss and implement taxation, etc (practical, implementable things).  Attitudes start at home, in the classroom, in the schoolyard. 

Plainly and simply put, we as a culture need an attitude adjustment. We need to spread the idea that all human lives have inherent dignity and worth, physical differences notwithstanding. This is an idealist solution, but it is—in my view—an ideal solution. The simple truth is that turning oppression on its head and attacking the cause seems to work in theory, but the theory’s fatal flaw comes in the fact that it is hypocritical at best. Those that created these systems of oppression and those that unknowingly benefit from these systems are different people and justice is not done by guilting the son for the sins of the father. The whole concept seems to fall apart when it comes down to the idea of removing benefit from one group to reallocate it to another group. That seems to be the very thing we are trying to alleviate. 

So what’s the takeaway? The goal of society moving forward should be this and only this: to promote the type of society where people can freely and independently come together as a culture of true equals. Preach the importance of human dignity and worth over avarice of power and usurpation. Preach integrity and hard, honesty work over efficiency and selfish gain. That is my solution. Misplaced guilt is just that, misplaced. An attitude of wanting but wanting by hypocrisy is unwise. Teach people that people are equal, period. That is just, that is fair, that is clear and to the point. That’s my so what.

A clean and healthy debate is welcome if anyone is so inclined

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Why Robin Loves Ted More Than We Know

I think it’s easy to say that How I Met Your mother is one of those rare shows that has made a true impact on the fabric and history of television, and if you’re anything like me it makes a constant and consistent loop through your Netflix stream.

There are plenty of things that make the show great: the mystique of the teased and tantalized mother-figure for eight years; the neuroses of our five favorite booth-dwelling New Yorkers; the timeline that runs alongside real life. There are too many to list. Ultimately HIMYM boils down to the relationships between Marshall, Lily, Barney, Robin, Ted and Ted’s on-again-on-again quest to find “the one.”

There is plenty to be said about each of these rich and interesting relationships but I think that the most notable of these connections is the relationship between Ted and Robin. There are the obvious reasons of course. Robin is Ted’s first interest in the show, their chemistry is undeniable. We want with all our might for Robin to be Ted’s wife in the end even though we know from the start that she never will be. I think, however, the most compelling element about their relationship is exactly how much they love each other.

Robin and Ted represent a type of love so underrepresented in pop-culture today—the deep, unwavering love of true friendship. I am pinpointing one instance in particular when I say this, and it comes surprisingly early on in the series. The second episode, “The Purple Giraffe” is primarily about how Ted just has to play the game to get Robin, but the climactic moment of the episode is Ted and Robin’s poignant conversation of the roof. Robin rejects Teds advances yet again after their first kiss, but she says something interesting in her reasoning. It’s clear that they want different things and Robin says, “I’d either have to marry you or break your heart,” when in her heart she knows that both options end the same way. In a way this might seem selfish on Robin’s part, but to me, it truly depicts just how good a friend Robin really is.

It is in this moment that Robin becomes the catalyst to the entire premise of the show—sending Ted and company on an epic adventure through twists and turns and love and loss to culminate in Ted’s ultimate growth as the man he needed to be (where he needed to be) to meet the actual love of his life.

Now, I am of the school that would say there has not been an episode of HIMYM that was a waste because each pulls the gang in the direction they need to go and they all need each other to get there, but Robin’s impact on Ted is something unique. If we compare their relationship to Marshall and Lily’s (rather, Lily’s character) we see there is a type of love past romantic love that we as viewers can learn a lot from. I’ll just say it point blank. Lily is selfish. There are no two ways about it. Granted, they are all selfish at times, but selfishness is built into Lily's character in abundance. She stuffs opinions and commands down everyone’s throats, especially Marshall’s. Marshall is completely devoted to Lily but Lily’s concessions to Marshall are obligatory at best. This type of “love” is superficial and unfortunately overwhelmingly portrayed as good and healthy through media outlets. It’s not.

Robin has to ultimately reject Ted’s advances because she knows that with her, Ted will never be free to have what he wants. Their relationship presents freedom, which is something that any good, functional relationship should have in the first place. Not only that, they establish a base of friendship before anything else, even if Ted prematurely professes his love for her. Of course he didn’t love her in that moment, but their relationship grew into something much better, an open, trusting friendship, and that is a love that goes unnoticed far too often.

The rest of the show really is Ted allowing himself to give Robin the same type of love in return. He ultimately does in season 8, but maybe not completely. It is my belief that it will take meeting his wife to truly let go and love her fully, but for now we can say we’ve learned a lot about love from Robin Scherbatsky. As for Ted, I believe he will understand that he can have a romantic love that is as free and beautiful as friendship when he meets “the mother,” but hey, we’ll get there.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Pedagogical

It’s a rain-soaked October day. The trees on the near horizon are stained gold—invading from the top, down. The brick chimney two houses down, and the aluminum chimney next door are dormant. The streets below drive lazily by. Inside I sit at the desk, peer out the window, listen to the fan oscillate for sound. My wife moves slightly under the black fleece blanket, giving a brief moan or shutter to the tired corner where the walls and bed recede from the half-light of the drawn shade. Rain taps off the roof—a squirrel screaming on the gutter. I take my coffee black in a white cup—never cared much for the taste but I learned to like it. Learned to like the stillness of morning when not a friend or creature stirred—except the damn squirrel—sound is a sin that puffs up through the quiet chimneys or streams wistfully by on the pavement a half-block away. I wonder if people today are meant for the kind of stillness—to remark the white noise and dull motion of the back-and-forth fan, or a single bird daring out and above the far horizon of skyscrapers wrapped in fog? The children are off to school now in their leaf-yellow busses and their coffee-cup-white busses—off to dingy florescent classroom rows to learn a lesson long-since prepared on how to analyze the beauty of a quiet, squirrel-screaming morning, but not really—not even at all.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Finding the Bright Side

In the process of experiencing this beautiful life, there are, of course, up and downs--peaks and valleys. This emotional undulation is of course completely natural and oftertimes warrented--dare I say... needed. I have been granted some tremendous peaks as of late, but as much as I'd like to think I could stay there forever, it can be--rather, is--difficult as life begins to operate outside my locus of control. And that's just it, most things are generally out of my control, plainly and simply put. Control is something we all crave, something we typically think we have--at least marginally. Control is certainty and certainty is comfort. Unfortunately for us all, we have little control over the lives we live. We can't help the weather--stop winter from crushing down on us, stop a tornado or hurricane or what have you--we can't, try as we might, control this backward government, we can't always get what we want. Several months ago, my childhood dog passed away after losing a long battle with cancer at an old age for a cocker spaniel. Try as I might, hope as I might to preserve him in life, I had to let him go--allow him to escape the pain that he was so obviously in. I was devestated, I hadn't cried like that in years. It was so far outside of anything I had imagined or experienced before, Bailey being my first dog. I wouldn't wish it on someone-- After graduating from Metro State and just before I get married, I decided to leave my job in pursuit of something a little more career-focused. I have had little to no luck on this front. I recently went in for an interview and was disappointed to hear (all too recently in fact) that I was not the candidate that would recieve the position-- I could go on and on detailing ever low point of my life, but not only does that not serve my purpose, it would be foolish to suggest that my low points come close to the low points of others who have experienced things I could not imagine. My point, however, is this--the valleys--though dark and lonely--pale in comparison to the majesty of the peaks with which we share the sun with out closest loved ones. The valleys never flow into the sea and drown us in a choking ocean--that water we bring in jugs and drink it down ourselves--pity. I have been pitiful, thinking a scowl might solve my problems, not realizing that I'm still relatively toward the top of the mountain--I have a beautiful wife and family, a great place to live, a college education, a car, insurance... I have a God that loves and protects me through it all. Losing my dog, not getting the job, whatever--I can't control those things. There are factors and variables that I can't see or control. I'm not meant to either. However, as my parents have always told me, there are a few things that I can always control, the most important of which is attitude. I could sulk about these things, hide in a hole and live there until someone drags me out against my will, or I can look for the light that peaks through into the valley. It is in the choices that I find control, and control is comfort, but at the end of the day, the only control you have is to keep going and meet what comes. I can find solace knowing that there will come a day when I grab control of the mountain, plant my feet firm into to rocky earth and climb--the hill is hard, but the top is well worth it. The mountain hides the light, but there is another peak on the rise, it takes time, patience, trust, and a little searching for a bright side. Enjoy your beautiful life--all of it.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Wedding

A bit delayed but I thought I'd post this. (Copied and pasted) I thought that I would take some time to think back on the events of the last weekend so that I might better encapsulate the beauty of the moments that now seem to have gone by so quickly. Chloe andI have been throwing around the word "perfect" to describe the weekend and I think if I had to use only one word, that would do the trick. Friday morning began lovely, but quickly turned into something out of a bad, cliche movie. My bachelor party was to begin at 10:30 that morning so Chloe and I went to our favorite Caribou to spend a little time sitting outside enjoying the sunshine and each other before parted ways for the day. We found seats easily, the pumpkin lattes had just arrived and the sun was warm but not too warm. Everything was just right enough for something to go wrong. As we went to leave our separate ways--Chloe to pick up Taylor (her matron of honor) and I to begin the bachelor party back at home, Chloe's car battery kicked that proverbial bucket. I sent her on her way with my car and after some phone calls and angry panic on my end, it was all sorted out thanks to the quick working and generosity of my new in-laws. Mike and Brandon (2 of my awesome groomsmen) picked me up and we got the party started. I eventually let all my negativity fall off. Chloe was off to her pampering with Taylor and I was off to the Longfellow neighborhood Blue Door Pub. For those who have never been to the Blue Door, it is a twin cities gem. A tiny little eatery with great craft beer and "Blucys" (Blue/juicy lucy... you get the idea) and cajun spiced fries of tater-tots that would take a vegan out of meat-retirement. I started out the day surrounded by my dad, brother, best friends and a beer and burger fit for the ensuing festivities--a good old 9% Double IPA from Bubble Jack. That hoppy, cajan greatness kicked off what would come to be one of the most fun days on record. From Blue Door, we traveled to the Summit Brewery in St. Paul and got a "tour" which was really some fun facts and looking at two rooms (because they were doing some work that limited the touring capabilities), but then--came beer. Each of us was issued 3 tokens for free beer and a lovely couple gave us 4 more. We had our work cut out for us and we set about sampling and slamming all that the brewery had to offer. The Oatmeal Stout was the favorite. A great morning beer, the impossibly dark, creamy divinity also offers some health benefits (or at least we'd like to believe so (and furthermore we don't have a clue what those benefits might be)) but we drank it all down just the same. We climbed Cathedral hill and met up with Michelle, our trusty Pedal Pub driver. I had been wanting to try a pedal pub for a long time and the guys delivered. We climbed aboard and poured through the historic St. Paul streets, making friends with cars stuck behind us, spraying each other with squirt-guns and stopping a few local bars between pints of Grain Belt Premium. It was everything I thought it would be. Next we grabbed a cigar and a seat outside at my favorite cigar shop Stogies on Grand, pulling at the bourbon in our flasks and talking about what guys talk about. If we'd stopped there I would have been satisfied, but Brandon had so much more to come. We stopped home to change and we played beer pong on the new patio out back before the limo picked us up and drove us over to Minneapolis for the night. We picked up some beer and champagne before hitting Pyscho Suzy's for some rad Chicago-style pizza and a flaming drink. At this point in the night my wonderful brother became bend on trying to injure me, albeit unintentional. Jokingly pushing me and drawing blood against a bathroom wall and suggesting it was a really good idea that I try to inhale the fire from the flaming drink, I came away with only a small cut. What are big brothers for? Since we were in Northeast, we decided to stop by my favorite brewery in town for a quick beer, as the rest of our night was open to interpretation. 612 Brew is one of the newest breweries in Minneapolis and has quickly become something very special. Started by my friend Justin's older brother, the beautiful building remains mostly unfinished but has huge potential. The new patio is a great place to enjoy one of their delicious, hoppy ales. They had recently tapped an indian spiced ale and a pre-prohibition lager but I stuck to my favorite American Pale Ale "Six." Joe fell asleep so we got out of there. Dad and Ryan brought the limo to a location that might as well remain nameless but I will go so far as to say I was pummeled the brink of death by the female anatomy as a way to "celebrate..." Onward and upward we went to meet up with the girls and return to the hotel, but not before a scenic detour to see the Stone Arch bridge from the Mill City ruins bank of the Mississippi. We clamored into a room at the double tree that looked as though a pink, estrogenic hurricane had passed through. After a visit from the security guard and a "Topper's malfunction" we called it a night. And so it was; an amazing day with amazing people come to a close. Saturday brought its own fun. I was, for some reason, the first one awake so I watched movies while everyone else came to as well. Terminator 2, a movie called Rise of the Guardians (a kids movie that was actually really good) and Independence Day (DAVID!!!) came on. It made for a great morning after a little coffee. Brianna, Alissa, Chloe and I got Chipotle then we all took naps. Saturday passed in this way until the grooms dinner down the street at the original Bucca Di Beppo. Leslie Johnson (our wonderful officiant) had us rehearse for the wedding on the street corner which was hilarious to say the least. Inside we ate, drank and talked. My mom and dad gave some toasts, a prayer, then it was Chloe and I's turn to introduce everyone and give a few toasts. After we finished thanking everyone, dinner was served and toasts were opened to the other guests. Pat Millea (a good friend and one of our readers) took the opportunity to lovingly criticize the hair decision of my middle-teens but delivered a beautiful message despite the humor at my expense. It was hilarious. Ryan prepared two speeches for his toasts and he gave us the fake toast on Saturday night , essentially saying that he didn't support what we were doing. It was the funniest thing all night. We stuffed our faces with pasta and conversation then headed to Brit's Pub for beer and cigars (how am I coming across here?). I slept surprisingly well through Sunday morning before I woke up and met the guys in the lobby for some coffee and horrific brunch. We cabbed to the Semple mansion, headed downstairs and went right to playing pool in the Billiard room. After some prep and more pool we ate lunch--or rather everyone else ate lunch--I had a slice of turkey. My appetite was for marriage perhaps? I got ready and stood on the steps with cameras trained on me for the first time I got to see Chloe that day. She tapped my on the shoulder, I turned and... Wow! She was perfect, radiant, an exhaustion of adjectives synonymous with the divine beauty of my soul mate. Her dress (which I had not seen) was... how did I so eloquently put it? "It's intense, yo!" The detail was unbelievable. We went straight to taking pictured. We were somewhat relegated to the inside because Africa decided to vacation in the Twin Cities for the weekend... Hot and humid.Taylor Tupy and his sencond shooter Tim were the most professional photographers I've ever encountered. They made everything so easy and so much fun. Our video team of Clint Bohaty and Zach Nelson were just as good. It was a blessing to have such talented people capturing the day. We got our pictures with our bridal party (the guys pictures should be interesting to say the least...) and our family started showing up for their photo op's. It was like directing traffic but for the most part, family photos went smoothly. We jammed in one more quick rehearsal--through wich I had to keep my eyes closed for most of it--before Chloe stole away upstairs to await the ceremony. The guests arrived and I set about greeting them. IF I DID NOT GET A CHANCE TO SPEAK WITH YOU, I AM SO DEEPLY SORRY, I TRIED MY BEST!!! The question of the day was, "are you nervous?" to which I replied--every time--"no, I'm just excited." I was. I was calm, at ease around the people that helped nurture Chloe and I's relationship over all of these years. The music started and we took our places. Take this from me: THERE IS NO LONGER WAIT THAN WAITING TO SEE YOUR FUTURE WIFE WALK DOWN THE ISLE! She came flowing down the steps, all grace and beauty. That word perfect fits the quite rightly. We met at the front of the crowd and it was all I could do not to kiss her or hold her hand. The guests fell to a backdrop while all I wanted to look at was her face... and I got to, through tear-soaked eyes. Perfect. One thing I noticed as I looked toward the officiant was that whenever I did so, I always shifted my weight to the right and had to remind myself to stand up straight but not to lock my knees. I think my mind focused on these things more than some of the parts of the ceremony itself. We exchanged vows that we wrote for each other. Chloe's were beyond magnificent! I'm told at this part of the ceremony, there was not a dry eye in the house. I know mine were good and wet because I struggled to read mine, but when I think I did a better job than I thought because we were both complimented almost non-stop on our vows the whole evening. We exchanged rings, kissed FINALLY and walked down the isle as husband and wife to a roar of applause. It was beautiful, it was perfect. We went down to "The Wine Grotto" which was a converted bank vault to sign our marriage license and take some time to celebrate and drink wine with our bridal party. The guests (hopefuly) enjoyed a cocktail hour before headed upstairs to the reception area. The bridal party joined the rest of the party to Technotronica's "Pump Up the Jam" which we though was so hilarious! I gave a welcome speech acknowledging those that helped us so much which I guess people really liked... I don't know, I just spoke from the heart (which I guess is the best place to speak from). Chloe and I made the rounds (sort of) and greeted all the guests we could but dinner moved quickly. We got out salads and Ryan took the mic. Being my older brother I was nervous about what he had to say. I was pleasantly surprised and deeply touched by his remarks on Chloe and I's relationship. He said that the one thing he's learned is that there is a lot of crazy out there and that the trick is to find that right amount of crazy that compliments your own. He toasted to us finding that right combination on the first try. Taylor toasted next. She recalled a lot of our high school memories and memories between her and Chloe throughout their friendship. She was absolutely fantastic. We went back to welcoming people before the main course was served and only got so far before we went to eat the beef and chicken. I wish I could remember if the food was great (i think it was) but everyone seemed to enjoy it. By this time we opened the floor for other toasts from whomever wanted to toast. Brandon began and Mike followed. Both toasts were so great, and I'm not just saying that because they spoke highly of me. They talked about the things I have helped them learn and how our friendship has been so important to them throughout the years. Some of the bridesmaids and my groomsman JJ spoke as well a little more off the cuff toasting our love and future. Brandon and some others clamored for Pat to give a toast since he is such a good speaker. He talked more about my past with long hair and of course about Chloe and I. From here we went back to greeting tables but only got about half way through the room before it was time to cut the cake. We accidentally forgot the beautiful cake cutter at home so we improvised. I found a dirty knife and attempted to clean it off before our DJ Krista came to the rescue with a clean one. I fed Chloe nicely and she smashed it in my face. It was awesome, we got a good picture of it I think. After I cleaned up a bit Chloe and I shared our first dance as husband and wife to Michael Buble's "Everything." We talked and enjoyed each other's company. It was just us 2. It was perfect. Then came the father/daughter mother/son dance. We all danced to Rod Steward's "Forever Young." My mom and I--having not practiced anything--kept the dancing relatively simple, but Steve and Chloe had some pretty fancy footwork. We then danced with our step-parents. Chloe with Pat and I with Debbie. Hootie and the Blowfish's "Hold my Hand" is a really long song. Debbie and I both thought that it was over, she walked away and upon my realizing that it was NOT over for another few minutes, I quickly grabbed our flower girl and my baby cousin Hannah and danced with her. After these ceremonial dances, the party began: our friends, family, cousins, some parents/adult friends got to dancing. It went on this way for much of the evening. I went out with some guys for a half of a cigar, but mostly, the night was a pretty routine dance party. Being a Sunday, a lot of our guests had to leave early and of course we understood, we just kept the party rolling. The one thing that I find worth mentioning most about the evening is in the miraculous power of love that comes from the source of all love: God! It seems evident to me that God worked through the love that my wife and I share with Him to affect the relationships of others that may have fallen off in one way or another. I won't name names but I will say that the amount of healing and love between people who might have felt otherwise before that night was stunning. From there, we cleaned up, took a cab (which almost left me behind) back to the hotel and called it a night. All in all, it was the perfect weekend. It was the perfect combination of fun, relaxation, ceremony, hope, healing, love, tears, laughter, family, friends and a whole lot more in between. As I said in my opening remarks, "Thank God, in the most literal sense" for every blessing that he has bestowed upon our lives both in the future and the ones in our life to come. I wish we could relive it all again, but now, for CHloe and I, we have a perfect memory and we love you all so much for your support, love and help in sharing our perfect memory. We love you all so much.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Where You Stand and Who You Are: A Look into Wonder and Reality

I'm rereading some of the Chronicles of Narnia books because, well, they are some of  my favorite book, but also because I am realizing that I have derailed from where I ultimately would like to be in my spiritual life. I figured that a good place to go was the fundamental parts of Christian consideration, which I feel is the function of Lewis's work in Narnia. I am most of the way through The Magician's Nephew because I'm reading the saga in reverse written order (7,1,3,6,5,4,2).

            In trying to analyze, well, everything about the book, I came to the chapter titled The Fist Joke and Other Matters. The chapter does a lot of work in forming my broad view of what purpose Narnia serves in general, but I'll build to that. The piece that stuck out to me was this:

            "For what you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing: it also depends on what sort of person you are. 

            "Ever since the animals had first appeared, Uncle Andrew had been shrinking further and further back into the thicket. He watched them very hard of course; but he wasn't really interested in seeing what they were doing, only in seeing whether they were going to make a rush at him. Like the Witch, he was dreadfully practical. He simply didn't notice that Aslan was choosing one pair out of every kind of beasts. All he saw, or thought he saw, was a lot of dangerous wild animals walking vaguely about. And he kept on wondering why the other animals didn't run away from the big Lion.

            “When the great moment came and the Beasts spoke, he missed the whole point; for a rather interesting reason. When the Lion had first begun singing, long ago when it was still quite dark, he had realized that the noise was a song. And he had disliked the song very much. It made him think and feel things he did not want to think and feel. Then, when the sun rose and he saw that the singer was a lion (‘only a lion,’ as he said to himself) he tried his hardest to make believe that it wasn't singing and never had been singing - only roaring as any lion might in a zoo in our own world. ‘Of course it can't really have been singing,’ he thought, ‘I must have imagined it. I've been letting my nerves get out of order. Who ever heard of a lion singing?’
And the longer and more beautiful the Lion sang, the harder Uncle Andrew tried to make himself believe that he could hear nothing but roaring. Now the trouble about trying to make yourself stupider than you really are is that you very often succeed. Uncle Andrew did. He soon did hear nothing but roaring in Aslan's song. Soon he couldn't have heard anything else even if he had wanted to. And when at last the Lion spoke and said, ‘Narnia awake,’ he didn't hear any words: he heard only a snarl. And when the Beasts spoke in answer, he heard only barkings, growlings, brayings, and howlings."

            I think the first point Lewis makes has very pragmatic applications, but when you look at it with intent, it serves a much greater function. You see, Uncles Andrew, being of the type of person who could not suspend his disbelief or his practicality, he missed out on everything that was actually happening in from of him. He rationalized, re-rationalized and even over-rationalized the situation until it fit into what he deemed possible. He was, through no fault of his own, a slave to pragmatism and a skeptic to the very wonder of life unfolding in front of his eyes. He could not see the beauty, mystery and magic playing through the air, because rationally speaking, those things don't exist. 

            This applies to our lives as well, as you might have guessed. We often times find ourselves stuck in a less-than-extraordinary world, where seemingly everything can be explained rationally and animals just roar and howl and bray. But when we begin to examine the parts of our life that don't necessarily fit our idea of rational, we either have to force it to fit or posit that there might be something else. Creativity, for example seems to be born of some strange place with unknown origin and comes to commune with the mind involuntarily. I know that I have been met with ideas that blew me away once I fully realized them, thinking to myself, "there is no way I came up with that just now, that was a transcendent experience." That idea doesn't fit into our rational understanding of the world, but it is a very valid and important idea nonetheless. 

            It seems to me that we do this with God, more often than not. Either we can't seem to make the idea of God fit logically into our worldview, or we try to rationalize and intellectualize God so that He does fit. Dr. Vince Vitale of Oxford puts this idea into this analogy. If one were asked to write down a description of a face, a fairly good job could be done of writing a description of that face, but it could never be perfect. In order to fully realize the face, we would just have to look at it. it is the same with God, we could write, reason and rationalize Him all we want, but at the end of the day, we most properly realize Him by focusing on Him. As the hymn plainly and beautifully says, 

"Could we with ink the ocean fill, And were the skies of parchment made, Were every stalk on earth a quill, And every man a scribe by trade; To write the love of God above Would drain the ocean dry; Nor could the scroll contain the whole, Though stretched from sky to sky."

            As I've stated, I think this consideration has a lot to do with the function of Narnia in general. Narnia seems to be a place meant to suspend the disbelief of those that visit it, whether within or outside of the story itself. That if we enter a world that seems--to a person from our world--strange and unbelievable but magical, good, wondrous and beautiful, we begin to see the similarities between the wonder and goodness of that world and our own. It calls to our attention where we stand and what type of person we are. Are we the type of person who sees all of this as absurd and not worthwhile or are we the type that can draw analogical conclusions about what we see unfolding in front of us. Do we care about the wonder of the world, this thing that we repress and force out of us to make room for the four walls of rationalism to set up shop and monopolize thought? I give to you, reader, the claim that there is more than that to this beautiful, strange and wondrous world we live in. It's not so far away as you might think, but you might have to reconsider where you stand and what type of person you are. 

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Reading and Writing in the "Digital Age"

As I sit here avoiding the last paper of my undergraduate career, I figured I would take some time to blog about something I have been considering for the past few days:

         As the digital age charges forward at a pace that seems to make the very mention of obsolescence obsolete, we as a community of human beings face a responsibility of growing importance; namely, to be responsible readers and writers. 

         Technology is encircling our culture. Philosophy has, in part, come to state that we are irreconcilably attached to technology. The "posthuman" philosophy asserts that we are living as cyborgs; no longer the masters of our technological creations but partners dancing in a symbiotic union that we cannot escape. It's sobering to think that we may have surpassed the very essence of our humanity. But what does reading and writing have to do with this? As relationships, opinions and ideas move online and we carry that online experience everywhere we go, we do a lot of viewing, passive "liking," updating and tweeting, but at the core of these activities come the fundamental implementations of reading and writing that we so often take for granted, or at face value. We have become automatons of language, readily accepting prefabricated, unconsidered idioms, dead metaphors and ideas. We spout off mass opinions and call them our own, we post links to pseudo-academic articles from pop culture sites that claim to have such majestic and credible information. All of this is deadly to our cultural progress.

         We are living in a postmodern society that claims that everything is absurd, meaningless; would rather accept irony and chaos than accept objective value, however this society (ironically) establishes and ardently fights for the fundamental absolute of human rights in this meaningless, valueless, relativistic world. 

         But what does all of this have to do with a responsibility to be good readers and writers? I would assert that it has everything to do with it. If we look at these ideas of posthumanism and postmodernism, we are left in a very strange place indeed. Given these ideas, we come to the abysmal conclusion that we live in a perfectly meaningless universe without a real identity in the terminal vacuum of technological advancement. It would appear that we are slaves to the decay of human worth, but this is where reading and writing come into focus as such a pivotal, important tool to our freedom. 

         Language works in three ways, as Saint Thomas Aquinas said: univocally, equivocally and analogically. In order to understand the importance of these baser but rather sophisticated human functions, we must understand first how we use words. Univocal usage is when a word is used unambiguously to mean the same things, at the same magnitude, with equal value applied. Equivocal usage is when a word is used in different contexts. Analogical usage is comparative. 

         Going forward into the understanding of reading and writing, we must take these things to heart. Words have power, they can mean different things, they can be used to really any effect. As we read, we must consider the usages of language, the validity of the claims being made, the level of critical, academic and personal thought that has gone into any given piece of writing: news, update, posting or literature. When writing, we have an even larger responsibility because we take on the burden and privilege of creation. We must seek to know as much as we can about a topic (multiple perspectives, experiential understanding, etc.). We must consider our usage of language. Are we being honest with the subject matter, are we being cruel or offensive, may what we are saying be misconstrued or mistaken? We must be original, or at the very least, aware of our conformity in our writing and open to discussion and criticism. 

         This practice of being active, analytical, aware and honest readers and writers will free us from the dissension into meaningless, mindless patterns and uniformity. You have a beautiful mind. It is individualized, creative and capable of powerful and profound functions. The world has been formed by the art or avarice of  language and the applications and implications that stem from its great power. Use this power wisely, be free.

[thebeautifullifeblog-blog]

Beginning Again

         Writer: It has proven to be my ironic downfall that as soon as I referred to myself—without trepidation—as a writer for the first time, I began to fall steadily and rather quickly out of my habits and out of love with writing. Not in mind, however—I still, with all that I am, wish to write and to publish the art that I have come to know as part of my being—but life, arrogance and fear have since shackled me to the proverbial block which we of this chosen craft all visit at one time or another.

         Life: this summer has been intense and lovely and fast and emotional to say the least. Amidst several trips, school and trying to enjoy the fleeting warmth and sunshine, Chloe and I are planning a fast approaching wedding, I am diligently looking for a new work environment, my childhood dog passed away and my two best friends in the world are moving to (or at least spending a great deal of time) other states. Life piles up—not on your shoulders, where the body can hold the weight—right on the brow, where it pushes on the eyes and strangles the brain.

         Arrogance: Until recently I had written creative material but I had never published anything. That changed—in a very small way—when I published a few poems and a story in the Lit Mag at school. In the grand scheme of events that lead to a successful publishing career, this is, arguably, step .5 of 100 (If it can even be defined as being within that scheme). I have a very supportive family—thank God—and their praise over my publishing work went straight to my head like a whisky. It was then—now—that I felt safe in the title that I avoided for so long. Seeing as I had published work somewhere I had to be, by definition, a writer.

         Fear: writing is all I want to do. If I could do anything and money was not an issue, I would write books (as the questionnaires for bridal showers will indicate) but that isn't a feasible job as a traditional student fresh out of undergrad with no intension of attending graduate school yet. In looking for new jobs, many ask for writing samples—but they don't want term papers and they obviously don't care what sort of a poet I might be—so I often just don't apply for those positions (foolishly) because I don't know what they want from me as a writer. What's more, I have a deep fear of failure—so deep that I often forget that it's there amidst the anxiety and agitation. It's cowardly, it's foolish, it's unfortunately where I stand—chained to the big black block at the egocentrism capital of the world without a prayer but with the key. The charade of the non-writing writer is over.

      My life—at the risk of sounding arrogant (again)—is beautiful. When I stop paying attention, it begins to twist into something I don't recognize and fear. I fight the perfect current, paddling ferociously upstream, proud and angry at those that I come across. For all of this, I am sorry. I am beginning this new blog out of my need to write. I hope that it serves to improve my disposition, inform my family and friends to what is going on in my life (as I don't post very often to most social media platforms), serve as an outlet for thought and a way to facilitate healthy discussion. Thank you for reading, thank you for living, that you for loving. Welcome back (addressed to myself) to the beautiful life.