"Healed"

They say time heals all wounds.

Nearly six months ago I was hit by a car.

Nearly four months ago my wife left me.

According to the surgeon who saw me today, the fracture in my left leg has healed completely.  The pain I still feel in my knee is to be expected and may persist for up to a year or even indefinitely.  Still, those wounds are healing.

According to my therapist I'm handling my separation in a healthy, mature way.  The absence of someone I love is emotionally draining, and while I'd like to say that the wounds are healing, I know that the pain may persist indefinitely.

I haven't written about it in such a public forum before because I've been hoping and praying that she would return.  Last week she told me she does not want to, but would rather file for divorce.  It seems, then, that this is for real.  This is really it.

So here's to healing.  By God's grace, I pray it continues to come.

Three Words That Became Hard to Say

Load the car and write the note
Grab your bag and grab your coat
Tell the ones that need to know
we are headed north...

Loser

I have written about this concept recently, but today I returned to thoughts of being a winner or a loser.  I am happy to report that my fitness goal is producing positive results.  I am getting bigger and stronger.  (I do sometimes stop to contemplate why I am doing what I'm doing, but that's a matter for a different post.)  However, such "positive" results naturally produce a dramatic negative result within me: hubris.

I think most of what we attempt to do with our appearance is really aimed at both sexes.  On the one hand, in regard to the opposite sex, we seek to answer the question, "Can I get her to notice me?  Am I attractive?"  On the other hand, we seek to feel either separate from or superior to our own sex: "Am I better than him?  Am I distinctive enough to stand out?  Am I worthy?"  Maybe I'm generalizing my own actions, but I think we all want to be validated.  We all want to have worth and, even more importantly (we think), have someone recognize and comment on that worth.

I am not using my physique to attract women.  That would be wrong, and so I don't let my mind drift there.  Rather, I look around at every man and compare myself to him.  This is especially common for me to do at the gym, because this is really where the only "competition" is.  So I see young guys, old guys, burly guys, strong guys, ripped guys...and I try to see how we stack up against each other.  Are my arms bigger than his?  Can I bench more than him?

Please understand, I'm being completely honest here.  I know I'm not making myself sound like a very deep or sanctified person.  Still, this is more of a chronicle of what is happening, not an endorsement that it should be happening.

Anyway, a friend recently emailed a link to a song by the Belle Brigade called "Losers." The lyrics came into my head just as I was comparing myself to one guy (who was smaller) and then another guy walked in (who is bigger).

There will always be someone better than you, even if you're the best
so let's stop the competition or we will both be losers
Now i'm ashamed that I ever tried to be higher than the rest
brother i am not alone
We've all tried to be on top of the world somehow, cause we have all been losers
I don't want to be laid down, no I don't want to die knowing
that I spent so much time when i was young just trying to be the winner
So I wanna make it clear now, I wanna make it known
that i don't care about any of that shit anymore


Don't care about being a winner, or being smooth with women
or going out on Fridays, or being the life of parties


There will always be someone worse than you, sister don't let it get to your head
cause you won't be on top of the world so long in constant competition
This ain't about no one in particular but i could list a few
i'm removing myself from the queue


Don't care about being harder, or being daddy's favorite
or if you think i'm a mimic, or if I'm a loser

It's very easy for me to start to think too highly of myself.  I start to think, "Hey--morally and spiritually I'm doing pretty good, physically I'm getting in shape, I'm a fairly competent artist (never mind that I'm not painting right now)..." and I look around for "lesser souls" by which to prop up my weak argument that I'm somehow a winner.  Even if I become the buffest, smartest, most saintly, most talented person in the world, I will have missed the mark.   As Rich Mullins says:

Well I am a good Midwestern boy; give an honest day's work if I can get it
I don't cheat on my taxes, I don't cheat on my girl
I've got values that would make the White House jealous


Well I do get a little much over-impressed
'til I think of Peter and Paul and the Apostles
I don't stack up too well against them I guess
But by the standards 'round here I ain't doing that awful


Oh Lord it's hard to turn the other cheek, hard to bless when others curse you
Oh Lord it's hard to be a man of peace, Lord it's hard to be like Jesus

There's the standard.  He is the reference point and the ultimate comparison.   I cannot hold a candle to his light.  Jesus makes all my righteousness look like filthy rags.  He makes all my temporal concerns about a decaying body seem silly.  He is more and he is better than I'll ever be.  And that is what will keep me on track and knock me down to size.  There is no man or woman for whom I perform or to whom I compare myself.  Please let me warn you to be very careful.  God wants our best and not our better-than's.  


There is a Greek story about a famous Olympian.  He walked out of the stadium to the roar of the crowd.  He had proven himself the best wrestler in the world.  At the exit sat an old man.  In his wisdom he said to the youth, "Don't pay too much attention to their applause.  One day it will fade, and you will be forgotten."  The young man was insulted, and retorted that he was the best and his name would always be remembered as such.  The old man pointed to a statue behind him and said, "Oh, but I remember years ago when he wrestled.  You couldn't have stood in the ring with him."  The youth saw a statue of some long-dead champion whose name he could not remember.
Walking away, the young wrestler turned the comment in his head over and over.  Was he really the best?  Could he have beaten the former champion?  The questions began to gnaw at him.  He couldn't eat.  He couldn't sleep.  Finally, in the middle of the night he returned to the stadium, approached the statue, and began to yell at it.  "You are no match for me!  I could destroy you!"  The statue remained lifeless and unimpressed.  Incensed, the youth began to grapple with its legs, trying to tear it down; trying to gain victory over the frozen opponent.  Before long, the bronze was worked loose and it toppled down, falling on the youth and killing him.

The Greeks had a way of driving home the point that hubris is bad.  There is always someone better.  There is always someone worse.  It is good to be healthy.  It's good to have goals.  But it's not good to sacrifice everything to attain that goal.  It's not good to attempt to reach the goal for attention or for superiority.  Don't be overly fit and don't be lazy and sickly.  It is good to hold onto one and not let go of the other.  Enjoy being healthy and meeting the goal, but whatever I choose to do, I do it with all my might for the glory of the Lord.  That's my reality check for the day.

Mixing it Up

I have always been an avid "journal-er."
 [At this point I automatically recall a conversation between two TV characters:
"Do you mean your old diary?"
"Mike, it was a journal."
"Ed, Lewis and Clark had a journal.  You, my friend, had a diary." Digression ended]
I have written down my thoughts since the concept was first proposed to me in high school.  While some might tease me about the diaries I have kept, even if I were forced to call them that name I would still be glad to have them.  It's both fascinating and entertaining to look back at events and feelings from 15 years ago.

But sometimes I like to mix it up.  On days such as this I record my thoughts straight to the blog.  It's a bit more public, so some content is not appropriate, but for general updates and more amusing anecdotes it is great.  I have also been known to post completed paintings on my blog.  However...nothing has been completed for a long time.

The painting you see here is one that I did finish recently.  Only it's not mine.  I mean, the execution is mine, but the concept is that of Charlie Harper.

 Such work reflects a love that I have for good design, mathematical precision, and the beauty of simplified forms.

It reminds me a great deal of another fantastic designer you should check out.

This painting now hangs in my kitchen.  I love to see the still night, the autumn leaves (which match with orange walls within the house), the birches...it's a brilliant image.  But again...not mine.

Painting is hard work.  Of all my "hobbies" or "pastimes" it is by far the most taxing.  My friend Jon used to say that good painting is like brain surgery, and he's right.  It's extremely difficult to simultaneously monitor form, value, color, composition and all the little things that go into making them perfect (paint mixing, brush control, etc.).  If only I were an abstract expressionist like Pollock who believed in Jung's collective unconsciousness and the need to tap into it!

So although I find myself (periodically) with a bit more time on my hands, I find other ways to fill it.  I am just exhausted, so it's easier to work on tiny, mindless projects.  I'm sure that someday soon I will return to the place I was at the end of the summer and just paint for hours on end each afternoon and evening.  But imagine going to work, caring for the kids...and doing it all while feeling completely spent--could you paint?

Betrayed By My Body

Working out without a goal has always seemed futile to me.  I mean, the general goals of looking good and feeling healthy make sense, and those are things I desire.  But eventually, motivation runs out and monotony sets in.  Unless I am resolved to hit some mark, I can find plenty of excuses to stop lifting.  

Following my bicycling accident last May, I lost nearly 25 pounds.  Some of it was due to change in diet before, but a lot was due to inactivity during my recovery process.  Since mid-July, however, the leg has been feeling good enough (and needing rehab) to allow me to start lifting again.  

In college I had a goal of bench pressing 225 pounds.  Not as a one rep max, but as multiple repetitions in a set.  I found a plan, followed the plan, and was successful in meeting that goal.  But where do you go from there?  I didn't want to become a power lifter.  And now I don't really care about how much I can lift--I only care that I look a certain way (vain, I know).  And I want to look big.  So I've set a goal to put on 30 pounds of muscle in the next 3 months.  I know it's impossible, but if it weren't audacious it wouldn't be worth doing.  Since July I've regained the weight I lost and added 10 pounds, so that I'm now 180 lbs.  I've tried to do this two other times in my life--once in Minnesota when I was about 24 or 25 and once a few years back.  Now I'm 32 and I know that if I don't hit the mark this time this will be my last try.  I don't really care if I even hit it.  In Minnesota I only made it to 185 lbs.  At least I have a goal, and that motivates me.  

Anyway, I'm telling you all this because my body is starting to rebel.  In August, while swinging the weights to my shoulders for incline bench press, I strained the muscle/tendon of my left bicep.  I've tried to lay off it, even taking a whole week off of everything, but I guess I didn't wait long enough.  

Yesterday was my first back and biceps day under my new program.  I did concentration curls...and I'm pretty sure I tore my bicep.  Maybe not a big tear.  Perhaps a tiny little rip.  It's not a big deal, I don't think, because my arm doesn't hurt.  It's just that when I woke up this morning I saw this:

After doing some internet searching, I found several discussion boards and one informational site that said such a bruise could be a result of straining or tearing your muscle.  So I guess I'll be taking it easy on that arm for the next couple weeks.  

I should have known, though.  I'm getting older--I have to keep reminding myself of that fact.  My hair is trying to help me remember.  I've kept it short all summer, but now that I'm growing it out (for a glorious, well-thought-out plan, I might add) there is a white stripe that is visible above the left side of my forehead.

But that's life I guess.  You get older and your body breaks down on you.  I can't really complain, though.  It's held up pretty well so far.  My left leg is mostly healed (I feel the screw poking into my tendon now more than I feel the site of the break), and I hope to get an "all clear" report at my appointment in late October.  I'll just try and slow down a little bit and not do any more breaking than I need to.

You Named Your Blog What?

I'm always on the lookout for a good band name.  Keep in mind that I do not have a band.  But when a good name strikes I find it's always best to tuck it away for later.  You never know when you'll meet a drummer and a bassist, right?  

When I lived at BGSU, "Apartment 11" (our address) seemed like a great band name.  Looking back, it may not be as cool as I thought then.  I am very confident that in no time at all I will think the current title of my blog to be lame, but for now I think it's interesting.  Let me tell you why.  

First of all, Kid Icarus was one of the first home video games I ever played.  It was at Sam Powers house.  We pronounced it "Kid e-CAR-iss" or "kitty CAR-us."  But none of that really has anything to do with why I chose the name.  

It all has to do with the myth.  In Greek mythology, Icarus--with the help of his genius father, the inventor Daedelus--escapes an island prison.  Everyone remembers what happens in the end: his wings, made of wax and feathers, fall apart and he crashes into the sea and dies.  Sad story.  

But the Greeks used this story to teach a message.  In an often forgotten portion of the story, Daedelus also warns his son not to fly too low.  The sun might melt his wings, but the waves might grab him if he drops too far in altitude.  

This story illustrates the idea of the Greek virtue sophrosyne.  We have no modern equivalent, but familiar Greek phrases like "Everything in moderation" are statements about sophrosyne.  It is the notion of balance or perfect equilibrium.  As I understand it, it's a bit like Aristotle's golden mean from Nicomachen Ethics.  It's the most beneficial and good position between two extremes.  For example, between cowardice and wrathful vengeance is defending the right and the just.  

The opposite of this virtue is hubris.  We have heard this terms used a bit more widely.  Hubris is excessive pride.  As Scripture says, "Pride leads to a fall."  

If you have ever read my former blog, Hopelessly Uncool, you will understand that I lean toward hubris, rather than sophrosyne.  In fact, the title of that blog really was sort of tongue in cheek; saying I wasn't cool but really thinking I sort of was for coming up with such a great title for a blog.  Uncool is my cool. As my friend Taylor says, "It's thought out.  You may wear weird clothes, but you do it in such a way that it's interesting and you pull it off."  

So in trying to think of a new title, I wanted something that would capture not just the current state of my life, but would also indicate some of the major themes of my life.  I have always dreamed of flying.  Literally.  I wanted to be Superman.  But I also want to soar figuratively; to achieve dizzying heights in my life.  In my hubris I have thought that I must be bound for greatness or to do great things.  And in thinking this, I have often caused my own destruction.  To quote Brave Saint Saturn: 

"Did you see me falling down from heaven

trailing wings of melted wax?"

Thankfully I have avoided the extreme of despair, and the waves have not pulled me under.  But that is hardly a virtue, especially if every other day I attempt to climb too high and scorch a new pair of wings.  

But for this I will always glorify God and thank him for his grace: He has always kept me from plunging into the depths, and he has always allowed me "to soar on wings like eagles" again.  "What matter wounds to a knight errant?  For each time he falls he shall rise again and woe to the wicked!"  "If the Lord delights in a man's way, he makes his steps firm; though he stumble he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand" (Psalm 37:23-24).  I may have crashed and burned in my life, and I'm sure huge disasters and fiascos are still to come, but I am grateful to God that he has preserved my life and has given me the strength to pick up the pieces and try again.

So here's to a new blog and new things. 

Here's to flying high on borrowed wings.

In soaring with Christ there is no "too high."

I'll follow past sun, and clouds and sky.