A Hero Falls

My whole life I have wanted to be a hero.  When I was little, I used to dress up like Zorro and zoom around the church parking lot on my bike.  When I was in junior high, I fell in love with comic books and superheroes.  As an adult, I have come to regard Don Quixote as the greatest hero of all: mad enough to believe that, though he is small and frail and largely inadequate, he can make a difference.   Within every hero is one common thread: a likeness to Jesus in laying down one's life for the good of another.

In the movie "The Dark Knight", Bruce Wayne asks his butler, "People are dying, Alfred.  What would you have me do?" And Alfred responds by saying, "Endure, Master Wayne.  Take it.  They'll hate you for it, but that's the point with Batman.  He can be the outcast.  He can make the choice that no one else can make: the right choice."

In my favorite episode of "Scrubs," the Blanks sing a capela versions of cartoon theme songs, and at the pivotal moment of the show, they sing the theme to "Underdog": "Now unleash the dog of wonder, tearing evil spawns asunder...Underdog."  At that moment Dr. Cox steps up and acts like the hero that J.D. has always considered him to be.  He does the right thing, even though it's uncomfortable for him

There is no greater love than to lay down your life for a friend, humanly speaking.  Jesus trumped even such heroic love by giving his life for his enemies.

But today I think of Mr. Incredible.  Within the first five minutes of the movie, Mr. Incredible steps away from public service...he stops being a hero...because mankind won't let themselves be saved.  In court, he bursts out in anger against his litigant, "I SAVED YOUR LIFE!!" and the ungrateful man screams back, "You didn't save my life, you ruined my death, that's what you did!"  How can one continue to be a hero when the one in danger won't be rescued?  You can throw the life preserver to the drowning man a million times, but if he is determined to drown you will eventually end up wasting your time.

I wanted to be a hero.  I wanted to fight to the end.  I wanted to endure.  But I have to lay that romantic notion aside.  I must let things come to an end.  The hero within me, at least in this realm, will retire.

Explanation, or Excuse?

In case you didn't know, National Public Radio is simply fantastic.  Yesterday I caught the tail end of an interview between Audie Cornish and John Tierney.  Tierney's new book, "Willpower: Rediscovering the Greatest Human Strength" talks about the mental muscle of self control.  As I listened to the interview, it seemed to answer a question I have long struggled to adequately answer on my own--"Why don't I paint more?"
Heather used to express some exasperation when asking this question, but I've faced this question even more in recent months.  Every other week, I should theoretically have more time and less commitments, which should then yield more time to paint.  This will be more true when basketball season is over.   Still, why don't I come home and snatch the free moments I have in order to be productive and to produce the painting I so long to create?
Up until hearing the interview (which really made me want to read the book), I had always explained it as a time management issue.  In order to paint, I must arrange paints on the palette to begin, and then clean the paints off when I am done (preserving the good, unpolluted paint for future use, and wiping the palette clean of all mixed paints, disposing of them).  In addition, I must clean every brush that I use (which is often 6-10 brushes) in order to keep them in peak condition.  Since they are fine, high quality brushes, they require some tender loving care.  First I use something akin to turpentine to break down the oil paint and rinse it from my brush, then I use Dove bar soap to clean the mineral spirits from the bristles, and finally I put conditioner on the brushes (it is hair, after all--right?).  All told, set up and clean up can take nearly thirty minutes.  Maybe twenty if I hustle.  That means on any given night when I have an hour to paint, nearly half the time will be spent on something other than the actual painting itself.  That analysis of the time seems depressing.  So often I psyche myself out of painting, telling myself I'd rather wait for the large blocks of time which will be more productive.  Those large blocks of time never come.
I would encourage you to listen to the interview on the book, or at least check out the brief write-up here.  Essentially, scientists have discovered a link between willpower or self-control and positive outcomes in life (academic and occupational success, positive relationships, not going to prison, etc.).  That seems pretty obvious.  There is also research that seems to suggest that willpower is like a muscle: it can be exercised and caused to grow.  Again, that doesn't appear all that novel.  But the author points out that like a muscle, willpower can be fatigued.  I don't know why I wouldn't have thought of this before, but this notion struck me.  In addition, Tierney mentions that willpower is not simply used in resisting temptation, but also for the task of decision-making.  And this is what finally made things click for me.
Dealing with my relational crisis is completely draining.  A divorce care class that attended made me aware that in a divorce, nearly 80% or your energy is spent dealing with emotional upheaval.  That means physical, mental, and spiritual resources take a strong hit.  It also means that while I have wrestled with decisions about how to handle what is happening in my marriage, my willpower has been taxed to the extreme.  At the same time, I've applied rigid discipline to my diet and fitness regimen, I've gone to work and acted as normally as I can (things I don't particularly want to do), and I come home to manage the house on my own, paying bills, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, etc. (none of which I'm particularly fond of).  You cannot flex a muscle indefinitely and expect it to continue to respond.  So at the end of the day, I tell myself, "You should go paint."  And the response that comes back is, "I just can't."  I don't have the energy or the willpower to make myself face that additional challenge.  "Challenge?!", you may say, "Why is painting a challenge?  I thought having strong emotions and getting them out on the canvas was what being an artist is all about?"  Many people have asked this.  But it takes a painter to understand--or at least a certain kind of painter.  My friend and mentor, John, explains the type of painting we do as something similar to brain surgery.  It is analytical, critical, and very precise.  Jackson Pollock could probably paint through a crisis (and in fact, his life was something of a perpetual, drunken crisis), but Ernest Meissonier certainly could not (read about him in Ross King's stupendous book, "The Judgment of Paris").  Certain painters work certain ways.  It takes a lot of energy and thought to paint the way I do.  And nobody was ever foolish enough to suggest to a surgeon that he operate on a brain after pulling an all-nighter.
Empowered with this understanding now, I feel like I'm not such a schlub for being unable to paint.  There may be legitimate reasons that explain why it has been so hard to go out to the studio.  But is it really an explanation, or just another excuse?

12 Years

Today is my anniversary.  I have been married 12 years.  The twelfth year seems like it might be my last.  That's alright though, because 13 is unlucky anyway.

Unscrewed and Tipping the Deuce: A Look Back at 2011

(Please forgive the lack of pictures.  I had intended to include them, but it's late and I wanted to get this done on the first day of the new year.  Perhaps I'll have time to add them soon.)

Have you ever felt yourself coming down with an illness and you say to yourself, “Man!  I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck!”  Not only am I in that situation right now (I have completely lost my voice), but I can say that both literally and metaphorically for the year 2011. 

There were small glitches from the very beginning.  February is the big competition for my high school art students.  For each of my past four years, I’ve had at least one of my students advance to the state level of competition.  This year no one got out of regionals.  It was a small blow to my pride, but I took note of it nonetheless.  The greater calamity in February was an ice storm, followed by a five-day deep freeze.  While sledding, the boys had a close call, falling into the creek and being exposed to the freezing temperatures.  That was by far the worst moment of the year: feeling like I might have lost one or both of my sons. 

In the spring, I undertook a fast for Lent.  It was a great time of spiritual reawakening, and I am thankful to God for leading me into that process.  Looking back, it seems instrumental in preparing me for what was to come next.  At the conclusion of the fast, I weighed 155 lbs.   After I started eating again, I began biking to school once more.  On my way to work one morning, I was hit by a car as I rode my bicycle.  The process of recovery has been a long and slow one, culminated by the removal of the screws in my left ankle just last week.  [Although they could have remained in my leg indefinitely, I chose to have them removed, because as I was returning to normal functioning with my leg, I noticed that I could feel the tendon in my ankle catching on one of the screws, which was too long for my skinny bone and was projecting out of it.]  So after being laid up for several weeks, I was skinny, weak and broken.  Which is a perfect time to receive life altering news. 

And so, while I was still hobbling around on my broken leg, my wife left me, telling me she just couldn’t be married anymore.  This put something of a damper on my first visit to Montana (something I’ve been looking forward to for years) in particular, and the summer in general.  The saga of this portion of the year is still ongoing.  Will she stay, will she go?  2011 left with a sort of cliff-hanger ending, with me trying to sort out what I really want and wondering what will happen. 

The year has not been all doom and gloom, however.  We had a new head coach start with the girls basketball program, and not only is he a great leader for our teams, he has become a great friend.  Also, since I needed a project to keep me busy after Heather left, I threw myself into working out, and after three intense months, I reached my goal of adding muscle mass until I weighed 200 lbs.  I’ve watched my kids grow.  I’ve enjoyed friends.  I’ve travelled.  I’ve learned a lot.  2011 was an interesting and jam-packed year.  I can only imagine what twists and turns will come in 2012.  

Girls Basketball

I've never coached boys basketball (though that is about to change when I begin coaching aydan's 6th grade team this year), but I did play in high school and college so I'm at least slightly familiar with that realm. Coaching girls has been an eye-opening experience, though. So today I will share with you the main differeneces between the two sides of this one sport.  

1) Blankets
Maybe this is a North v. South distinction here, but no guy on my team EVER brought/wore a blanket to a game. In Ohio where the season was always cold and the first few minutes on the bus could literally be freezing, we dressed warm and in layers. In Texas, people don't know how to dress against the cold, but even still a boys basketball player's response is either baggy sweats or the shorts-and-suck-it-up method. But girls? Fuzzy blankeys...with tassels. And I'm not even getting into pillow pets, over-sized slippers, etc. It's weird. 

2) Smell
This one is harder to communicate in text, so I will parenthetically give the expression. Perhaps the primary difference is noted when walks into the locker rooms of the two genders. 
Boys--"Do you smell that?" (Face scrunched, groan in the voice, feelings of disgusted revulsion)
Girls--"Do you smell that?" (Sigh of contentment and delight, feelings of refreshment)
Guys locker rooms smell like butthole. Girls locker rooms smell like a Bath and Body Works franchise. Huge difference. 

3) Giggling on the court
I'm not joking--girls literally giggle while playing. Guys are just more competitive and mean. 

4) Singing on the Bus
I do remember once singing "We Didn't Start the Fire" on a return trip from a game, but it was in Coach Harrison's car with 4 other guys, not the whole team. Besides, I guess I'm not really a typical guy in that sense. Typical guys MIGHT sing after a particularly big win if they are in unusually high spirits. But girls sing to and from, win or lose. 


I am very fortunate to coach these girls.  We are having a great season and they are awesome young ladies to work with.  Go Chargers!

Rest

I have spent nearly the entire day in bed.

I feel sort of bad about this, actually.  There is much to be done.  My garbage disposal is broken.  My washing machine is leaking.  My stove top refuses to turn on.  In addition to these major repairs/replacements, I have work to do for basketball, work to do for school, paintings I'd like to finish, paintings I'd like to start.....  But today I did...nothing.

And rest is a beautiful thing.  I went to bed last night at 8 pm; I'm probably going to try and sleep again as soon as I post this.  Not that it needs justifying, but I do so because of the many nights I have returned home from basketball games near midnight, only to get up at 4:30 or 5 am to go back to practice and start the madness all over again.  I need to catch up on sleep.  I need a break.  It is good to rest.

So I came home from practice this morning and took a nap while the rain drizzled down outside.  I finished a book ("Ender's Game"--it's a good sci-fi read).  I completed a project.  Not a wasted day by any means, but I really haven't done much.

What I have been doing over the past several days is enjoying the treats of the holidays.  One way has been through my own gift to myself this season: new music.  I figure I'll be a little lighter on presents this year, and so I took the liberty to buy new tunes.  I'm really enjoying Amos Lee's "Mission Bell" ("Learned A Lot" is particularly poignant), and The Civil War's "Barton Hollow" ("Poison and Wine" kills me).  Following my older brother's example, I will recommend an "off the beaten path" Christmas album.  It's by Duluth-based band, Low, and is entitled, simply, "Christmas" ("Just Like Christmas" with its Scandinavian references, and "Take the Long Way Around the Sea" are tops).  As for other Christmas-time treats, I have utilized the ubiquitous Starbucks gift cards I've received to indulge in my beloved Peppermint Mocha's.  And though it may cost me my baptist-based salvation, I will say that my favorite alcoholic drink is the White Russian, and it is only made better (and more festive) with the addition of peppermint mocha creamer.  I had my first one tonight and it was delightful.

Update.  Recommendations.  It's the most productive I've been all day.  Whew! I feel like I need a nap.

A Year for the History Books

I thought this birthday might be weird, what with an impending divorce and all, but it was actually one of my favorite birthdays in recent history.  As the Beatles have said, "I get by with a little help from my friends." 

It started with my lunch-time crew presenting me with this as I walked in the door.  To offer some explanation, Sissney (the head girls basketball coach) and Josh have taken to calling me "Beefcake" (in reference to my attempt to build muscle mass).  You may notice my face has been Photoshopped onto Taylor Lautner's body in the photograph, but what you may not see is that in the upper left hand corner of the cake there are some pieces of jerky...thereby making it a literal beef cake.  

How awesome is it to have friends that understand you?  They know you well enough to know what you really enjoy and they indulge your little quirks.  I received this gift from the Fab Four, which now hangs in my entryway.  It probably won't stay there for long--it's a little gaudy.  Still, I think it's fantastic.

While we adults opened the presents, my two glorious sons played in the lot next to Josh's house, where a new home is being built.  They produced this bunker for the war with the Japanese who, in their words, "almost killed Uncle Bucky" (my Uncle Jim, who really did get shot in Vietnam).  

If only they could be this precious all the time.  When we went to eat out for dinner, no sooner had I given my name to the hostess than I returned to find them fighting and yelling at each other in the entryway.  This was done within mere feet of other guests who were waiting to be seated.  So I immediately turned the buzzer back in, grabbed their hands, and left to go home.  All was not lost.  Even though they couldn't keep it together to eat in public, we enjoyed each other at home.  

I also received this awesome scarf from my friend Brandi.  Obviously, it is my new favorite.  What meant the most perhaps, were the encouraging words I received in cards from these friends.  Seriously, some of the best cards I've ever received.  Josh's words in my card almost made me cry.  He pointed out that this year has brought car collisions and relationship melt-downs, and yet I'm still standing.  It just means so much that people around me care, and--as silly as it may sound--that I'm doing something right.  The words in the cards reminded me that although my life is a bit screwed up right now, I am not a screw up; they are proud of me.  That is a fantastic present.