Tag: Life

At the Laundromat

At the Laundromat

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Sometimes, it’s an interesting cross-section of people you can discover at the laundromat. Sometimes interesting is the wrong word.

I don’t do laundromats much anymore, because, with three small children, it was one of our earliest goals after we moved to the small town we’re living in to have our own washing machine and dryer again to make sure that we didn’t have to take those three children to the laundromat once a week for several hours. On a weekend, when it’s crowded, and there are other people, too many other people, trying to use the same machines. And, likely as not, there are a couple of other sets of parents in the same boat.

Our dryer, quite unexpectedly, died recently. Washer still fine, but now we need to wash several loads of laundry and make a trip to the laundromat to occupy a few dryers for half an hour or so. We can bring things home and fold them. Less painful overall, but still not exactly the height of convenience, fiscal efficiency, or human interaction.

Not that most people want human interaction at the laundromat, and I certainly don’t want to most places I go. Let me do my laundry and peace, let me shop in peace, let me stop at the convenience store in peace, let me pump my gas in peace.

I will certainly accept that human interaction with the person who’s checking my groceries or ringing up my energy drinks, or whatever, especially if it’s someone I know, or even consider a friend. That changes the equation quite significantly. But social interaction isn’t my primary purpose for any of those things. I went out to get groceries, clothing, do my laundry, get gas, whatever. Going out specifically for social reasons, that’s a whole different ballgame. Yes, there totally needs to be a little bit of conversational lubricant for any transaction, and we all need the ability to make small talk for those, and I get that maybe some people are looking for that social interaction. Generally speaking, I’m not.

Especially at the laundromat.

However, I would have chosen that over this morning to the laundromat. If there had been a little old lady section of the laundromat, I would’ve gone sat in the middle of that group, smiled, and engaged in whatever conversation they insisted on havingwith me.

That section didn’t exist, not today.

I would have gratefully sat in the middle of the section of screaming kids, because I’ve been there and done that, and I feel the pain, and I could smile and be sympathetic with parents.

That section didn’t exist today.

When I got instead was half an hour spent not far enough from an aging dude-bro on his once a month laundry trip to wash everything he owned, taking up some combination of 10 washing machines and 12 dryers simultaneously, while blasting his music, which obviously should be universally admired. I spent my time reflecting on the society that produces those dude-bros and dude-sisters by the tens of thousands, the self-centered piece of each generation that seems to be growing with each generation, who doesn’t particularly care about anyone other themselves. I’m not interested in painting a whole generation with one brush. This particular dude-bro might have been just old enough to technically be Gen-X, and then there’s the Trump factor.

Sure, dude, sing along. It’s all good.

An old saying, one I thought was a cliché, but that we’re apparently losing: your freedom ends where my nose begins.

Of course, I’m too Canadian to have done more than my roll my eyes repeatedly. And too mature, apparently, to have been passive aggressive on my way out the door.

Be well, everyone.

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I’m 48 and Dad Is Still Teaching Me Stuff

I’m 48 and Dad Is Still Teaching Me Stuff

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I don’t know if he realizes that or not, and I’m sure it isn’t his plan, but I think it’s true nonetheless.

I’ve said for a long time that life is too short to learn from only your own mistakes and decisions, and that’s a piece of it. I’ve also said for a long time that you can’t choose you can’t choose what the universe throws in front of you, only how you react to it, and that’s a piece of things, too.

The life he’s led has not always been easy one, and in some ways he’s paid the price that physically, and some ways mentally or emotionally. He has made his own choices all the way along. We all do. I expect that the vast majority of those choices were what he thought was right or necessary at the time. Some of those choices have been harder on his body than they needed to be, then he needed to be. Closing in on 75 years old, his health is not everything it could be, and the diagnosis a few years back of COPD did not really make any improvements. I understand difficulty in quitting smoking, and shared it closing on 18 years ago, but not after nearly so long at it, and I had the luxury of growing up in a time when there was always more information available than the day before. That really wasn’t the case in the same way during his formative years.

But that second piece, the choosing of how you react things, is also in the mix here, and probably a whole lot more. He’s picking the stubborn path, meeting what the universe is throwing at him in terms of his health and bending only as much as he has to so he can continue to live the way he chooses to. An oak tree.

He’s also choosing to live with regrets, and whether anyone else can see it or not, I can see those in him every time I go to visit. He knows how some of his choices have affected the people he cares deeply about, his family. Rather than trying to address those, reconcile them, and forgive himself, he’s swallowing them, stuffing them down as far as he possibly can and letting everyone be who they are. I’m not sure who all knows just how much he’s not dealing with things. I suspect I only have a small idea. I suspect there’s a lot more to it.

He’s also showing me potential glimpses into the future. We are a lot alike, although we are not the same person. We did not grow up in the same time, or in the same kind of places, and we did not make the same choices. When he was 48, I was 22, and I didn’t really seem a lot because I was in school. When I saw him, he was still presenting as the strong man that I grew up with. Over the next few years, and through scattered visits over time, I would slowly discover what most sons eventually discover about their fathers. There comes a moment when you realize that you are better, stronger, faster than your father at most things that aren’t a direct result of their specialties. And it is one of the saddest days of your life.

It’s also a too jarring reminder of the march of time and of your own mortality.
Make no mistake, there’s still a ridiculous number of things that he knows far more about than I do, but I can recognize some of what age has stolen.

I was a couple of years older when my son was born than dad was at my birth. But 46 and 48 are not too different. Measured against his father, there was a much larger gap, but dad was the youngest of seven. Pop lived to eighty-four with, a life filled with harder choices, and some of them, to my eyes, almost deliberately destructive. Did dad use that same measuring tape at some point? Does he still?

I’m not my father, but I certainly have those thoughts very, very often. I don’t need to be remembered by anyone other than my family, really. Beyond that, if I leave some stories behind for people to enjoy, that’s great, but what I really want is to leave enough good memories for my children to carry them through after I’m gone.

I hope I have inherited my father’s stubbornness, and I know I’ve inherited some of the desire for frequent solitude, but I am my own person, and I make my own choices. I love my father, but I do still find it difficult to talk to him sometimes. I don’t think I should, but that’s my problem. He’s still teaching me things, still setting examples. Sometimes those are examples I want to follow and sometimes they’re not, but there’s one I do like, for sure.

To steal a line, do not go gently into that good night. He will continue to not go gently for as long as he can, I think, and he does recognize what his eventual departure from life will mean to others. He may or may not recognize anything resembling the full extent of the impact to his children and grandchildren. None of us do, probably, but that too, in a lot of ways, is part of the human experience. Growing up, growing old, losing people, being lost.

I love you, Dad. I hope someday I’m able to effectively tell you. Whether day that comes or not, I hope I demonstrate it at least a little, and I hope you do know it.

Be well, everyone.

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Dunning-Kruger vs Shuhari

Dunning-Kruger vs Shuhari

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Related image
Lovingly borrowed from Psychology Today.

The Dunning-Kruger effect is a close personal friend of mine.

I’m sure you seem to means, my favorite being that the first rule of Dunning-Kruger club is that you don’t know you’re in Dunning-Kruger club. Boiled down, without math or graphs or anything, it’s a cognitive bias that essentially says the skills you need to understand whether you are good at something or not are the same skills that you need to actually be good at that thing.

If you’re unaware of the effect, graphically it looks like a super steep line when you first learn something, peaking way above actually being good or knowledgeable about that something. So, early on, when you learn just a little bit, you think things are easy and that you’re really good at it. And then you learn a little bit more, and there’s almost as steep a drop-off into understanding just how ignorant of the subject you are. It drops into a bowl that, very slowly over time and learning, you come out of until, at essentially expert level, you figure out that you’re more or less doing okay.

Thank you, Wikipedia.

There are also a variety of concepts of cyclical learning spread across the world, but I like the Japanese version the best, which I may have discussed before: Shuhari. Emulate, adapt, transcend.

I try to look at both of these things together, really. A lot of the time, I know just how not good I am at something. In terms of cyclical learning, I’m still in the emulation phase. Looking at what people are doing around me, seeing the things that work well and don’t, and adapting my practices as result. I read, study, learn.

On good days, when Mr.’s Dunning and Kruger are my friends, I actually feel like I’m on the upward curve of the bowl. I’m in the adapt or extend phase of learning, providing the right example to the people around me, and being good at whatever job it is I’m doing at the moment. There are even flashes of transcendence, moments, hours, even days sometimes when I feel like everything is just working right, when I’ve got a grip on things, when I’m making things work, when everything is going well and I’m making a difference. Those never last, of course.

Most days are a mixture of the three, with, over time, more and more in the middle zone, where I’m maybe on the upward curve, mostly in the adaptive phase. But then there are days, or even weeks, that kick my ass.

Every morning, I should stop and wonder what kind of the day today will be. On Monday’s maybe it’s what kind of week.

I guess I just have to wait and see, and do my best at whatever I turn my mind to.

Be well, everyone.

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My Oldest Child

My Oldest Child

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Long, long ago.

It is the 19th of December in the year 2018 of the common calendar, and it is a date of special significance to me. At 1:42 AM this morning my son, my firstborn child, turned 20 years old.


20 years ago today, in the middle of the night, I held him for the first time. It’s very easy to admit now that I was terrified. What the hell did I know about kids,much less babies? Only a few days off of 28 years old, I had a couple of friends who had small children, but didn’t really see them that often. I really didn’t spend much time around kids.

Becoming a parent for the first time isn’t actually something you can possibly be ready for. But when they put the baby in your hands for the first time, you realize you haven’t got an awful lot of choice but to get ready, and to do it really, really fast. You figure things out as you go, make the best decisions you can at the time you’re making them, and hope you don’t screw up too badly.

At 20,my son is on the cusp of true maturity, true adulthood. He has struggles now and struggles ahead, but he also has struggles behind. We can all say that, I suppose, but it’s very easy to lose sight of what you’ve made it through.

In some ways, he’s more prepared for his world than I was mine, and in some ways less. And that’s okay. We are not the same. He’s got a lot ahead of him to figure out, and it’s different than what I had to figure out.

I’m going to slightly butcher and slightly extend a line that I think was spoken by Chachi’s mom in the short-lived Happy Days spin-off Joanie loves Chachi. (I feel like I remember his mom was played by John Travolta’s older sister. I should probably look that up.) Last year, he made 19-year-old mistakes. This year, he’ll make 20-year-old mistakes. Next year, he’ll make 21-year-old mistakes. You learn from them, get stronger, get closer to the best version of yourself you can be. What else can you ask?

Me, I’m almost done with 47-year-old mistakes, and we’ll see what 48 brings. I try to be a good example for him, including by making sure he knows I still screw things up sometimes.

Happy birthday, my son, I wish you all the joy and happiness you can have.

Be well, everyone.

Be well, son.

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The Writing Life

The Writing Life

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusrssyoutubeby featherSometimes, the writer’s life is easy. Sometimes it’s not.

Sometimes the words don’t come or the story doesn’t work or you suddenly hate your main character.

Sometimes, you forget the rules of grammar so that the ones you break aren’t intentional and what you’ve just written reads like you wrote it while drunk and having bed spins.

Sometimes you can fly by the seat of your pants and sometimes you can’t.

Sometimes your carefully plotted out story bores the crap out of you because you plotted it out too much.

Sometimes, a sentence falls out of one of your characters’ mouths so perfectly and so naturally that it sends you reeling away from the straight-line path of your outline, so far out of the way that’s going to cost you thousands of words and be perfect for the story even though you have no idea how you’re going to get back.

Sometimes, when you’re going back to edit something you’ve written, the thing that has just passed before your eyes makes no sense whatsoever and you have no idea what you originally intended for that sentence, paragraph, chapter.

Sometimes, when you are experimenting with dictation, and you’re not in a perfect sound environment, the transcription software twists your words and the background noise into something nonsensical, hilarious, offensive, or pornographic.

Sometimes, when you’re thinking about that transcription software to closely, you start to lose hope over the fact that you can probably, most of the time, never expect more than about a 90% accuracy, regardless of the claims the software makes, and you’re crushed into realizing that that means 10,000 of the hundred thousand words in your novel are the wrong words.

Sometimes, not counting the words it gets wrong, your transcription software drops words or adds some that aren’t there.

Sometimes, you could get so wrapped up in getting today’s words in that you neglect housework, other projects, plants, pets, children, spouse.

Sometimes, you forget meals, miss appointments, leave for work far later that you should have and risk a significant speeding ticket to show up on time.

Sometimes you wake up with a spectacular idea or have one in the shower or while you’re driving or running or doing something that doesn’t involve writing and by the time you can reach for a pencil or a voice recorder or a phone or laptop, it’s far too late.

Sometimes things work too well and sometimes they don’t work at all, and

Sometimes that’s in the same writing session.

Sometimes it’s in the same paragraph.

So why would anyone choose to be a writer?

Especially since I haven’t mentioned any of the massive frustrations of trying to get someone else to publish your work. Or review it. Or read it. Or even look at it.

I should look up who said it first, someone very famous in the writing world, I expect, but it’s fairly common advice that if you can do anything other than write then you should. It’s a miserable life.

Sometimes ecstatic and others soul-crushing, it’s filled with extremes, and you have to have a life while you do it and a real job and maybe even a family; at the very least there are probably people you care about. So yes, if you can do something other than write, you probably should.

If you can’t, then some part of your energy is almost always going in that direction.

I definitely go through phases where I can’t write, where life intervenes, where stuff is going on that has to be dealt with, but I’m still desperate to, and I’m always, always happier when I’m writing. I can’t speak for every writer, just for myself, but I’m always happiest when I’m learning or creating something, and writing is one of a very few things that can give me both.

Someday, I may even be good at it, but there’s only one way to find that out.

Be well, everyone.Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmailby feather

Time for a Mid-Life Crisis

Time for a Mid-Life Crisis

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusrssyoutubeby featherIt’s the first of November, 2018 and I’ve decided that it’s time for my midlife crisis.

Nice bombshell, eh?

Now, I say midlife crisis, but mine is not going involve a sports car or plastic surgery or a 20-year-old girlfriend, or anything stupid like that. Mine is coming a reorganization of priorities and some significant goal setting. Some of those goals I’ve already started to work in earnest towards, while some are just getting started and some which a brand-new.

The high points, and there isn’t going to be a lot of detail on some of these as there are things to consider and build in the background:

  1. By my 50th birthday, I want to have completely revamped my career. My current career, my writing career, and maybe my own business on the side.
  2. Also by my 50th birthday, although I’d like this happen sooner, I want to be living in the house we’re going to retire in.
  3. To go along with the living in a house I want to retire in, there will be a second property. Not an investment property, exactly, but a property in Ottawa, where one, possibly two, and who knows, maybe even three of my children will go pursue post-secondary education. This is not so much an investment or us as it is for them. We will file the paperwork, jump through the troops, and charge the rent. Landlords, in effect, for a child of our own and several of their friends. The objective here is not money for our pockets, because we’re doing okay, all things considered, but to use the equity built up into the eventual sale of that property to cover as much of their accumulated student debts as possible. Our situation, financially, as never been what either set of our parents enjoyed. It’s never really had the possibility of it, economically, generationally, situationally. So we don’t have the extra income and haven’t managed the save enough along the way to get them completely through college or university debt free. But, if we sell our house for the right amount, and buy our retirement property for the right amount, we can, essentially, transfer our debt to another property and have the rent the kids are paying into it cover the mortgage and other fees, so that three or five or however many years later, when our last child is out, we sell the house, even if the market is crappy, get equity back out of it to pay down previously mentioned debt. I’m liking this plan more and more the longer I think about it. But it’s going to take a lot of work to get there.
  4. I’ll mention the writing goals, but I’m not going into a lot of detail. Currently, there is a one, three, five, and 10 year plan. The details get fuzzier the longer the time frame so that I can re-forecast easily, and I’m making adjustments due to other goals.
  5. I’ll also mention martial arts goals so they’re here, but I’m unlikely to share most of those out loud.
  6. I want to travel. I mean more than just go and hang out someplace for a week or so. My wife and I have talked several times about the idea of getting a teaching English as a foreign language certification and spending a year in Japan, a year in South America, a year in Africa.
  7. I want to get involved in some significant conservation programs, during the years when not traveling, working to stabilize local endangered species. At the moment, I have in my head to study, and incubate eggs for eventual release, Blanding’s Turtle and the Grey Ratsnake, which are both listed as endangered and both exist, in theory, locally. There are plenty of species that need assistance, mainly due to human encroachment on habitat and our essentially destructive ways as a species, and maybe I should help a little.
  8. I will become politically active. Keeping those plans in the background for now.

So, my midlife crisis looks mostly like I just want to find enough focus to achieve things I’ve already been thinking about. I’ve said it before, but with 48 only a couple of months from now, and 50 close enough on the horizon that I can see it from where I’m standing, I may be half done. Well, I suppose it’s possible that I’m far more than half done and just don’t know it yet, but assuming good health and remaining accident free, and gentle improvements in medical technology, I may be half done.

There’s stuff to do, important stuff, and as the children grow and spread out, the second half of my life needs to be meaningful in expanded and different ways than the first half.

Some of these need some serious planning, some need some new perspective, some need a lot of work, and some need a lot of thought. Mind, body, spirit. Everything needs to be built and satisfied. Family, career, writing, karate, experience.

Be well, everyone.Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmailby feather

Time of the Season of Ignoring

Time of the Season of Ignoring

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusrssyoutubeby featherIt’s a little strange, but as I get older, I seem to be ignoring the turning of the seasons more and more. Oh, I still notice them. I know when it’s summer and I know when it’s winter, and I know when one it’s either of my two preferred seasons in between those, but the fact that the seasons are happening doesn’t necessarily change anything I have to do. Granting that most of what I have to do is indoors in one way or another, either at work or at home. But even the outside stuff. I just do.

I do recognize the weather, even if I don’t always enjoy it. In my slightly younger days, as a runner, for example, so long as the temperature was above about -15C, regardless of wind chill or precipitation, I’d go for a run. Now, not that I run much anymore, I don’t like to run when it’s just raining a little bit. But the cycle of seasons is just a cycle of seasons, and sometimes I feel quite detached from it. For so much of human history, those seasons, whatever they were and wherever you were, were important, part of the rhythm of life and existence. Now, I mostly don’t care.

There are things to love and enjoy and watch whatever the season and so the season doesn’t seem to matter much to me.

And I wonder if maybe there’s more to it. Have we, mostly meaning me, become too attached to technology? I mean, I love technology, and a lot of it makes my life better in so many ways, although I think there are smarter, more environmentally friendly ways to do a lot of things. Does technology divorce me from that earliest of all clocks?

I’ve been thinking about that, trying to find fresh meaning in the calendar. It may be just a mental exercise, but maybe I’ll find something deeper there, something to enjoy, something to experience. Maybe there’s some genetic memory to uncover, and maybe I’m only thinking about it more because I’m more introspective, more all the time.

Be well, everyone.Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmailby feather

My Son Is Coming Home

My Son Is Coming Home

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusrssyoutubeby featherSo my son is coming home to visit for a week, in theory. We’re thinking about today, driving to the city to pick him up, stopping to visit my parents, his grandparents, on the way back, and then bringing him home for the fall break.

Fall break is different to me, because Queen’s never had one. Reading week in the spring, but there was no fall break. The fall break for Eric isn’t really a reading week either, because it happens actually the week after midterms and, while the vacation after all that hard work is appreciated likely appreciated by the students, it still seems weird to me. I think their spring break is treated the same way. It’s not actually week to study and get ready for midterms but a week to recover from those midterms.

Still, all beside the point. My son is coming home for a week. For seven days, or six probably, because he wants to go back on the Saturday for a party, my family will all be under one roof. A small piece of my world will be right, as normal as possible, because I don’t have a week off, because I still have all of the regular commitments, particularly my still-feeling-new job.

But, unless a whole bunch of his friends are coming home, and reading week/fall break are not the same everywhere even to the schools that have it, and he’s told me that he doesn’t actually see or talk to a lot of people from highschool more except the ones he lives with, but that may change, he’ll mostly be around when I am, which means all three of my kids, even if there ignoring me, will mostly be around when I am. That actually will probably lower my stress level. And I could certainly use a lower stress level right now.

For a week, I’ll be as close as possible to being able to say that everything is right in my world. I think even his sisters are looking forward to the visit since he hasn’t actually been home a lot since he moved to Ottawa in the spring last year.

The shoe is on the other foot now, as the old cliché goes. I remember being his age and being near enough to being completely out of the house, on my own, living my own life. I recognize now at least some of the emotion my parents must have gone through at the time. I want him to explore and discover and live his own life, but I miss him terribly every single day.

For a week, my family will be whole again, not that it isn’t, but it will feel that way for me in a different way. Or maybe I’ll just feel different. Either way, it’s going to be a good week.

Be well, everyone.Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmailby feather



Facebooktwittergoogle_plusrssyoutubeby featherIt is time to turn some of my creative energy to satire. I’ve dabbled in it here and there, but never for long and never seriously. There’s nothing wrong with the bit of slacktivism I’ve been doing, sharing memes sizes trying to stir people up here and there and starting or participating in online conversations as I see the need. But I need more, and I feel like, at this point, I have developed a bit of a talent for writing. If the satire only amuses me, that’s fine. If it only preaches to a small choir, that’s fine too. In either of those cases, it’s probably not worth a tremendous amount of time. But if just one person, or more than one person, or whole bunch of people gets irritated at something I satirize, maybe we can actually get some new discussion started about the things that are wrong with our society. At the moment, by our society, I primarily mean Ontario and the bigoted premier we seem to have elected and who seems to want to run the province if it were his own sandbox and with 19th century policies.

Not acceptable.

So, satire.

I feel like I want to start by taking my cue from Piet Hein, one of my favorite poets, famous for short, stabby verses in at least two languages, and starting during World War II. I’m not suggesting Ontario is currently like Nazi occupied Denmark in the early 1940s, but, to my eyes, much as south of the border, there are flavors of it in the wind.

Not in my Ontario.

However, I also have to recognize that live in the Internet age, and probably there are no underground newspapers are going to be willing to publish said satirical poetry. At least nothing with significant distribution. There is, however, Facebook, Twitter and other social media. And I can certainly find unflattering pictures of my targets in the huge public archives and attach my short, stabbing versus to them.

And so I will.

Be well, everyone.Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmailby feather

Middle Age Is Not for the Weak

Middle Age Is Not for the Weak

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusrssyoutubeby featherTo be middle aged is to be caught between worlds sometimes. You still remember your youth very well, and frequently the dreams and aspirations you had. But you’re caught up in the day-to-day, the survival, making the right decisions, the best ones for your family, younger and older. Not easy place to be.

But you can also look ahead and see larger digits, recognize that at this point in your life, there are fewer days ahead than there are behind. And still, you’re caught in the day-to-day, a survival in life and getting by in providing support you need to for your family, younger and older.

The thing is, you often have no idea what that support needs to be.

You look at your children, if you have them, and other younger relatives, and understand they’ve grown up in a vastly different world than you did. But when you look at those younger family members, you can see in them the dreams and aspirations little different than yours in a fundamental level, you can see that they want to learn and grow and change the world. You see all the energy and vitality of youth that you are, probably, fighting to hold onto.

You look your parents and the rest of their generation, and you are always shocked at how old they are, because when they’re out of your sight, you remember them as the much younger, much stronger people who raised you. And you know that they grew up in a different world than you did, and because they’ve seen all of the change that the world has brought for you and your children, they have an easier time understanding your kids than maybe you do, even if the attitudes and issues they have don’t match up. And you really have no idea what they need, because they’re not living the same world that you are. They have that implicit understanding of aging that’s going to take you a couple more decades of direct experience to gain.

And so you realize that you are in your middle years, caught between youth and old age, and maybe, just maybe, you have enough wisdom and experience to figure out what you’re doing if not necessarily where you’re going.

You wonder what happened to all the years between youth and now, and you’re just a little bit afraid to look ahead to what’s coming in the years between now and the end.

It’s become a tagline here and there that old age is not for the weak. You’re starting to recognize that and when you look at your parents and you think about how strong they must be.

And then you look at your children you think about how strong they must be to live with the society we have in the world they’re inheriting. Youth isn’t for the weak, either.

I’ve seen it suggested, and maybe even backed up by some actual research and behavioral science here and, that midlife crisis, or whatever terminology is currently in fashion, is often a product of fear that we don’t want to admit. Fear of what we’ve lost, and fear of having to recognize what we still have to lose. We’re not thinking about the gains, of course, because somehow they don’t seem significant next to the stunning realization of our own mortality.

I think I might suggest that middle age is also not for the weak.

And I think that leaves us with the realization that the human experience is a tough one, that we are all stronger than we realize. We learn, grow, we strive, we go on.

But only until we don’t.

The human experience, whatever your version of it is, requires strength, so we all have it, manifesting differently for each of us.

A difficult thought.

Recognized or not, you are strong. We all are, and that’s not easy thing to know or believe or understand.

Be well, everyone.Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmailby feather