Ctrl+Alt+Del?

I go through periods of really hating this blog. It doesn't live up to my idealized expectations. I am neither witty nor profound. I want to go back and delete a number of my posts, or at least severely edit them. I'm not sure why I felt compelled to write much of it.

Even though this isn't really read by many people (and trust me, I'm ok with that), it still bothers me that this doesn't represent my "best work". I force myself to hit "publish post" as soon as I'm done with my first draft, for better or worse. I cringe when I read it later, seeing numerous flaws that I itch to correct.

But I don't. In my search for honesty, transparency and vulnerability I let it all sit out there. I've tried so long to manipulate everyone's perception of me that to simply blurt out some fear or hurt is near torturous. It's entirely possible that this is an incredibly stupid idea. It wouldn't be the first time. But I've become so sick of the masks and illusory projections that I want to rip the curtain back. The Wizard is a sad, little man.

Please trust me on this - I'm not looking for sympathy or validation. I'm in a transitional period that's lasted the better part of a decade now. It's not particularly pretty, it's just me. And trying to be more than just me has gotten me in some pretty bad places in the past.

Freedom?

So I just started reading Through Painted Deserts by Donald Miller. It's about (as far as I can tell so far) his journey from Houston, Texas to Oregon. Having just been to the Pacific Northwest about a month ago (and wanting desperately to leave Upstate NY), I figured it would be a good read.

Right from the very beginning the theme of leaving has captured me. I have a hard time leaving anything if I don't have something specific already lined up for my next step. I'm getting to the point where I just want to leave, to strike out on some adventure with only the vaguest destination in mind.

I've always equated lacking a plan with being irresponsible. I'm bound by the fear of things not working out, the fear of finding out that what's "out there" is actually worse than what I know here. But now it seems that I may be reaching the point where it's just worth it to take the chance.

I feel my life has been split into a number of pieces and parceled out to all my obligations and expectations. A job and a wife. Rent and a car payment. Even my fantasy football teams demand some attention. I feel trapped, even . . . lost? At the very least unsure of where I am. And completely clueless as to where I am going. I am not living life. Life is consuming me.

Ok, so I thought I was going somewhere with this, but now my wife has some sort of wedding dress shopping show on TV and my brain is trying to crawl out my ear. I doubt I had anything profound to say. But I will be giving some thought to the idea that making a move without having everything lined up in advance may not be a bad thing. Being open to change and adventure could actually be a very good thing.

Lessons On The Bus

It's disheartening to be confronted with your own ugliness. Again.

By taking the bus to and from work, I get to spend over an hour each day in a rather confined space with some . . . interesting people. Of course you get some "normal" business folk like me, just going to and from their 9-5 (or 8-4 in my case).

But then you get the . . . "others". And it's amazing how quickly I can discern a book from its rather unkempt cover. I've become so skilled at sizing up a person at a glance and assigning them to a neat little box.

A neat little box that I'd like to keep far away from me. All I want to do is find a seat not too close to anyone, put in my earbuds or dig out a book, and ignore everyone around me until I get to work or home. But yet they seem to insist on invading my space. They may speak too loudly on their cellphone, they may scratch themselves with grimy fingers, they may just . . . smell. Yes, some of them smell. And not pleasant.

So I resent them. I resent them for infringing on my desire to be blissfully blind to the plights of others. I resent the possibility of my cleanliness being compromised by their proximity. I've worked too hard to be separate and distinct from these "others".

And who are they? They are poor and unemployed. They are uncouth and lacking in hygiene. They are homeless. They are mentally ill.

They are my "least of these".

They are the Jesuses on the bus.

And I sit as far away from them as possible.

Bad and Loving It

I have a problem with doing anything poorly. It's the perfectionist in me. If I try a new pursuit and I'm not good at it, I almost always immediately discard it and go looking for something else.

If some friends invited me to start playing croquet with them, I would probably buy my own set to start practicing. I would scour the internet for tips and techniques to improve my "game". I probably wouldn't inject myself with HGH, but I may consider it if I was lagging behind.

And it's kind of weird that I act this way, because I'm not all that ultra-competitive. I'm perfectly fine with losing, or just playing a game and not keeping score. I just hate the thought of being bad at something.

I think it's pride (duh!). I do a lot (often unsuccessfully) to avoid suffering embarrassment. I put a lot of effort and forethought into protecting my fragile ego. And to what end? To construct the illusion of a competent person? To inflate my value in the eyes of others by being "that guy who's good at stuff"?

I want to learn to enjoy being bad at something. Maybe I'll start singing out loud in my cringe-inducing tone-deaf voice. Okay, maybe not. But I'd at least like to start engaging in things I haven't tried before without the crippling self-doubt. I'd like to enjoy the process, not just the feeling of mastering a new subject. I'd like to try, then fail, then smile and try again. I'd like to find worth and value in something other than my rate of success. I'd like to learn what it feels like to fall and be caught by the strong arms of Father.

I want to do something poorly, and love every minute of it.