As we engage over executive orders on immigration, public safety, the affordable care act (and patient protection) and ethics, do not sleep on the EO regarding reducing regulation. This, is the middle game, the one most destined to affect your wallet.

The EO promotes the idea of enact 1, repeal 2, a concept simple enough to ensnare support from every entrepreneur and tax payer who thinks big government is out to hurt us. Cut the red tape, expand opportunity, open the fast lane to economic growth. This is the mating call.

Lest we forget the absence of sufficient regulation in the banking and mortgage industry of the early aughts paved the way for the great recession, and pushed our capitalism within the point of failure. Lest we forget the new administration and both houses of Congress are “controlled” by those who want less regulation in these industries. Members and puppets of Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan Chase and others are in leadership positions, who want the financial market wide open to gambling, unrestricted borrowing and leveraging of artificially rated assets.

If I’ve lost you, go watch the big short. The guys doing the shit that makes your head hurt, they love this idea of 1 in, 2 out. The principle is well crafted regulation will replace splintered existing regulation, streamlining the process. The reality? Those who play financially on a field you have no access to will enact regulation that benefits them, while eliminating two fold that which will protect you.

Be aware. Be awake. While they wear out our attention spans with big news on big ideas that enrage the division of our conscious, they will slyly push through the most elitist reorganization of the financial markets we’ve seen in our lifetime. Just watch. It’s all about the middle game.

Opinions are talking points, which we love, but fall far short of building a more perfect union, which we all should.

Sure, they win elections. That’s undeniably evident in the last dozen years of American politics at least, and across the globe. The never ending quest for a new direction sacrifices the integrity of any continued path to progress, and leaves us more divided with each survey of the political conscious.

With that said, I sincerely hope we all continue fighting for the issues that mean most to us, as individuals. The alternative is a nation of malcontents, accepting of whatever those in power choose to shove down our collective throats. Which ultimately, regrettably, is what we’ve become. I’m hopeful we can find a path forward where our differences breed conversation, and not yelling. I hope our varying ideals can coexist within a plane of recognition, understanding, and togetherness.

Here’s how I believe we do that. We toss our political party affiliations into the water, just like we did the tea.

Republicans lie to you, use you for personal gain. Democrats lie to you, use you for personal gain. “Independents” strive for a seat at the table to play the same game. This is the hard reality of a two party political system.

We are tagalongs to a dueling race of elitists who pander to our emotions, usurp our power, and lay waste to us in the actions we’re too lazy to watch. They know our attention spans rival that of the tsy tsy fly, and they exploit it. They know we’re too busy playing on our phones to watch the Senate floor. They know we’re too preoccupied with kids soccer games and dinner plans to read the bills being proposed, and voted on.

They hide in the great wide open, knowing we are mostly oblivious to the minutia piled so high it makes our eyes glaze over. They paint the ideals of freedom and liberty with whatever color scheme that will guide us to check the box of party A, or party B.

That’s how they fuck us. That’s how they own us. That’s how they divide us, and it’s our fault.

The issues have been filtered and re-filtered, amended and restructured, to the point where it is difficult, if not impossible for our collective population to understand.

We read the headline that Congress vetoed legislation to increase spending on veterans health benefits, not knowing that a rider to that bill would have authorized millions in tax dollars to an entirely unrelated program, one that creates enough debate to kill it altogether. Rather than understand that, we scream that our veterans are being shorted, when we should be screaming that the rider had no place in the bill to begin with.

We overhear through social media that so and so supports idea X, which contradicts with our idea Y, and immediately take to the platform to scream into the ether, without bothering to investigate, read, or understand what is true and what is propaganda.

We abandon the discussion point of the bill itself, and attack each other for supporting this or that which has little to do with the language of law proposed. We’re jumping into the chasm of making our point, while forgetting that we need to listen first, and speak second.

We are losing our voice screaming at each other, while those in power are already two steps ahead with their own agendas.

We are a reactive populous. I suppose that’s understandable. Our tools of communication breed that behavior, propagate it with customized newsfeeds and recommended follows that only serve to further our distance from one another.

We cling to these tools, because they are easy, interesting, satisfying.

At the end of the day, fair practice in governance was never guaranteed. Open access was neither. We live in a skewed perception that with the advancement of technology comes more insight, this is but a misnomer forwarded by the interests who advance these technologies.

We’ve become so distracted by the headlines that we never read the real story.

These groups open the robe of democracy only far enough to reveal what they wish to be seen, knowing most of us will never pursue the story beyond what is offered. We’ll be too busy calling each other names to understand what we’re ultimately arguing over.

Does this all sound too big brother for you? Probably. But ask yourself, independently, when is the last time your social media feed showed you a well reasoned voice of opposition? When have you been exposed to a non-partisan discussion that banishes the words Democrat and Republican? Is that all our democracy is these days, a choice between two labels, neither of which remind us why we left England in the first place?

When have you read the language of an actual bill on the floor of Congress? How often have you decided what was right and wrong in a bill based on 2 minutes of opinion from a shiny haired asshole on social media?

If column B is greater than column A, you’re doing it wrong.

Congress.gov is home to the exact language of every bill proposed in the house and senate. Have you ever visited? How many times have you raised your proverbial fist in protest over a bill based on what you saw on Facebook?

I repeat, if column B is greater than column A, you’re doing it wrong.

If this is too much work, to find and read the actual language.of law being proposed by your elected officials, take a moment to accept you have a choice….

Be an active member of our democracy, or accept the consequences.

Lay down, get missionary, and take it.

Accept whatever the minuscule representative population of government does on your dime, while you watch cat videos.

If, however, you want to understand the mechanisms that move our political landscape, close the window on CNN, Fox News or whatever site you prefer, and read what is about to become law. Then call your elected representatives, whether you voted in their favor or not, and tell him or her what you want. Stop wasting your time on someone else’s perspective, form your own, and flood the system accordingly.

If more of us took this approach, congressional staffs would explode with growth to handle the voice of the masses. Our lawmakers would feel the full force of their (engaged) constituents, rather than simply taking one more meeting with a lobbyist representing XYZ foundation.

And please, remember, all politics is local. If you’ve spent hours pontificating online about the Presidential election and don’t know the name of your House or Representatives member, your City Council Members, shame on you.

Shame on you.

Take the same approach to the closest hill of our democracy, your neighborhood. Learn their names. Find their phone numbers. It’s the same google search you’ve used to find out if Kim Kardashian has left Kanye West. 10 seconds. In 10 seconds you can learn who is paid to vote on issues of law in your name.

We have allowed our democracy to be monetized, sensationalized, and transported miles away from our effective involvement. This is a collective failure, and I propose a moratorium on guilt and shame in the name of making it right.

I’m not shaming you. Fuck anyone who is. If I’ve hurt your feelings by asking these questions, get over it. This is too important to be lost in the window dressing of opinion. I don’t care who you vote for, as long as you’re making an informed decision.

Do more than vote. The concept that your vote is your voice is misleading, for it implies your responsibility ends there. It does not. Once in office, these people take on the real work of speaking for you. Make your voice heard when they are in power. If you don’t, those in the traditional position of power will. They’ll put you on all fours and have their way with you without regret, or conscience.

Decisions are made by those who show up.

Show up. You (and I) owe it to every American that has come before us, and after.

Take the baton. Vow to spend less time venting online and more time speaking truth to power, so to speak. This is how things get done. Be part of the getting done.

Of course there is a returning to earth sentiment in all of this, you won’t always win. Accept that. In a representative democracy it is (ideally) the will of the people that moves the needle. Sometimes, the will is against you. We may fall into a comfortable sphere of common voices that portend our opinion is the only one that matters, but we must remember that other voices matter. Should we disagree, screaming at the results is less powerful than talking with your opposition. Make friends “across the aisle”, understand the dissent, when it isn’t yours. Only from there can we imagine a conversation that brings us together.

Bridges are built with tough materials – concrete and rocks, hardened with heat and time – they are not finished easily.

None of our ideals are advanced without dissent, but those concepts that truly make us better are born and bred from investment in the process, honest debate over the facts of the matter, and an eye towards the bigger prize. Do you wish to live in a better democracy? Then embrace the ugly parts, the boring parts, the hard parts, often these are the most important parts.

It isn’t all iconic policies and posters, it’s a mess of working together through the muck, long conversations that increase understanding, slowly. We become a nation of our own accord by understanding who we truly are, and letting our voices soar above the bullshit. Until we do, those in power will continue to operate as they have for centuries, and we’ll continue to do little more than divide ourselves into separate groups of the same people.

If you wish to change it, there is a map to that place. You need to enter the points along the way, and follow the road accordingly. Seek the destination, but love the journey. Know where you wish to go, but be prepared to learn along the way, and be grateful. You have a voice, whether you like it or not.

Often, when a celebrity dies in our current culture, there is a race to boil him or her down to a crowning achievement, or a moment of collapse. We portend to have this ability, to pigeon hole someone of his social girth and largesse into a capsule befitting our favorite milieu, and that it will be received with consortium and praise. As if the writer has unearthed the very center of the man. When pontificating on Ali, the exercise is utterly impossible. He was bigger than every story written about him today, even those that take a wide berth to paint him as multi faceted, and enormous.

It is appropriate to cast him as the greatest fighter of all time, or the greatest boxer. Many believe the two are entirely different animals. It is appropriate to bestow the moniker of “the greatest” upon whichever homily you preach.

It is appropriate to identify him as loquacious, hyperbolic, sensational and the most quotable athlete of all time.

It is appropriate to consider Ali a champion of his race, his religion, his culture, his ideology, and of course his profession.

It is appropriate to consider him not only the most influential athlete of the last century, but also among the most influential human beings for a considerable cross section of that time.

What is inappropriate, is to define him in any singular capacity. He was gargantuan. His rise meteoric, his abilities unparalleled, his personality boundless and authentic. Love him or hate him, he was fervently true to his form. His exile at the apex of his career serves in hindsight as an epic poem on the American experience of the 1960’s. His mouth gave birth to poetry and prose that captivated, enraged, enlightened and threw our social construct headlong into debate, and reflection.

Not a bad eulogy for a guy who beat people up for a living.

To be any of the perceptions of Ali, on its own, would be enough to elevate him as the stuff of legend. His work in the ring remains the benchmark of greatness in boxing more than three decades after his last punch. His language, the oral bibliography he launched into microphones from every corner of the globe, tower over any professional in any sport we’ve ever heard.

The impact Ali had on us all, even subconsciously, is the shaping of our collective views on sport, war, civil disobedience, racism, religion, humility, charity, sickness and now death. The Beatles may have been bigger than Jesus, he was bigger than the Beatles. President Obama may be the most recognizable man on earth, but Ali inspired the concept long before. There is no hyperbole when it comes to Ali. He was hyperbole, personified.

Don’t try to define him today. Whether you admire or revile him, I suggest you make peace with the fact he defies your impression. He was more than he was. And his legacy will transcend any rendition.

This was before interleague play, before the internet, before MLB.tv. It’s the only time Tony played in Detroit, that series, and I’m proud to say I was there. Considering I was a die hard Tigers fan and this was game 5 of the World Series, my attention was mostly elsewhere.

He went 0-5 that day, uncharacteristically. Four Tigers pitchers combined to hold him in check. Willie Hernandez threw him a screwball he lofted to left field into the glove of Larry Herndon for the final out of the season, crowning the Tigers World Champions before my nine year old eyes. It remains the second greatest day of my life. Thanks for that, I suppose.

It was the closest he’d ever come to a World Series title, relatively speaking. Yes, he was there in 1998 when the Padres faced the Yankees, but that series was more lopsided than the Tigers triumph.

While he retired without the ultimate prize, that accomplishment is on the short list of things Tony Gwynn did not achieve during his 20 year career, all of which took place in a Padres uniform. And today, on the one year anniversary of his untimely death, the sound system at Petco Field, modern home of the Padres, failed for a spell during their matinee – leaving fans to enjoy the game with only the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd.

Don’t tell me that was coincidence.

If you were lucky enough to be a child of the 80’s and a baseball fan than you’ll know what I’m about to tell you is not hyperbole. Tony Gwynn was the best pure hitter of his generation, and it wasn’t even close.

Statistically speaking he was an anomaly in his time, and a stalwart in the annals of the games greatest players. He retired in 2001 with a .338 career batting average. The last major leaguer with a career mark there or above was Ted Williams, who last stepped foot on a big league diamond in 1960. He won 8 league batting titles, and hit .300 or better 19 years CONSECUTIVELY. The only player in MLB history to best him in these two feats was Ty Cobb.

I could dilate your pupils with his numbers at this point (don’t worry, I will later), and his digits are truly awe inspiring, but this captured only one essence of Tony as a player, and more importantly, as a man. His talent was equaled by his humanity, his personality, his insatiable desire to maximize his abilities, and his infamous, robust laughter. Chris Berman once described his laugh as “the best sound I’ve ever heard in my life”. Through the miracle of modern technology, a boy from metro Detroit who never shared personal space with Tony can validate through the litany of stories on the internet that this is plausible. If you don’t believe me go here or here.

Tony Gwynn was born in 1960 in Los Angeles, California. He excelled athletically from a young age, and played baseball and basketball for San Diego State University. He was drafted into the professional ranks of both sports on the same day in 1981, choosing baseball as his vocation. And aren’t we all so lucky he did so.

The San Diego Padres choose him in the 3rd round of the entry draft that year, # 58 overall, behind the likes of former college teammate Bobby Meachem, Ron Darling, Steve Lyons, Mark Gubicza and even John Elway. I imagine each team that passed him over would gladly reverse that decision in hindsight.

He rewarded the Padres with a legacy spanning two decades, and the community of San Diego by making it his home for the balance of his life. After retirement and first ballot enshrinement in the Baseball Hall of Fame, Tony stayed in San Diego, returning to SDSU as the head baseball coach. Today the university announced the Tony Gwynn Classic will begin next year, an annual tournament honoring his memory.

He was a pure hitter. This is the complimentary equivalent of legend in baseball circles, a category undefined numerically, but universally agreed upon to include only the very best of the best at his craft. But this in solitude dismisses the fact he won five Gold Glove Awards and was widely regarded as an upper echelon defender throughout his career.

The only moment of game 5 of the 1984 World Series featuring Tony Gwynn I vividly remember in fact, aside from his final out, was a dazzling, leaping catch against the right field wall obscured from our view in real time by the charming configuration of Tiger Stadium. I saw it later on videotape, and it was a beauty.

But his trademark was and always will be what he could do with a piece of lumber. It didn’t matter who pitched to him, Tony Gwynn dictated the at bat, often with his archetype level swing producing a line drive base hit, 3,141 in total. He hit the ball “on the screws”, “on the sweet spot” “where it hurt” and every other analogy you can muster. And he hit it, over and over again, for 20 years.

In 10,232 career plate appearances Tony Gwynn struck out 434 times. This is unfathomable in the modern game.

For perspective, Mark Reynolds (currently of the St. Louis Cardinals) struck out 434 times in his 2009 & 2010 seasons alone for the Arizona Diamondbacks. Justin Morneau, the reigning National League batting champion, has struck out 474 times since the start of the 2009 season, a span stretching a mere 3,085 plate appearances.

Contact was in his blood. In his 20 year career Tony Gwynn struck out three times in a game ONCE. I’ll repeat that. Once. He struck out twice in a game only 34 times. He had four hits (or more) in a game 45 times. So statistically speaking, he was more likely to get four hits in a game than strikeout twice. In a sample size of more than 10,000 plate appearances. Please excuse me while I retrieve my jaw from the floor.

He did this in an era of relief specialists, night games, cross country travel, advanced scouting reports and a myriad of other modifiers his predecessors did not encounter. He did this (often) in a lineup where he was the only formidable threat. He did this in the steroid era, where a notable number of pitchers he faced were at least accused of cheating.

How did he do it?

He worked his ass off.

Between the tail end of his rookie season (1982) and the 1983 campaign, Tony embraced the concept of video study of his at bats. It began with him asking his wife to tape his games on their home VCR, so he could study his plate appearances after the fact. By the time he retired it was routine that each MLB team had an entire department, equipped with state of the art equipment, to provide players access to this method of study. He was a driving force in that development which has revolutionized the game.

Tony Gwynn was never afraid to ask for advice, despite winning four batting titles by the age of 29. His conversations with Ted Williams and Stan Musial and other greats on the art of hitting are legendary. Thanks to the likes of Bob Costas and Ken Burns, and others, many of these survive today, for all of us to revel in.

He knew his place in history, from a young age, and was relentless in his pursuit of excellence. The testimony for that statement comes in the form of four consecutive batting titles between the ages of 34-37. This is the time when most players are thinking about rocking chairs, and retirement beach houses. Tony was thinking about what Greg Maddux would throw him. And it worked. He hit .415 against Maddux in 107 career plate appearances, with zero strikeouts.

In two strike counts, widely accepted as the most difficult situation for a hitter, Tony hit .302 – 40 points higher than 2nd place on the list since the statistic has been calculated. The man in 2nd, serenely, is Wade Boggs, the closest contemporary of his era, who won five AL batting titles in seven years. Wade struck out more than 300 times more than Tony in a similar collection of plate appearances, for the record.

He hit .375 career in the World Series, finished in the top 10 in MVP voting seven times, hit .325 in more than 3,500 plate appearances vs. left handed pitching, hit .376 in games his team won, hit .351 with a full count, hit .444 with the bases loaded.

I repeatedly use the word hit to preface these statistics because that’s what he did. He hit. His hand-eye coordination was the stuff of legend. His preparation without equal, and his results legitimately stake his claim as the best hitter of his lifetime.

If that were the totality of his story, that would be enough to inspire tales passed down generation to generation.

But he was more than that.

He was a man who loved his wife, raised his sons, took time for fans and writers and fellow players, current and former, played catch with and comforted batboys and clubhouse attendants. He never allowed his status to change who he was. A good man, who loved baseball.

In my youth my Father and I collected baseball cards and autographs. This was the 1980’s, before it was sullied by over-production and inflated prices. We stood in line for signatures from Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Joe Dimaggio, Ted Williams, Ernie Banks, and so many more. We never paid more than $5 for an autograph, and if you asked a player to add his uniform number, or take a picture with you, they did it with a smile (and without a surcharge). I never met Tony Gwynn. I wish I had. By all accounts he was a man worth meeting, a man who would take time to sign your baseball card through the fence after waiting three hours for him, a player worth idolizing, which I did from a distance.

In preparing to write this piece I re-read the heartwarming story by David Johnson on what it was like to be the bat boy for Tony Gwynn in 1991. It’s among the finest first person accounts of athlete interaction I’ve read, and if you haven’t read it, go do so right now.

David said it best when he said:

“When kids have heroes, they tend to build them up into something unsustainable, something doomed to crumble, and years later, as adults, they look back on the their old enthusiasms with gentle condescension. On Monday, I turned on my computer and the words “Hall of Famer Tony Gwynn dies at 54″ hit me square in the chest. I lost my breath for a minute. In that instant, dozens, hundreds of memories of Tony flashed through my mind. And each one remains good, clean, and perfect in its own way.”

Tony Gwynn left the game better than he found it. He did his job with a grace and commitment the current stable of MLB players could, and should, learn from. With a bat in his hands he was a man among boys, and without one he was a lead by example human being that deserves our heartfelt nostalgia.

He published that story shortly after Tony Gwynn died a year ago today, leaving a gaping hole in the fabric of post World War II baseball lore. I read it again today, for about the 50th time, just as I saw a tweet from Kirk D Kenney, sportswriter for the San Diego Union-Tribune, saying the sound system briefly went down during the Padres Matinee game today, leaving the crowd to hear the game through only the crack of the bat, and the roar of the crowd.

Don’t tell me that was coincidence.

I would guess he’s in his 60’s. He’s perhaps 5’9″, wiry, if he weighs more than 140 pounds I’d be surprised. Some times he sports a beard, of varying length, other times he’s close to clean shaven. Last winter he had a massive beard, it was enormous on his face. He wears old snapback baseball hats and blue pants, and he shakes a bit as he walks back and forth several times each day along the sidewalk in front of my house.

In the two and a half years I’ve lived in this house I’ve seen him hundreds of times, at all hours of the day and night, in all seasons, always alone.

He smokes. I don’t believe he can bend down. I sometimes walk the same sidewalks, and find full, unlit, cheap cigarettes strewn on the ground. Monarch 100’s.

It seems garish to me to wonder like I do, but I wonder about him all the same. What did he used to be? Does he have family? Where does he sleep? He is one of several indigenous Oak Park walkers that routinely pace 10 Mile Road. I know he goes to the Speedway gas station at the corner of 10 Mile and Coolidge. I’ve stood in line behind him. He buys coffee, and cigarettes. He doesn’t speak to the employees either. They fetch his cigarettes automatically as he approaches the counter. He pays in cash, often crumpled bills and change.

I’ve never seen him eat, but I assume he does. What does he eat? How does he attain the caloric intake required to pace the sidewalks over, and over, and over, in all manner of weather? Where is he going when he walks West? I want to follow him, but I know I shouldn’t. Where does he get, and keep, the myriad of coats and hats he wears? How long does a pair of shoes last him? Why am I so interested?

Has he lost his mind? Will I lose mine? Do children yell at him? Do passing motorists fuck with him? When is the last time he mowed a lawn, bought wrapping paper, fretted over declining water tables?

I extrapolate the distance he’s walked, and wonder where could he have gone, were he to just keep going in a straight line? Maybe he has, and ended up right back where he started.

I don’t know.

I have an old sweatshirt about his size, and a winter hat I don’t wear. I intend to give these things to him, if he’ll take them. I turned in my Speedway points for a gift card this morning, maybe he’ll take that too.

I don’t want to get old. I don’t want to wander, stagnant and alone, along the exhaust laden service drive sidewalks. I want more than that. I imagine he does too.

In some spaces graffiti reeks of inappropriateness, which may in fact be the inspiration for it, a message almost profane in contrast. In other spaces, it’s welcomed, and encouraged. In these spaces the art can be seen as trite, juvenile, a malady of dick jokes and for a good time call Josephine’s.

But in the men’s room at Honest John’s in Detroit, it’s overdone, just right.

This is a community effort, left alone by management, and frankly one of the better examples of it takes a village I’ve come across.

It’s personal, without being pretentious, or garish. The colors blend, and coexist. From erotic renditions to philosophical meanderings, every surface attacks the pupils on contact, but no particular piece dominates.

It’s four dimensional, recycled, recumbent self expression in loops and layers. It’s a damn fine place to take a piss.

I enjoyed the conversations left behind, wondering who began and ended these salvos. I pondered age old questions, such as “since when did the finger fuck become the new first kiss?”

I didn’t contribute. I wasn’t prepared. But now I’m thinking, and putting a marker or two in my jacket for next time.

October 27th was unseasonably warm in the day, and particularly comfortable in the evening. The kind of night where a fire felt just right.

With remanded wood from deserted campers, and fallen limbs of the backyard from summer storms, I filled the barbecue grill. The highway in the backdrop.

Fill the ash can with leaves, line the bottom grate with small sticks, build as required –  one light, one fire

It was raucous in the bowl. The flames sliding up the sides, skateboards on a half pipe, waves in a marina.

Then the winds came, and came and came. Strong and steady towards the northeast.

I left so much in the flames. Beyond the aesthetic fire serves a grand purpose. The disposing of things, both violent and neat. Let it all go, let it all be gone.

It died in brilliant red embers, as every good fire does.

I paced the sidewalk tonight, when I should have been asleep, in a daze of too much thought and not enough clarity. I’d say it’s the curse of a writer, if it didn’t sound so damn pompous. I paced the sidewalk in the dark, attempting to parse my thoughts, to strip away the noise and get down to the nittiest of the gritty.

I don’t know who I am as a writer these days. It’s troubling.

I was away from the words for a long time, away from the process, and the salvation that comes from it. Earlier this year I found it again, the trail that must lead to my voice. I tracked it. I hunted. A faint scent here, a broken branch there; Like so many times before I felt it coming into focus. Then I lost it again.

And now I’m here, at 130 in the morning, chasing a ghost I couldn’t catch on my midnight stroll. I’ve been here before, and if past is indeed prologue I’ll be here again. I’m not wired like the others. I crave to write, to create. It was not merely a teenage passion I would grow out of, as my parents suggested. It has lingered in me for as long as I can remember. It’s the one thing that has consistently rang in my bell tower throughout the myriad of highs and lows of life to date.

It defies all rational thought that a 39 year old man with a desk job, a career, a child and the normal expectations that go along with such things would be up in the wee hours working through prostrations of “finding my voice”. Most people don’t get it. I should put away such childish things, submit to the life I’ve built and be grateful I am afforded a comfortable lifestyle through this work, this desk job, this career. I should turn off my mind and lay my weary head to rest, fetch whatever sleep I can, and move on. But anyone who has banged the keys because they had to will tell you that it just isn’t that simple. I am not that simple. And thank God for that.

I’m reminded of a story told by Corita Kent:

The Balinese have much to teach us about the (non) art of celebration. The making of splendid occasions occupies much of their time. If you ask a Balinese what he does, he will proudly answer “I am a Baris dancer” or “I am a mask maker”. If you persist and ask again “No, I mean how do you get your rice?” he loses interest, his voice drops, he may turn away, deciding this is a pretty boring conversation. “Oh that,” he will say.

I get my rice in a way that has consistently fed me, but it has never fed the part of me that is truly hungry. I’ve struggled for years to balance the necessary pursuit of gainful employment with the desire to run free in the wilderness to scribble and compose. As a younger man I had more freedom to live the life of an artist, although if truth be told I never gave it the focus and energy the passion deserved. Now, well life is different. Others depend upon me for the rice I earn, and while I honestly vouch I do not resent this, I do long for the freedom to pursue being a mask maker, so to speak.

SO I return to the question of balance, and how to achieve it. I return to the words, if nothing more in this instance than a mechanism, through the activity of composition to find harmony between what I must do and what I must do. To begin, I should remember that the fireflies were there all along. That only in the right contrast did they become prevalent.

There is a way to be what is expected and still be what I expect myself, ultimately, to be.

I have to find that path first, and allow for the fact that as Alfred Korzybski once wrote “The map is not the territory”. Balance is more than a position, it is active, it is something to achieve and maintain through effort, strength, and patience. It is unpredictable, and requires adaptability in the abstract, and the actuality of the day to day. My pursuit of balance should be tempered with both energy and rest, focus and wonder, ambition and forgiveness of failure. Beyond finding my voice as a writer, it is most important to find my balance as a man.

Only then am I free to enjoy the totality of my life, to abandon the incessant fears that wear down my spirit, that spin me off center and impact every facet of my life. Perhaps it sounds like hogwash, but perhaps it’s a breakthrough.

I’m writing again, that’s a start. In a few hours I’ll go to work, and do what needs to be done there. And in a few days I’ll wander into the woods and immerse myself in music and possibility – with no expectations other than to breath in fresh air and open my ears to the sounds of people doing something they love as much as I love to write.

I misspoke earlier. I do know who I am as a writer. I am a work in progress. Precisely as I should be.