The Voice

We all have that voice inside us.  Gives us some guidance. Sometimes, it's not even good guidance. 

I have and have not done a good job of listening to the voice.  

In the last 4 weeks, I have specifically made time at the start of the day to clear my head .  I get a cup of coffee, then spend a few minutes reading Daily Reflections, 24 Hours a Day, and Daily Stoic.  Each reading has some little nugget that I can seize and hold on to.  

After I read, I take a few minutes to journal.   I am using the Daily Stoic journal; there is a little prompt in there to ruminate on and write down thoughts related to it.  Or, I can go off and just write down what I want that is on my mind: what I am grateful for, who are important people in my life and day.

Setting this time aside every day has had a profound affect on my life. (Granted, it's only been three weeks since I have started journaling. I need to continue on.)  I have noticed a change in my day and how I am handling situations that have been thrown in my day.

The point is, in this time of quiet, the small voice in my head has a clear chance to be heard.  It has given me an opportunity to become acquainted with the voice, so when the junk pops up in the chaos and din of the day, I can hear what the voice sounds like. 

There are times when I don't hear it, or I hear it to late.  Notably, I need to hear the voice when it is telling me to not be so self-critical.  I heard my self saying harsh, judgmental words out loud last week:  "I am a failure because …"  "I am so stupid."  "I add no value to this conversation." 

I intellectually know  it is wrong.  I know that I am being broad and generalizing.  I am not a failure.  I am not so stupid.  I do add value.   Taking a couple more seconds to think about what I am going to say, and doing so in an honest way is what the voice is telling me to do.

Don't Worry

My anxiety got the better of me last Wednesday afternoon.

I was on my way home, and I hadn't heard from my youngest daughter, K,  when she got home from school.  She calls me when she gets home so I know she made it there safely.  But on this day, I hadn't heard from her, and there was no answer when I called the house.

My son, Z, had texted me that he had forgotten his key, and that his phone battery was at 1%.  So I couldn't contact and check with him to see that he made it, or that K was with him.

A couple weeks ago, K had said she wanted to just spend a couple days at her mom's, and not come to my house.  This was okay; it gave me a couple evenings 1-on-1 with Z. 

My oldest daughter, A, who is 16, has not come to my house in the last year. What contact we have is in the lobby of her therapist's office, or I have said hi to her at K's gymnastics time.  

Because A hasn't been coming to my house, and with K asking a couple weeks ago to spend time at her mom's, I suddenly thought that K was now pulling away from me as well.  I had any number of ideas of how I would handle this. 

Intellectually, the left side of  my brain was telling me "Dude, she forgot her key, too.  It's hanging on the lanyard on her closet door.  The hide-a-key wasn't replaced the last time it was used.  She's just waiting outside at the front of the house."   But this didn't cause the tightness in my chest to go away.  It didn't make my stomach ache unwind. 

The anxiety had strangely taken hold of me.  These sort of situations are ones that in the last year I have been able to turn off, by making a gratitude list in my mind, or some quiet meditation, or some breathing exercises.  The  closer I got to home, the less and less I considered them as viable ways to combat the unease that was washing over me.

When I came around the corner in front of my house, there they are, Z and K, sitting on the steps reading books.  Immediately a flood of relief swept over me, and they hopped up smiling and ran into the house as the garage door opened after I hit the button on the remote.

I was making dinner and feeling like a fool that I let my anxiety get the better of me that afternoon.  What was there to worry about?  What if she had gone to her mom's that day?  I know she would be safe there, would be loved, would be fed, would be warm.  What does it matter if she receives those things here, or receives them there?

Seneca said "True happiness is to enjoy the present, without anxious dependence upon the future, not to amuse ourselves with either hopes or fears but to rest satisfied with what we have, which is sufficient, for he that is so wants nothing. The greatest blessings of mankind are within us and within our reach. A wise man is content with his lot, whatever it may be, without wishing for what he has not.” 

I have to remember and hold this in my head; content in my lot, not amusing my self with hopes or fears, but satisfied with what I have.  

Bob Marley captured part of this sentiment in his song "Three Little Birds."

Don't worry 'bout a thing

'Cause every little thing gonna be alright

Everything is going to be alright, so long as I focus on the moment, and know what I can control, and let the rest of it go.

Tea Tag Wisdom

Somedays, mid-afternoon, I like to have a cup of tea. Little jolt of caffiene, and it’s different than a cup of coffee.  

I’m a big fan of Good Earth Sweet & Spicy tea. First, the aroma alone is nice.  It usually will generate a comment from someone, especially if I bring it into a conference room.  

Second, the taste that goes with it. Cinnamon, some orange. Mmm. 

The bonus of Good Earth is the tag on the end of the string has a little pearl of wisdom.  This was today’s nugget. 

There’s days where things occur and situations arise that don’t require a lot of intervention or even thought, and then there’s days like February 2016. 

I didn’t expect life would be a walk in the park and things would just naturally happen to or for me. And I didn’t think it would be as challenging and as full of opportunity, either. 

The last year or so, I spent a little too much time wishing things would be better. Easier. Grandpa Gustafson said it best about wishes in Grumpy Old Men:

I sat on my ass a lot of last year wishing. (You can guess which hand filled up first.) I need to start doing. To that end, I joined Light Hustler Evolution this year, to push myself out of the wish zone and into the do zone.  I am meeting and working with like-minded individuals that want to thrive in 2018. Setting goals, holding each other accountable. Some want to grow their business, some of us are going to get control of our finances, rather than be controlled by them.  Someone will start writing a book, and someone is going to finish one. Not by shame, not by wishing it were so, but by breaking down our goals into small, managable pieces and working on them each day. 

I set a personal goal of being more creative this year, in some way. Maybe it’s writing, maybe it’s through some photography. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither. This morning, Austin asked “what are you doing today to accomplish your goal,” and so I said I would write something. 

I couldn’t wish this would would write itself. I had to make it happen.  I had to wish that I was better, and then stop wishing and do it. 

I’m looking forward to what 2018 brings. 

Zeptember 15, 2015: Kashmir

Marathon
Epic
Journey
Hot

These words come to mind when the opening chords of Kashmir are struck.  I'm transported away from where I am to somewhere else; somewhere desolate, barren, no roads in sight.

Music and books have the ability to do that to me.  Yes, sometimes it is great to have a movie do that for me; take me away, stop my thinking and let someone else tell the story.  I've always been a voracious reader, and recognized that magic early on, especially when I got into The Lord Of The Rings.    Kashmir, from the first time I heard it, had the ability to pull me away from wherever I was at and bring me around the world in an instant.  I am sure that what I imagine in my head is a far cry from what it is actually like in Kashmir, but who cares.  The music is magic.

Zeptember 2, 2015: Over The Hills And Far Away

Many

[men-ee]

adjective, more, most.

1. constituting or forming a large number; numerous
2. noting each one of a large number

noun

3. a large or considerable number of persons or things

4. the many, the greater part of humankind.

pronoun

5. many persons or things

Many is the word that appears in Over The Hills and Far Away many times, and all in the adjective form (constituting or forming a large number).

I can relate to the author.  I realize that while these (love, being bitten, lied, listened, dreams) have happened many times, there is still many ahead of me too.   I'm hoping to see the open road., the good things ahead.

The song lends to that hope. In the studio version, 6- and 12-string guitar play together after the introduction, with tight bass guitar and percussion through the main part of the song.  As the song ends, the guitar fades and echoes,  trailing off and ending on an up-note. This version from Madison Square Garden doesn't have those elements; it's a live performance and I  love the synergy of the band as they create this magic.

Zeptember 1, 2015: Immigrant Song

Hello, friend.

It's a few years down the road since I last did this.  Regardless, the month of Zeptember starts today.

Kicking off Zeptember 2015 is Immigrant Song.  Three years ago when I started the Zeptember project, Immigrant Song had a place in it.

Today, Immigrant Song comes to mind because of my son. Z is celebrating his 10th birthday today. The kids all know of my love of Led Zeppelin. I play it a lot, and when a song pops on the radio, I'll call it out.  One evening a few months ago as Zach got into the shower, I heard a sound from him, and as it repeated, I recognized it  - even through the wall and with the sound of the running water - as the opening wails of Immigrant Song.  I couldn't make out the rest of the words, but it was clear he was continuing on with the song.

The music the kids listen to is representative of what they hear from their parents and peers. His older sister is a big country music fan.  As a parent and fan of Led Zeppelin, it was so cool to hear him singing it.   Being a careful parent, I want my kids to like things because they like them, not because I do.  This is a message I've tried to convey to them, whether it is about books, movies, music, or the sports teams I cheer for.

Immigrant Song is so cool because it's all there right away. No slow intro, just 113 BPM. Form start to finish it is heavy bass, solid drums, guitar and Robert Plant's signature vocals.

So let's kick off another Zeptember. Immigrant Song.

Mugs

A good mug as the vessel for coffee is grossly under appreciated.  A good mug will trap the heat of the coffee and will radiate heat to your hands on a cool morning.  More than that, a mug can tell a story.

I have a shelf full of mugs, and each has a story to tell.  They provide insight to my mind, to my values, to my history.  I don't have a single mug that's just a plain mug, part of some set of dishes from the department store.  Each was chosen with care because of it's design and point in history.  A few have been gifts, given by those that know of the pleasure I derive from them and the significance I attach to them.  If you're at my house and I get you a cup of coffee (or tea, or hot cocoa),  I will select a mug for you, based on who you are, and I what I know about you, because you deserve that.

My current go-to is my blue Duluth Pack mug.  I chose it on my birthday trip to Duluth.  It stands as a fine representation of that city, a reminder of the value of a Duluth Pack on a canoe trip. It's blue, my favorite color (though I'm more of a deeper, darker loyal blue than this shade).  It's hand thrown, the logo cut by hand and carefully joined to the main body of the vessel.   It's weighty, but not burdensome.

We have junk mugs at the office.  Plastic-ish type of material, and thin.  They tell no story, and heat dissipates from the coffee so quickly it would almost be better to drink iced coffee.  A paper cup from Starbucks does a better job than these do.  The paper cup from Starbucks has your order on it, telling a story.  It's paper, but sturdy.