All things reasonable...except the ones I forgot

The Rose Window

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 06:19:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

By Alex Bramwell

He stared unblinking, eyes red, the result of inflamed capillaries exploding in his eyes like tiny volcanoes overrunning a previously pristine landscape.

He blinked and pulled away from the mirror, “I'm not going to hide my red eyes today,” he grumbled as he shook his head and turned sharply for the door.

How had it come to this? A couple decades earlier, he had been excited about life. The future had seemed a treasure chest. Filled with interesting people and ideas, intellectual conversations, love, lust, adventure and movement. Fast forward to now and all of that has been replaced with routine. His life is mostly a series of chores, work, and mundane tasks.

He is a responsible adult and parent. There seems no room for spontaneity, which is perhaps the thing he misses most. Don't misunderstand, George loves his family, six year old Gracie is a plump symphony of happiness and exuberance. Twelve year old Mason is in seventh grade and shows promise as a burgeoning violinist. While Liz, the eldest, at fourteen seems a latent genius, who waits for her moment to fly free into this world. He smiles, but soon it fades as George remembers how he loved creating and implementing “hair brained ideas” in his twenties.

“Stop thinking that way George! It's time for work.” He slides on his jacket, starts his car and pulls out onto the road. The sound of someone screaming fills his senses and jolts him into the present as he turns in horror to see a huge delivery truck bearing down on him, horn blaring, tires smoking, it is a rogue elephant bent on his destruction and he can't see any way out of being trampled.

“Oh God...I can't die Now! Not like this! There is too much to do!” He inhales deep, closes his eyes, as his body stiffens. He grasps the steering wheel in panic, but nothing happens. Slowly opening his eyes, George looks around timidly, wondering how he could possibly be in the main terminal of the international airport of Phoenix. Next to him, is Frank, his husband of seven...no eleven years. The kids are there and everyone is happy. The eldest, Liz beams at him and says, “I can't believe we're finally going to France. I've been studying the language for years now, I can't wait to try it out for real.” He smiles and ruffles the hair of his youngest child, who looks up disdainfully and says, “please don't do that. I hate it.” He nods with a smile, and wonders how that little chipmunk managed to grow so fast. “It seems like just this morning that she was only six and now she's already ten. Wow!”

In France, they immerse themselves in the experience with all the enthusiasm a child has devouring a fresh peach in the middle of summer. George stands entranced in front of the Rose Window at the Notre Dame Cathedral. Suddenly, ten year old Gracie, hugs him and says, “I love you!” He pauses for a moment feeling disoriented before responding, “I love you too Liz, and I am so proud of you. Henry seems like a fine man and I think the two of you will make a wonderful couple. Don't make me wait too long for grandchildren though.” Liz flushes, smiles and says, “Come on Dad, lets get to the reception, this is your dance.” They walk out together and Liz says, “remember when I was fourteen and we visited this very church and you stared at that window for hours?” George smiles and says, “I was just thinking about that. It seems like it happened only moments ago”

Back to the hotel, George and Frank smile at each other, they are truly in love. Frank says, “you looked so happy out there dancing with your oldest daughter. “ George says, “I was! Can you believe how fortunate we've been? I remember when we were barely able to survive and now we own a house in Maui, and one in Portugal. We have one kid in Europe, one in the US and the third in Australia. We're able to visit all of them often. I'd say Life has been really good to us Frank.” George remembers how hard it was to work through all of the difficult and challenging times, but he's glad they did. It has all been worth the effort. He smiles, kisses Frank and lies down.

Frank nudges George, "can you believe how beautiful Mason's brand new little son is? Oh, and his wife, Stephanie, she is simply wonderful.” George smiles and Frank and responds, “I know and it seems that only earlier this evening, we were celebrating his older sister Liz's wedding. We are blessed.”.

George closes his eyes and then he sees a bright, warm light. He walks slowly towards the light, wondering what it could be. He feels cold, but the light beckons him. It emanates happiness and contentment. He smiles and starts walking, his heart filled with bliss, when suddenly every nerve in his body is screaming with pain. He becomes aware of a long and irritating beep. Again, his body is overcome with incredible pain. Every muscle seizes, his neck and back are rigid and the pain is overwhelming, then he relaxes. The beeping assumes a more rhythmic beat and he sees the light again, but not quite so warm. A doctor leans over and says, “Stay with us George, you've been in a terrible accident, but stay with us. We don't want to shock you again to start your heart, OK.” George is momentarily overcome with panic, then he remembers the truck and he hears his family outside arguing with hospital staff to let them see him. “I was hit by that truck, right!?” The doctor nods and says, “We can save you, just stay awake, OK.” George nods. He won't go back to sleep now, not knowing what he'll miss if he does.

Though We Often Fail, Humans are Pretty Cool non-the-less!

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Tue, 05 Feb 2013 05:36:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

I've been germinating on this for a while. I'm tired and sore and should probably focus on something else, but tonight I want to write a post and I want it to be about something important.

So I'll start by sharing a link. Take a few minutes to check it out...go there right now and read it, then come back and feel free to comment, so here you go:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/60-moments-that-gave-me-the-chills-during-seattle

I first saw this in late December and I couldn't stop crying. Now after reading it again, I can't stop smiling, a tear is lazily strolling down my right cheek and I feel speechless.

But with me, being speechless usually passes quickly, so here we go. I've been thinking about the significance of December 10th 2012 in Seattle and at first I thought I'd say something trite, like “This is the dawn of a new era” (imagine a big booming voice when you read that...OK!) Then I decided that was too stupid. I remembered the Berlin wall being torn down and thought that perhaps Seattle had experienced it's own wall demolition, but finally I realized that this is simply what people do.

We categorize and judge forcing injustice on those who happen to be the minority until finally, there are a sufficient number of people who realize that we've all been wrong and then we begin to change.

It's what I love about people. We keep trying to grow, to be better, in short, to live our ideals. Continually, we fail, but we try and we progress and it makes us beautiful.

In Seattle on December 10th, 2012, we took a step in the right direction and that is reason to celebrate. Thanks to Matt Stopera from buzzfeed for the great post!

Patriotism: This Week's GBE2 Writing Prompt

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Sat, 03 Nov 2012 05:34:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

I've pulled away from blogging in this forum, the result of working double time to promote my side business MLAdams, a remote PC maintenance service. All you need is internet and a connected computer. We can have your computer running better tomorrow! Seriously, I'm pretty good at this computer stuff, so if you need some computer support check it out. Also, if you just want some technical advice, check out my computer maintenance blog. Anyway, now that I've got my shameless plug out of the way, lets move on to the topic at hand, which is patriotism.

Sometimes, I feel that I have a lot to say on this topic, but upon careful examination, my thoughts really boil down to three main points:

A patriot is capable of changing their mind given a reasonable point. This is because patriots know that it isn't possible to always be right, so they are looking for where they are mistaken, because they want what is best for their nation.
A patriot knows that the political opposition is also patriotic and that their point of view is also based in some truth.Therefore, a real patriot values intelligent discussion with someone who disagrees. The true patriot knows that the best ideas are born in the creative mix of opposing and thoughtful opinion.
A patriot bristles at the use of these words in the name of political points, "fascist," "Nazi," "Hitler." The patriot knows that unless we are discussing Slobodan Milošević, idiocy rules when Nazis are introduced. Furthermore the use of Nazi or Hitler for political points it incredibly disrespectful to those who survived concentration camps and those who fought to liberate those camps in WWII.

Lets start with my first point and examine it in light of what we know about humanity. Having been a human being and lived among other humans for my whole life, I assert that the only thing humans can be certain of is that we are, all of us, often wrong. The best way to mitigate being often wrong is having facility with changing one's point of view when appropriate. I contend that loving one's country and wanting what is best for one's community necessitate a willingness to admit when we are mistaken and change our point/s of view. Anything less is specifically unpatriotic! In fact, it is narcissistic platitude masquerading as national pride. Beware nationalists, you best not stare into the mirror too long, you'll be stuck gazing with love at your own misguided self-importance and misperceived infallibility.

This is a perfect time to launch into my next point about knowing that the political opposition is most likely patriotic too. Their thoughts and opinions are based on their view of life, and their lifes' experiences. So quit villainizing them. I mean it quit that right now! We're never going to get anything done of the two or more partisan sides don't grow the f#%k up, quit calling each other names, and sit down at the table like adults to figure this mess out. SO STOP NAME CALLING! DO IT NOW! RIGHT NOW!

For those who know me, you'll know that I tend to be pretty left leaning. Well it turns out that one of my friends and business associates is pretty right leaning. He also happens to be my favorite person in the whole world to discuss politics with. He is a lawyer, he is widely read and his opinions have germinated in the fertile ground of reason, cultivated with facts and nuance. In short, we challenge each other, and in any conversation, either one of us is willing to change our mind. The last time we talked, we joked, half seriously on my part, that we should host a radio talk show. It might not do very well, but it would be the one political show, where the ideas being discussed are being examined using nuance, fact and apparently opposing ideologies. In short, we might come up with some really good and creative ideas in such an atmosphere. That is what our country and world need right now. A healthy exchange of ideas among thoughtful and reasonable people...everyone else, should either take a deep breath and come sit at the grownups table or just sit this one out, Real Housewives or 90210 is supposed to be great this coming season. We'll let you know what we come up with in a 30 second spot after we've ironed out the complicated parts.

Finally, the most personal point I have to make. The Hitler, Nazi or fascist point. Take a break from the TV if you just turned it on in the previous paragraph, because this is important. Stop invoking Hitler, or Nazis or fascists for US politicians, unless they propose that we start some ethnic cleansing or that we send the Cherokee on another long walk.

I've often wondered when history started getting such short shrift in school. When I was in school, we were taught that the Nazis were infamous for murdering 8 millions Jews and roughly 13 - 16 million people in concentration camps during WWII. This next part bears emphasis, so pay attention: NO US PRESIDENT IN MY LIFETIME HAS DONE ANYTHING COMPARABLE! Not GW, Not Barack Obama, so quit using Hitler or the Nazis to paint these Presidents. It doesn't make your point at all. Rather, people like me, who know about the Nazis, look at your picture of a sitting US President with a Hitler mustache and think, "My God that person is truly an idiot!"

So my advice, just stop!

Background: my wife's family, on her father's side, is Jewish. I have in-laws, whose parents survived Nazi concentration camps, and who lost every single person they had ever known to the Nazi genocide. So if you are going to invoke the word Nazi, it better be for someone who is engaged in mass murder, otherwise you just painted a giant target on your forehead, which beckons me to label you as a complete ass and a thorough idiot. This third point is really just and outgrowth of the first two points, but I felt it had to be made, so just expunge the words Nazi, Hitler or fascist from your working vocabulary and make room for some other more meaningful words.

If you are still reading, thanks for sticking with me through this rant...I appreciate it and hope you will join me on the road to an intelligent national dialogue about something...anything, please!

A Long Haul...The Marathon

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 06:34:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

I have not posted here in a long time now. If anyone wondered where I went or noticed the silence, I can assure you that I haven't lost interest, nor did I want to stop blogging. I love writing and being part of the GBE2 community. I've missed reading and commenting on posts. I've missed the incredible conversations we've had and the sense of community. But my absence has been and will continue to be necessary. Life has become difficult and I've been exerting the sum of my energy and concentration to take care of the most important things in my life: Tara, Rowan, Devin, and Mikalh.

A little background, several years ago, Tara began experiencing unexplained pain and when it didn't subside, she began seeking medical help. Over the course of time, the pain got worse and since then, she has been surviving chronic migraine headaches and almost constant bodily pain.

This past year, our medical bills have ascended a steep incline due to co-pays having doubled, prescription costs having doubled, a significant increase in the number of doctor visits, and an increase in the quantity of prescription drugs. Our monthly medical expenses hover around $1000. Let me be clear, we can't afford that. I don't bring home enough money to cover our medical, our mortgage, our food, our utilities and our gas. My parents have generously been helping me to pay bills each month, but they can't do so for ever, and more importantly, being forty one years old, I have a personal need to take care of myself and my family without being constantly bailed out by my parents.

My ego has taken a beating, and my self esteem seems to have been trampled. I simply don't know know how to proceed, what to change, or where to start. I have avoided sitting in paralyzed fear, but my actions have produced little in terms of tangible results. I started a small business, MLAdams, which provides affordable computer maintenance services to small businesses and sole proprietors. I've began studying for additional computer certifications and I've studied both marketing and search engine optimization till late in the evening almost every night. I've pushed myself beyond what I had thought possible and I continue to push each day.

This sort of behavior is unusual for me. I tend to enjoy my time off and the way I enjoy it usually doesn't include much exertion, but because I love my family more than anything, I get up each day and I work hard. This beautiful family simply will not fail if I can prevent it.

The problem is that I feel I'm in an impossible position. My family needs me. They need me to be present, to be loving, to be tolerant and supportive. They need me to be available and to be compassionate. Simultaneously, they need me to earn enough money to cover our expenses. They need me to ensure that my wife's health is taken care of, to ensure that our mortgage, utility bills and food expenses are covered. They need more from me than I feel I have available. They need a me who is a workaholic breadwinner and another me, who is inspired, available and loving.

But as they said in the Highlander, there can be only one. So here I am, exhausted, sad, lonely, and afraid. I don't feel I have more to give, and because more is needed, I often feel like a failure. I am overwhelmed with what there is to accomplish, and I'm forgetful of important tasks that needs my attention. I trudge through life focusing on what is in front me, forgetting the things that lie on the periphery, and I am missing things that are sometimes really important. I'm tired, angry and frustrated. I'm difficult to get along with and my wife needs me to be happy. She needs me to get help with my emotional state and my attitude. I agree, I believe that I need those things, but I don't know how I'll afford it or when I'll seek it. My teeth need dental attention, and my back is tied up in knots. Both are the result of a bicycle injury from twenty years ago. I live with a constant headache and I'm physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausted.

But none of that compares to the pain that my wife has to endure, so I try my best to ignore whats going wrong with me, because I have to keep going. My family needs me to keep going.

So tonight, I decided to take a break from my professional life and share with you what is going on, so that I don't feel that I'm doing it alone, so that maybe, I can capture some perspective and bring that with me as I continue to trudge this portion of life's path. I know "this too shall pass" and I know if I, and my family can come through this difficult time, we'll be alright...probably even great. So that is my goal.

To me, this is like that part of the marathon, where the runner just wants to give up, where they can't imagine running even one more mile. Some quit, but others just keep going and before they know it, they're crossing the finish line.

That is where I am right now, where my family is, and from what I can tell, where our nation is too. We're all at mile eighteen and there are eight more long miles to run. Our legs are weak and burning, our sides are cramped, we're gasping for breath and we can barely take even one more step. We keep eyeing the curb or the shade of a tree and thinking how easy it would be to collapse there and rest. Forget the race, we'll just walk home later, alone. To keep running is too painful. We need to remember, this is not the time to stop. We're not at the finish line yet, and we didn't set out to run part of a marathon. This is simply not the time for us to quit. Rather it is time to dig deep and find resources we never knew we had. It is time to remember why we entered this race in the first place. It is time to push ourselves through to the finish line. Even if we're the last runners on the course and no one is waiting at the finish, none of that matters, because even if the finish line is deserted and all cleaned up, our prize WILL be there. That is the perspective I'm going to take.

So along those lines, I'll say, Tara, I love you with my whole heart and my whole being. I know we can and will be happy if we can get through this tough time. I know I am tired and irritable and intimidating. I am trying to figure out how to address those things and I will find a way to succeed, I promise.

To Rowan and Devin and Mikalh, I'm so sorry for the lack of patience I've had with you and I'm apologizing now for the inescapable times I'll have a complete lack of patience with you in the near future. This is not the person I want to be and I am trying to become better. Please remember that I love you completely...I love you more than you can imagine.

Everyone, please forgive me for my arrogance, my short temper and my sometimes dismissive attitude. I never meant to hurt you and I'm working to do better. Please know also, that I do and will forgive you for what ever there is that I should. Not because I'm some great person. I assure you I am not, but simply because we are family and that is what family does, when they love each other, they forgive!

I love you all!

Kelly Let me Post on Her Site! - @Southern Fried Children

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Wed, 15 Aug 2012 12:00:00 +0000

Kelly over there at Southern Fried Children - http://southernfriedchildren.blogspot.com/, let me guest post on her blog today!

If you've been following my auto-biographical story about leaving Albuquerque, this is the next installment. The one when I land in California.

While you are there, you should stop and read some of Kelly's writing, She is fantastic and I am so honored that she is posting one of my stories on her blog. She is one of my favorite writers and I think she'll be one of your favorites too!

Interdependent Existence: Our Blessings and Our Curses

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Sun, 29 Jul 2012 14:06:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

Delivered July 29, 2012 in Rio Rancho, NM

In our seventh UU principle, we covenant to affirm and promote...”Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part."

What does that mean to you? Look around, everything you see or feel, the air you breath and the chair where you sit is composed of stardust. That stardust was created billions of years ago by supernovae. It was a time before life or water or planets. A time, when energy danced through the cosmos making stars and morphing into matter. A time of energetic creation, which truly is the beginning of our story. It is the root of our interdependent nature, an interdependence which exists not only on a physical and biological plane but also ontologically between our achievements or success and the suffering others have endured unjustly. I don’t necessarily mean the results of our nation’s ill deed as in legalized slavery or the genocide of Native Americans. Rather, I refer to the unseen interdependence, the byproduct of another person’s misfortune, which improves our lives. The tragedies in which we never participated, but somehow they made us who we are. According to Blaise Pascal, “The Least movement is of importance to all nature. The entire ocean is affected by a pebble.”

I recently attended a UU service in Cambridge, MA. The result is that I have been contemplating this UU principle of interdependence ever since. Rev. Mark Morrison-Reed delivered one of the most profound and moving sermons I have ever heard. I arrived there quite by accident. The previous night, I had searched the Internet for UU services in Boston and I was drawn to this one. The topic and the guest preacher sounded intriguing. Rev. Morrison-Reed is one of the few African-American ministers in Unitarian Universalism and he has written extensively about the experience of African-American UUs. But what really drew me in, was his topic for a Sunday sermon. It was a topic, which reached across this great country, and touched my hometown of Los Alamos, NM.

Rev. Morrison-Reed's father had been one of the first African-Americans in US History to be hired as a scientist. Apparently, the US war effort during World War II, opened many doors for African-Americans and the Reverend’s father walked right through one of those doors and joined the Manhattan Project as a chemist. The result for young Mark Morrison-Reed was that opportunities became available to him as a youth, which were out of reach for most African-American kids of his day. His education and life path were possible because of his father’s profession. So when, Mark began contemplating the human tragedy that resulted from the atomic bomb. When he realized that his father’s success was tied to that creation, he was troubled. Years later, the Reverend traveled to Hiroshima, on a pilgrimage to make peace with this specter from his and his father’s past. He went to confront the horror and to offer apology to those lost souls who had suffered a nuclear storm. His story was insightful, emotive and thought provoking.

It was at least one full day before I really began processing the poignancy of Rev. Morrison-Reed's message. During his sermon, I sat transfixed, tears gently gliding down my cheeks, each word infusing itself into my emotional and intellectual life. Time evaporated and for a moment, I was transported, I had the profound privilege of sharing another person’s spiritual quest and as the Reverend described his moment of redemption, I too was set free.

Several days later, it occurred to me that in some very important ways, my life mirrors that of Rev. Morrison-Reed. I was struck by the absurd complexity and nuance of existence. I was humbled by the incredible depth and profound nature of covenanting to affirm and promote the interdependent web of all existence.

I thought of my mother, a full blooded Canadian Indian. She was kidnapped as a young child by the US Government from a Seattle hospital. She was placed into foster care, where she endured violence, neglect, and abuse. As a youth, she was adopted into a family, which provided for her physical and educational needs, but affection was a rare commodity. As a young adult, she attended college, and married a man who later became abusive. She also gave birth to me and to my sister. As I thought about her life and all that she had endured, I suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that my life is possible only because another innocent human being was forced to endure unimaginable torture and suffering.

Had my mom been allowed to grow up with her Canadian Indian family, she would have been loved and cherished. She would have been the eldest sibling in a large family, where she would have played an important role in tribal life. A talented, intelligent and loving person, she would have been an asset to our tribe.

However, she might never have gone to college. She certainly would not have grown up in Santa Fe, or become a LASER technician at Los Alamos National Laboratory. She would not have addressed a group of Native-American students about technology and inspired one to finish college and become a science teacher. Most pertinent to me, however, neither my sister nor I would ever have been born.

So my life, my sister's life, the lives of our kids, and possibly the lives of countless Navajo youth who learned science from a woman, my mom had inspired are possible only because of my mom’s sacrifice. She is a woman whom I love unconditionally, whom I admire and revere. A woman who sends care packages to our service men and women overseas, who volunteers her time in our local schools, who has taught Religious Education for more than fifteen years. She is a beautiful and kind person, whom I love completely. So it pains me to know that she had to sacrifice her childhood in order that I might live.

How does a person make peace with something like that?
"Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part."

It occurred to me that this interconnected relationship between success and tragedy is everywhere. The fabric of our existence, of our country's success is filled with strands of achievement that were purchased by another person’s loss. UUs are quick to applaud the courage, sacrifice, and accomplishments of civil rights heroes, of abolitionists, of those who ran the Underground Railroad or worked for women's suffrage. But we often forget to pause, to remember, and to respect the unwilling sacrifices forced upon millions of nameless victims. We forget that our lives are built not only on the courage and effort of our heroes but also on the shoulders and terror of all those anonymous victims who lost everything. We are the inheritors of their legacy too, and we owe it to them to remember their sacrifice.

During World War II, Nazis tortured and murdered between 11 and 17 million people. By 1945, two out of every three Jews from Eastern Europe had been killed in concentration camps. Additionally, there were millions of others, including homosexuals, disabled people, Pentecostal believers and political dissidents. This world was filled with survivors who had lost everyone they had ever known. They had been forced to watch as their brothers and sisters, as their parents and their children were systematically worked to death. Deprived of adequate food they labored past human capacity and were killed. For years, the survivors had daily inhaled the smoke and fumes of Nazi ovens, burning the remains of their fellow victims. They lived and slept with this horror, and when liberated, they returned to this world alone, having lost every person they had ever known or ever loved. How often, we forget that the holocaust was a major contributing factor to the conditions that allowed the US to enjoy a position of global leadership after that war. We may not have condoned or participated in that evil, but we certainly benefited from it.

Some of you may be wondering why I am talking about this on a beautiful Sunday morning. Why would I introduce such ugliness and negativity? Don’t people come to church for inspiration? Maybe, but there are some people like me, who actually come here for the free coffee...

I also come to church, because I am inspired by our seven principles. I believe that when we covenant to affirm and promote the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part, we also covenant to speak those forgotten tragedies aloud. We covenant to bear witness to the horrible cruelty which humans can inflict. We covenant to acknowledge that our success is intimately tied to and dependent on the horror of someone else’s life.

Unitarian Universalism has always stood for those who lack power and who need a voice. We have always stood for those who are not the heroes or the freedom fighters, but simply the victims. Today's sermon is not so much a call to action, but rather a reminder that we have promised to remember with deep reverence, those forgotten and frightened people. We have promised to remember their unwilling contribution to the creation of this world. We have promised to respect the interconnected nature that their lives played in all of existence.

People's’ reactions to this sort of truth vary. Some may choose to dedicate their lives to peace. Others may decide life is short and unpredictable--that they need to ensure their friends and family feel loved. Some may be fidgeting and thinking, “I can't wait till this guy stops. The coffee wasn’t worth it today." Another person may simply feel moved and contemplative, there are countless valid reactions.

But I ask that you set those aside and join me now.
Take this moment to be silent and remember.
Remember the child, neglected and abused,
or the child who watched as their family was killed.
Take this moment to breathe and to mourn,
to mourn their suffering and horror and pain.
Take this time to experience life,
and give reverence to those who were sacrificed.
To honor their contributions to our lives and to all that we know...

In closing, I’ll quote D.H. Lawrence, “I am part of the sun as my eye is part of me. That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly, and my blood is part of the sea. There is not any part of me that is alone and absolute except my mind, and we shall find that the mind has no existence by itself, it is only the glitter of the sun on the surfaces of the water.”

GBE2 - Week 58: Strength, a Tale of Eric and Joe

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 15:35:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

Eric wondered if it was a general lack of good sense or the deprivation of oxygen that had caused his little brother to act so erratically. In truth, the little monkey was acting deliberately. He only wanted to see what his older brother would do in a situation that broke all the rules of Eric's rational world view.

Despite being separated by a seven year age gap, living at opposite ends of the personality spectrum, and sharing no physical characteristics that might indicate familial relations, the two brothers had a deep affection for each other. Secretly, the older envied his younger brother's curious bliss. He wondered, sometimes, if perhaps they weren't actually related. Not that it mattered, his love for the little bug was incredible and though his personality was an outlier in this family, he truly loved every member. His only complaint was that he often felt alone, not due to any lack of being shown affection, more because he was so distinct. He came from a different mold and he felt on some subtle level like a complete outsider.

For years, his cheeks would flame as embarrassment possessed him when a parent reprimanded him for being cruel. He meant no harm, he simply failed to consider that blunt honesty might actually hurt someone. His personality was a synthesis of unemotive computational logic delicately covering a subtle and insipid rage.

He was brilliant, but couldn't understand many of the most important and basic social rules in life. Rules that his younger brother seemed to grasp without effort. The other thing that really struck him about the little guy was his sense of justice and overwhelming compulsion to stand up for what is right regardless the possibility of negative consequences.

As a toddler, Joe would stand defiant against anyone, who he perceived as perpetrating injustice. Joe would affect a look of defiance and place himself between older and larger warring parties. He would hold his hands up, look at everyone involved and say, "You stop that! I don't like it when you act that way, quit being mean, NOW!" Usually the intensity of his ire and the smallness of his demeanor would cause everyone to laugh and say, "OK Little Mister, I'll stop."

This kid, nicknamed "Bear," seemed an anomaly to Eric, who had a difficult time mustering the courage needed to intervene in bullying. If he could bring himself to act, people would listen, there was no doubt. He was generally well liked, and despite his unusually small size, there wasn't a person in the school, who could provide a physical challenge to him. He was fast, strong and had years of martial arts training under his belt. No one wanted to mess with him and he knew it.

So why then, couldn't he intervene as his little brother did? Where did this kid's courage come from?

Was he destined for greatness or for heartbreak? Would his idealistic little brother go forth and change the world or would the world crush him? Eric had no idea, but he hoped that his brother would triumph. Eric always liked an underdog and somewhere deep inside, he believed that Joe the Bear might possess some secret strength that no one suspected.

I'm Leaving Town, but Where Will I Go?

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Tue, 26 Jun 2012 06:53:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

Continued from:
Part 1 – Something Had to Change
Part 2 – In Search of a Plan
Part 3 – From Sandia Peak, a Plan is Born

Next day, I awoke, to an unusually warm environ. The sun’s light glared menacingly at me from every angle, such that I had to squint and cover my eyes. Flipping over onto my stomach, I lay there, like road paint melting into the highway on a sweltering summer day. “Wait a second,” I said, “the sun never hits my room before 2:00 pm.” I looked at my clock, which read 3:45, “Shit, I never sleep past noon!”

I struggled to free myself from the bed. The sheets adhered to every inch of my anatomy, glued by gallons of sweat, which had poured from my body as I slept in the afternoon sun. “Oh Crap, there better be some left over coffee, I can’t possibly brew or drink hot coffee now!” I walked towards the kitchen, “how am I going to leave town, when I sleep till 4:00 pm?”

This last statement stopped me cold, “Whoa! ...It’s already starting!”
I tended towards reversing course a day or two after making big decisions in life. I’d wake up and notice the general incompetence with which I managed my affairs, and then guided by terror, I’d change my mind. I had done this and regretted the outcome often enough to be fully aware of what was happening. I wouldn’t allow it, not this time. The previous night’s decision was important. I had a sense that backing out would be a terrible mistake.

Up to this point, I had been incredibly fortunate while searching for jobs. I was always offered the first for which job I applied and every job I had found was recommended by a friend. I had never searched the employment section of a newspaper. I’m not sure I knew it existed.

Where should I go? I began considering the important questions, how many single and attractive females live there? Is the music scene eclectic? Will the political climate suite me? Is there good hiking available?

Worry about finding a job and a place to live tickled the base of my skull, but I refused to entertain any serious thoughts about those topics. Reality, it seems, would have to wait. It could attack my psyche in a new city, but not now.

I snorted aloud to myself, “How hard could it be to find a job? I’ll work in a Hotel, they’ll be lucky to have me. And finding a place to live? That is simple! I’ll find a really cool place and live there!” The idiocy with which I considered the basics of survival leaves me a bit queasy even twenty years later.

After thinking about what I knew of various cities in terms of the questions I decided are important, I decided on San Francisco. I figured there have to be beautiful and single women everywhere. I could become a bicycle messenger and maybe start a racing team. More importantly, however, I had a friend who was living with his parents near San Fran., he’d probably let me stay there for a month or two.

I phoned and explained my plans, then asked if I could stay with him until I was situated. He said "sure Mike." I urged him to check with his parents, and avoid surprising them. He said, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” Retrospectively, he couldn’t have believed I’d actually move. I had repeatedly threatened similar actions in the past and never gotten past Colorado Springs. To anyone who knew me, the possibility of my moving to California was remote. His affirmative answer was, therefore, neither considered, nor based on a realistic sense that I might knock on his door expecting a place to stay.

My employer was unhappy to lose me, but probably a bit relieved as well. They were always one full pay cycle behind, so I planned on saving two paychecks to fund my move, and receiving one more in California to help me get started. I failed to consider my own inability to manage finances. I had several “going away" parties, where I was the only celebrant and one week later, my whole paycheck was gone. Next week, I received a second infusion of funds, and I threw another party. Everyone was invited, so the next morning, when I awoke, paycheck number two was GONE! I’d have to wait two more weeks, and with my final check, I’d leave.

Two weeks later, I was packed, my bike was tuned and I was ready to go, but having been sober for almost two weeks, I couldn't resist throwing one last party. I want to “leave in style,” and I hoped Sarah might want to spend a passionate evening in my arms. Next morning found me alone and ...broke! I was moneyless, unemployed, and thoroughly humiliated...AGAIN!

I asked Mom for help and she came through with $200. I hugged her and said “good bye, I love you.” She began crying, “I’m worried about you. Why do you want to move so far away? I won’t be close enough to come if you needed help. I don't want you to get hurt.”

I froze, as guilt and shame suffused my being. Seeing my expression, mom hugged me and smiled quickly, “I understand, you need to find your way, to grow up! All moms want to keep their kids safe. You better get going, before I start crying again. I love you, please be careful!”

I climbed on my 1972 BMW R75 motorcycle, perched my helmet on my head, a nod to my Mom's concern for safety, started the beast and headed for the edge of town, where the helmet came off. I rode West, into the sunset, a grin on my face and a feeling of weightless glee in my gut. The sunset was amazing and it seemed to last for ever, as I chased it into the middle of Arizona. The wind tossed my hair and I imagined the glory ahead of me as I charged into my future soaring above humanity as a falcon, released from the zoo.

…Open up that Golden Gate, California Here I Come – To Be Continued...

Compassion & Controversy: A Message for Unconditional Love

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Tue, 12 Jun 2012 22:41:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

The past few days have seen a swirl of activity and discussion regarding homosexuality, same sex marriage and morality. We have seen myriad responses calling for tolerance or alternately for "tough love", we have continued to be assaulted by people, whose message is closer to that of Fred Phelps than a loving and compassionate Christian. We have seen Glennon over at Momastery publish some beautiful prose, eloquently showing the depth of her introspection and her devotion to a Christian doctrine of love over intolerance. We have seen Josh Weed publish a "Club Unicorn" post, in which he announced to the world that he is a homosexual man, who has chosen to marry a woman, to have children and to live a prescribed Mormon life. His message and that of his wife is a profound expression of love and it earned them a warm and supportive response from thousands.

We have seen comments aimed at Glennon questioning or denouncing her Christianity, while others have claimed that Josh Weed can't possibly not gay. Stones are being whetted and axes are being sharpened, but out of it all, what I'm left with is a message of love, a message of tolerance, and a message of hope for humanity's future. I stand in awe at the beauty of what these people are promoting. I am inspired by my wife's post "Something is Changing," and the incredible responses she has received from her readers. I am humbled by the ever louder affirmation and promotion of every human being's inherent worth and dignity, by the incredible message that all of these beautiful authors have articulated it so eloquently.

They have set a high bar and one, which I am unlikely to clear, but I am going to add my voice to this conversation anyway. I am going to try and stretch myself to meet the level and quality of discourse already taking place. Though I am articulate and loving, compassionate and caring, I am also arrogant and self righteous. I am a deeply flawed person, who tries to be good and to do good in this world, but often I fall short. I keep trying anyway and sometimes I succeed, despite myself.

So for anyone who reads my posts here or my comments on Momastery, my conversation on TED, my responses on Faith in Ambiguity or my challenges on the Huffington Post, I know that what I say often occurs as "in your face," or "righteous indignation." And for that I apologize. For those, who need an able and convincing ally; I apologize, because though my heart is in the right place, my passion and sense of justice may harden my words and sharpen my tongue, leaving my message hard to hear for people who disagree.

I am an imperfect messenger, with a small audience; however, all of my readers are incredible people. They are better than I am. I believe they reflect the potential of who I might become. My hope is that despite my obvious limitations, despite my arrogance and indignant nature, I can inspire them to shout this message of love to the world from their pulpits and blogs and personal conversations. I am going to try, and as Glennon once said, this is a mountain I am willing to die on. It is a cause I am willing to fail at over and over again, until I get it right.

I will not give up, because I love YOU so much, because I love my children so much and I love humanity so much.

To start, I want to address anyone I have personally known who is gay and who has suffered this society's intolerance. I want you to know that I LOVE YOU. Maybe I failed to stand up for you when you were being bullied and later, I tried or perhaps I failed to offer comfort. If either is the case, I apologize for letting my fear paralyze me when you needed me. But know this, you are my brothers and sisters and I Love You! I am imperfect and ineffective, but I promise to do what I can to transform this world such that you feel valued.

To anyone who is secretly gay and hiding, because your family and friends have made it clear that they think being gay is vile. If you feel alone and frightened, if you feel depressed or suicidal, if you feel like no one cares. If you fall into any of these categories, I hope that you may find message, because you need to know that I LOVE YOU! I think you are beautiful and important and valuable. Though we haven't met, you are my brother or my sister and you are deserving of love and support. Please leave a comment or send an email. I'll be happy and honored to be your friend. mla_ca520 at hotmail dot com.

To anyone who is struggling with your faith and your personal sense of morality. Perhaps your church believes and tells you that homosexuality is wrong and that YOU need to condemn it. Perhaps you disagree, but choose to stay quiet, and wish you could stand tall and openly speak your mind. I want you to know that I Love you too. I have lived with that kind of fear, the fear that kept me from telling people to stop being cruel when someone was suffering. The fear that prevented me from stopping bullies as they tormented my friends. You are in a difficult place and I know you will find your power if you keep searching. In the mean time, please remember that I Love you!

To anyone whose heart becomes cold to this message, who is tempted to leave a comment condemning me or those who agree with me. We may disagree, I may say harsh things to you as my passions get stirred, but on a fundamental level, you should know that I Love you too. You should know that I will fight with the same passion and tenacity for you to have your personal and religious freedoms as I fight now for our gay brothers and sisters. I know that you are a human miracle, the unlikely transitory product of a marvelous and intricate evolution, which has unfolded for billions of years. You are my brothers and my sisters and I love you. I know you believe you are trying to save my soul and the souls of others whom you condemn and though I think you are misguided, I am grateful that you care enough to try and I love you.

Finally, to my brothers and sisters, who stand with me on this side of the controversy. To my beautiful and talented wife, to Glennon and to Josh Weed, to the UUA and the UCC. To anyone who has taken up this cause and decided that you will stand on the side of love. Thank you and I Love you too. I thank you for helping me to find my courage and my voice. I thank you for helping me as I strive to join your ranks and become an effective advocate for what is good and right in humanity. I thank you, not for your tolerance, but rather for your unconditional love and your compassion. You are my heroes!

Guest post by B's Stings on Growing up Unitarian

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Fri, 08 Jun 2012 12:34:00 +0000

Today's post is a guest post and video featuring my talented, helpful and much loved mother-in-law, B. If you haven't seen her blog, please take a moment to check it out, but be sure to come back and see what she has to say about Growing up Unitarian. Perhaps more importantly, about growing up with a famous father and a revered mother. The video and the read are both fantastic, so you should feel free to pick one or both. Her Blog: "B" Stings

Growing up Unitarian
--by Bronwyn (B) Gordon

From a very young age I understood that the church I attended was different from most people’s religious institutions. For one thing, I was usually the only Unitarian in my class at school. To be honest, I didn’t appreciate this distinction. I already had an odd Welsh name that no one had ever heard of or seemed able to pronounce. Plus, I was painfully shy, so shy in fact that I had spent most of kindergarten hiding under the grand piano. In my world, to stand out was to invite ridicule.

There was Sunday, of course – the one day out of the week when I might mingle inconspicuously among my own kind. You’d think so anyway but, as it turns out, I was an oddball at church too. This was because my father was the minister – not just the minister either, but the celebrated A. Powell Davies who spoke out eloquently against Joseph McCarthy’s red baiting and racial segregation, who was invited to be on shows like Face the Nation, and got quoted on a regular basis in the Washington Post.

Because of my father’s celebrity, I was frequently waylaid in the halls of All Souls Church by various ladies who crushed me to their ample bosoms and told me how lucky I was to have a father like that. Male church goers looked me straight in the eye and dared me to live up to the high standards of my father’s courage and eloquence.

I did not want to live up to anything. I just wanted to be normal.

All Souls Church, situated in downtown Washington, D.C., was modeled after London’s St. Martin’s- in -the -Fields replete with a classical style pediment supported by Corinthian columns and endowed with an impressive bell tower that we Sunday School children were invited to explore once a year. The church had a big auditorium plus balconies on either side and it was always filled to capacity. There was a professional organist as well as a professional singing quartet. My father ascended and descended the raised pulpit with regal solemnity.

At All Souls church, services were formal and dignified. Ladies wore hats with veils and men wore suits. I was obliged to wear frilly, elaborately smocked dresses and patent leather shoes that drove me nuts all morning by trying to eat my socks. At the end of the service everyone recited The Lord’s Prayer even those who didn’t believe a word of it. This was, as I recall, a concession to certain elderly long-term parishioners. I’m certain my father didn’t approve of sentiments such as “Lead us not into temptation” but he chose his battles wisely.

Various political big shots attended church services from time to time. Included among these were Senator Paul Douglas, Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas and two-time presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson.

In Sunday school we read about two kids named Martin and Judy and pondered the moral conflicts plaguing preschoolers and kindergartners. Later we read Jesus, the Carpenter’s Son and I concluded that, overall, the protagonist was a pretty stand-up guy.

I also learned that Christians were self-deluded people who believed that Jesus lived with God up in the sky. As for God, Himself, it turned out that he probably didn’t even exist, at least in the sense of the grandfatherly persona most of my classmates prayed to. Apparently, if I wanted to get my wishes granted, I needed to acquire a fairy godmother or discover a magic lamp.

Due, in part, to outspoken contempt on the part of some of my Sunday school teachers, I was sometimes inspired to insult my god-fearing friends and classmates. Predictably, they, in turn, informed me that I was destined to burn in hell. I did not believe them but I did (on reflection) regret having hurt their feelings.

All that said, I did grasp something positive in the nature of Unitarianism. For instance, I understood that Unitarians stood for justice for all people not just for rich white people.

In this context, let me explain that All Souls was (and is) an inner city church and that the presence of African-Americans among the members of its large congregation was unremarkable. In my teens, I belonged to a drama club formed by some of the kids in my Sunday School and we regularly performed plays with “color blind” casts. I was aware, also, that when my father was called to the pulpit of All Souls, he stopped the Church from renting space to the segregated Police Boys Club and invited the integrated Columbia Heights Boys Club to take its place.

When Brown vs. Board of Education of Topeka Kansas reversed the Supreme Court ruling of Plessey vs. Ferguson, my father celebrated this triumph from the pulpit. After that, we began to receive threatening phone calls and I remember I was not allowed for awhile to answer the phone. I understood that taking a stand, even in the face of murderous opposition was something Unitarians valued. Later, while serving as assistant minister at All Souls Church, the Rev. James Reeb risked his life in the cause of civil rights and was murdered in Selma, Alabama in 1965.

I was thirteen years old when my father died. For awhile I continued to attend All Souls Church, especially the drama club. At some point I became aware that new churches were being founded, most, if not all, in the upper middle class Maryland suburbs. In these new churches (one of which was founded by my mother) there were hardly any dark faces. There was also less talk about social justice and more discussion about breaking the yoke of Christian dogma.

When the sixties hit, many Unitarian parents underwent a sort of test of hypocrisy. As their sons quit college and decided to take up organic farming and their daughters went around braless and marched in peace rallies, mothers and fathers protested that this was not what they had meant when they had celebrated non-conformity. To sympathize with farmers was one thing, to actually be one quite another. This conflict inspired my mother to preach a sermon entitled, “Did We Really Mean It?” in which she challenged the congregation of River Road Unitarian Church to respect their children’s right to choose.

Like my father in this regard, my mother fully demonstrated the courage of her convictions. She stood up for what she believed even in the face of overwhelming opposition. Throughout her long life she was as faithful to her values as it is possible for a human being to be.

As a young adult I was more interested in Hinduism, Zen Buddhism and Native American spirituality than I was in Unitarianism. I moved a long way away from my childhood home, married and gave birth to a daughter.

When my daughter was five or six, I returned, briefly, to the fold. The church I attended on the West Coast was radically different from the one I’d grown up in. For one thing, it wasn’t even a church. It was a Fellowship and determined to remain one. The congregation was small and consisted largely of senior citizens. The Sunday school was even smaller and attendance there was erratic.

This church – or rather fellowship – went through ministers like a teacher goes through chalk. Some of the ministers were into improv, so you never knew what might take place during the service. One of them was inspired to perform the dance of Shiva and cavorted around the auditorium wearing what looked like loose-fitting cotton pajamas. Another minister spent twenty minutes tossing a football to various randomly-selected congregates.

Really the only thing these Unitarians had in common with my childhood version of Unitarianism was a sense that many of them had of having suffered some sort of trauma due to their Christian upbringing. Since I was not brought up Christian, I have no understanding of this experience. In other words, I was more or less deprived of God not bludgeoned with him. Was it Emerson or some other self-appointed critic who said that Unitarianism was “a featherbed for falling Christians”? I began to wonder if this, more than moral courage and a dedication to social justice, formed the common UU ground.

When this congregation voted overwhelmingly to sponsor illegal aliens fleeing from the repressive regime in El Salvador, I was relieved and even proud. Flaky though they were, they did, in fact, have the capacity to take a stand against injustice.

Soon after this action, a conflict occurred between the minister and the RE director. The congregation took sides while reason and compassion were overwhelmed by righteous indignation. Eventually, part of the congregation split off and established a new fellowship. I attended the new fellowship briefly then quit altogether.

I became increasingly absorbed by my work in special education which profoundly influenced my spirituality in ways I can’t begin to describe. One of the teachers I worked with was a Mormon who, without piosity or pretense, devoted herself to living what she called “a Christian life.” Ironically, I learned more from her about respecting each individual’s worth and dignity than I did anywhere or from anyone else.

I am not suggesting that my particular experience in the UU denomination has much, if any, correspondence with (for wont of a better phrase) “the truth about Unitarianism.” This is partly because I wasn’t just another Unitarian. The pedestal of fame on which my father stood increasingly began to feel, for him, more like a tightrope. His fear of falling (i.e. failing to live up to the adulation surrounding him) resulted in his making some unfortunate choices that had negative consequences for him and for his family. Thus, my sister and I, rather than becoming replicas of our father, ended up dedicating our energies simply trying to survive . I succeeded (in surviving, that is) but my sister did not. Her children – my niece and two nephews – though they attended Unitarian Sunday School -have no interest whatsoever in Unitarianism. My oldest nephew regards Unitarians as cocktail party liberals and my other nephew regarded my mother’s idealism as naïve and cute. While I don’t necessarily agree with them, I understand why they feel they way they do.

My daughter’s perspective on Unitarianism is, however quite different. Inspired by a Sunday school curriculum that focused on freedom fighters, taught by a dynamic teacher, she walked, one day, into the local peace center and offered her services at the age of eight. She and her husband continue to explore the issues of spirituality and social justice within the context of Unitarian-Universalism. My grandsons, too, have a strong Unitarian-Universalist identity.

As for myself, though I don’t define myself as a Unitarian, I still have the utmost respect for my parents and what they stood for. Their vision of Unitarianism was that it be a powerful force for justice, compassion, and peace in a troubled world. They did not place much value in semantics, nor did they bewail their conventional Christian upbringing. They believed that each individual, however flawed his personal life might be, was capable of placing the common good ahead of his own self interest. That, I think, is the part of their legacy that is worth living up to – not just for their descendents, but for all of us.

I don't like your motives ...well, not the ones I've decided you have!

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Wed, 30 May 2012 16:52:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

Wednesday, May 9th was a day much like any other. I woke at 5:45 in the morning, sat in a semi-catatonic state sipping coffee and trying to get my bearings. As usual, I insisted that my feeble mind square itself with the day, an often futile exercise. I ate breakfast and left for work, where I answered calls, fixed computer problems and then returned home exhausted. That evening, I sat reading the NY Times email digest, when my attention was drawn to a rather spectacular headline. Thinking it a mistake, I clicked the link and read the following quote from Barack Obama, "I have to tell you that over the course of several years as I have talked to friends and family and neighbors when I think about members of my own staff who are in incredibly committed monogamous relationships, same-sex relationships, who are raising kids together, when I think about those soldiers or airmen or Marines or sailors who are out there fighting on my behalf and yet feel constrained, even now that Don't Ask Don't Tell is gone, because they are not able to commit themselves in a marriage, at a certain point I’ve just concluded that for me personally it is important for me to go ahead and affirm that I think same sex couples should be able to get married."

With a smile, I turned to my wife and said, "Wow! Did you know Obama endorsed same-sex marriage today?" "Yes," she replied, without looking up from her blogging activities. But I sat there stunned and glad for the change. The next few days saw rampant speculation about the President's timing, about his motives and about the political implications of his actions. But nothing anyone said had the ring of truth. The commentary was pure speculation, peppered with guesswork all wrapped in responsible language trying to masquerade as fact.

Obama had offered a simple explanation for his decision. I suppose his words lacked sensationalism, so our media had to generate engaging reasons for his decision. None were insightful, mostly they were a gage of our society's tendency to ascribe motive as a means of gaining political advantage.

This sermon is about exactly those kinds of motives. The kinds that people attribute to others without knowing what we are talking about. The kinds of motives that we create in order to know which category someone belongs in. In order to determine how carefully we should listen, if at all.

As with most of my sermons, today's talk was inspired by a conversation I had with my wife. Several months ago, she told me that I often attribute motives to her, which aren't her actual motives. I was flabbergasted.

"What?!" I stuttered, "I attribute wrong ...motives?!"

I like to think of myself as being unusually insightful and I'm not particularly fond of having someone point out my mistakes. I prefer, instead, to identify my own shortcomings and then highlight them for others. That way, I can bask in the warm glow of my own self-enlightenment. But she was right, again. I did not know what her motives were and I usually didn't ask. This insight, though annoying, caused me to consider how often people attribute motives to others without actually knowing.

Immediately, I thought of national dialogues concerning same-sex marriage, the war in Afghanistan, pro-life/pro-choice, deficit spending, pro-union/pro-business, race relations, feminism, education and parenting.

Indeed, our media, our politics, our religious conversations and even our personal lives are inundated with alleged motives that may, in all reality, have little or nothing in common with the true reasons that actions were taken or things were said.

Let's consider marriage equality, is it a civil rights issue? Supporters say yes, they insist that any two people, who are old enough, should be allowed to marry. To them, prejudice is prejudice and free choice is free choice. Marriage equality is nothing more than observing someone's right of free choice, in an arena where it is currently being denied.

Simple and straightforward. This represents my sincere point of view. However, my philosophical opponents don't see it this way. In fact, many believe marriage equality supporters are servants of evil. They believe we are pushing a "gay agenda,” which will undermine the sanctity of a bedrock institution and which could tear our society apart. To them, supporters of marriage equality are minions of Satan, bent on destroying this great Christian nation.

Truth be told, THEY HAVE MY MOTIVES ALL WRONG!

But what about assigning motives in the other direction? What if we consider another topic like pro-life vs. pro-choice? I am pro-choice and my reasons for this position are similar to my reasons for supporting marriage equality. I believe in free choice and I feel a woman has the right to choose if, how and when her body is used, including for child birth.

On the opposite side of this controversy, we’ll consider my late Grandfather, who was a staunch Catholic. His pro-life conviction was steadfast. He was clear that aborting a pregnancy is tantamount to murder. He saw an unborn fetus as being no different than any person you might meet in this world. It was a simple matter to him, conception creates people, abortion kills people, killing people is murder and murder is wrong.

Simple and straightforward, I drew different conclusions from him, but I can respect his clarity. My Grandfather’s position on abortion did not make him misogynistic. I reject the notion that pro-life activists are primarily motivated by a desire to control women's lives and bodies. This may be true of some, but I’m convinced that most pro-lifers feel passionately that they are fighting to stop murder. I think they are bewildered when accused of being dishonest or nefarious. Honestly, THE LEFT HAS THEIR MOTIVES ALL WRONG!

These two examples demonstrate a broader problem. A problem, which prevents intelligent conversation, which discourages collaboration, and which undermines the creative power of controversy. I believe the most innovative ideas are spawn from controversy. That when opposing opinions clash, and intelligent dialogue ensues, we create fertile ground for the germination of new ideas.

But in our society, the required dialogue is missing. We hurl insults and categorize people as Nazis so as to insulate ourselves from having to consider their points of view. The soil that should nurture tomorrow’s solutions is growing fallow and most of today’s ideas are little more than a polished regurgitation of yesterday’s discarded plan. This is a concerning state of affairs. With global climate change, a dubious economy, rampant starvation, a growing population and shrinking resources, we face unprecedented challenges.

So what is the solution? That’s the hard part. Humans prefer simple answers, but today’s challenges are complex. They defy black and white categorization, they require thoughtful discourse, a nuanced approach, and wholistic thinking. We need to constantly look for where we are falling short of our own values. UU values include a free and responsible search for truth, promotion of the inherent worth and dignity of all people, and respect for the interdependent web of existence. Those are values, which could make a profound difference in today’s world. They are values that humanity desperately needs, and we could be their greatest champions, if we are willing.

But we’ll have to give something up. We’ll have to pay a price and that price will be our certitude. Ours is a religion, which ought to make room for everyone and yet there are very few African American UUs or Hispanic UUs or Native American UUs or Republican UUs. If we want our message to be vital, we need to reach these people and if we’re going to do so, we must stop thinking that we know what their motives are.

When we assume we know someone's motives, we excuse behavior, which is normally unacceptable. I used to rant that G.W. was a fascist and a Nazi. I was wrong! My wife’s paternal family is Jewish. One of her cousin’s parents lost everyone they knew to the horror of Nazi concentration camps. She has no grandparents, or aunts or uncles. Her parents have no life long friends. They were all murdered in Nazi Germany.

So using the term Nazi to describe anyone who isn’t engaged in the mass murder of millions of people is wrong! It is particularly disgusting when used to score cheap political points. The memory of those men, women and children who were lost during that genocide is worthy of a much greater reverence and respect than to be used for short term political gain or to discredit someone we simply don't want to listen to, because we dislike what they say.

If we’re going to change this world and leave it a better place, if we’re going to really promote our UU values at large. We’ll have to rise above such contemptuous foolery. We’ll have to elevate current dialogues to a level where change can happen, where innovation can flourish, where UU values can sow dreams, which might sprout and become tomorrow’s thriving harvest. If we’re going to create that world about which we talk to eloquently, we will have to abandon inflammatory language and try to gain an honest understanding of why people disagree with us. Otherwise we can’t possibly hope to reach them and we are sure to miss the valid points they make. We're sure to fail at creating the needed ideas for tomorrow. We're sure to short circuit the creative engine of intelligent disagreement, which will yield tomorrow's great ideas.

I believe the values this world needs can be found in our UU Principles and sources of faith. I believe we are the ideal people to promote those values in this world. I think the essence of our shared promise, our covenant to affirm and promote our seven principles is a call to action. I believe it is nothing less than a call for us to stand tall and challenge each other to climb higher, to champion our values with an even louder voice. I think we have a powerful legacy to uphold, that we are the culmination of generations who have struggled to realize these values in this world. We are needed, our message is needed and our values are needed. We've promised each other that we would promote those values and I believe this is the time for us to walk out into this world and shout our good news at the top of our lungs. To sow our dreams into the fertile ground of tomorrow for this world's future. To create the vision we have dreamed and manifest our beautiful vision for the next generation.

Follow this link!

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Wed, 09 May 2012 05:18:00 +0000

Hi, My beautiful and talented wife has started an incredibly interesting conversation on her blog:
Ask Team Ambiguity: Are Women Enslaved by Modern Motherhood?

Please take a few moments to check it out and participate in the conversation. The one thing to bear in mind is that this conversation has rules...mainly, be respectful! The rest can be found here

From Sandia Peak, a Plan is Born

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Mon, 07 May 2012 02:13:00 +0000

Story, Continued from Part 2 In Search of a Plan
- or -
Click Here for Part 1 Something Had to Change

--by Mike Adams

On Sandia Peak, I stood entranced by the natural beauty surrounding me. Slowly, I let myself fade into the experience. The grandeur of this desert inundated my senses, it stripped me of significance. The pettiness of my life’s concerns seemed to carry no greater import than that of an ant, living by instinct, working only to serve a collective. My thoughts slowed and the situation transformed me into a mass of awareness. I experienced my breath, slow and steady. I felt the wind flit upon my face and I watched in amazement as the colors danced in the distance as landscape transformed into mirage.

The tension swirling around in my abdomen, a manifestation of anxiety continued to surge through my core, but it no longer harassed me. I drank heavily of the deep blue sky and absorbed every detail of the cumulus cloud formations dispersed across the horizon.

I felt a tear roll down my cheek and slowly, I began to cry. But my tears brought no relief. I clinched the hand railing of the viewing platform and cried a little harder as my thoughts became jumbled with questions like, “why can’t I keep a job?” “Why didn’t I finish school?” “Why am I such a loser?” “What can I hope to accomplish in life?”

I found my thoughts focused on an incident from two and a half years earlier. I had been sitting with a group of friends at La Posada, the University cafeteria. We had been out playing hackey sack in the sun and realized that cafeteria would soon close. We hurried to get lunch and upon arriving at the cafeteria, I realized that I was in possession of two beers. Quickly, I tucked them into my baggy pants pockets and went in.

After eating my food, I stealthily opened a beer and began to drink it slyly. A friend looked at me with a mischievous smile and said, “Mike...dude, you’re an alcoholic.” He laughed, held up a flier to my face and continued, “you gotta go to AA Bro.” Then he quickly scanned the area for University staff, and took a quick swig of his own hidden beer. Johnny had been joking, but what he said ruined my enjoyment of lunch. His words harassed me for the remainder of that day and continued to assault my consciousness at the most inopportune times. I knew he was right. He had been joking, but his statement was true—I was an alcoholic.

The last thing in the world I wanted to be was an alcoholic, because I knew it meant I would someday have to give up drinking. Drinking had been my only comfort during many dark times. It had proven to be a dependable and convenient companion. I sometimes wondered if perhaps beer had saved my life. Quitting was out of the question, and therefore, being an alcoholic was completely unacceptable.

Disdainfully, I thought, “Why do I always land on this thought?” I shook my head and brushed the thought aside. “How could I be an alcoholic after only three years of drinking? That is just stupid!” I felt the tears slide down my cheek and the wind blow my hair about. “How can I go on like this. I don’t know how to live life, I don’t know how to make friends and I don’t know how to be happy.” I stared at the trees and rocks below and imagined what it would feel like to jump from the viewing platform. I imagined how it would feel to spread my arms and take to the sky as my last defiant act in life.

But I was afraid to die, terrified in fact—I couldn’t do that, not now. I stood there for hours, looking out, over the Albuquerque basin. I walked along the ridge, examined the foliage and waited for an inspired thought. Sunset came, and I watched the volcanoes on the West side of town swallow the sun. Then, the stars began peeking out from behind the darkening veil of night, and still I sat there, aware of the singular fact that something had to change.

“I’m going to stay here until I know how to proceed. There has to be a way to improve my life,” I thought. So there I sat, my mind contorting to various thoughts, my senses absorbing the nature around me, all of this observed only by the night stars. Finally, I stood and said aloud with conviction, “I have to leave. I have got to get out of Albuquerque, I have to make a fresh start.” I knew that I couldn’t return after a few weeks, this time, I had to stay gone, so I decided that it was time to hit the road. With this, Willie Nelson began singing to me about being “On the Road Again,” and I knew I’d have to make it work, I’d have to figure out how to live, I’d have to find success.

Continued Here...

Popularity of Bullying Remains High

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Wed, 02 May 2012 05:44:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

After my last post on bullying, I decided to check the thesaurus for synonyms. The thesaurus always seems to make words more interesting and this occasion was no exception.

The verb “bully” is synonymous with “intimidate”, “bludgeon”, “bulldoze”, “coerce”, “harass”, “oppress”, “terrorize”, “threaten”, “torment” and “torture”.

I don't know about you, but for me that list doesn’t summon the image of a schoolyard ruffian wearing a scowl. Rather, I envision robed KKK militias closing in on besieged African -American families who dared to stand and demand their rights. I think of the terrorist bombing in Oklahoma City or the acts of Ted Kaczynski. I am reminded of the current "war on women", and Bush's statement that "either you are with us or you are against us".

That list of synonyms has forced me to conceive of bullying as more than simply a traumatic experience, limited mostly to our fragile childhood and early teen years. Rather, bullying has taken on a much broader meaning. It reaches brazenly into every aspect of life, stealthily injecting malice, causing rot and decay, spreading animosity, hurt and distrust. It invades what was once vital and beautiful, causing blossom to wither and fruit to spoil.

In fact, it seems that perhaps we are just a little bit "in love" with bullying! Crazy talk you say? Doesn’t everyone hate bullying?

I don’t think so, popular TV shows like “The Apprentice” or “Survivor” actually encourage backstabbing, deceit, cruelty—bullying! Our entertainment industry thrives by actively rewarding bullies and selfishness.

It is so pervasive that I suspect bullying is woven into our very fiber as social creatures. Perhaps it’s as natural as breathing or eating. In truth, research suggests an evolutionary advantage to bullying behavior. According to Hogan Sherrow's blog article for Scientific American, “The Origins of Bullying,” animals in nature, use bullying behavior to promote group conformity and maintain a cohesive community.

But with humans with our mastery of abstract ideas, our complex use of language, our ability to remember and convey ideas long after an event has taken place. With all of that, bullying has a profound capacity for harm. It is a devastating weapon, which can permanently damage its victim.

So while we publicly disparage bullying, we are perhaps duplicitous. Our society tends to justify bullying, except we call in something else. One group might claim to be defending “traditional values” while to another it is “encouraging the entrepreneurial spirit.” In fact, if we get honest, bullying is encouraged in business, politics, religion and even the management of our children and youth.

We excuse it, saying “Boys will be boys” or “Let the kids sort out their own difficulties.” We actually encourage and reward bullying in some form in virtually every important venue of life. Then we pause, exasperated and ask why it continues to accost our children.

Here is why:

We are teaching our kids how to be bullies.

We are teaching them that it is appropriate to bully people when they hold an obviously “wrong” opinion.

We are teaching them that it is OK to bully people online, especially in political or religious discussions.

We are setting the examples that our kids follow and thus encouraging bullying in “appropriate venues,” where we call it, “lively debate” or “an impassioned view.”

We are teaching the next generation that poverty, starvation, and cruelty are impossible blights, and that anyone who tries to change this is a “doe eyed idealist.”

We are teaching our children that bullying works,that aggressive behavior is profitable and that selfish profit is respectable.

We are teaching the next generation that anyone who is different or who disagrees is fair game for ill treatment and contempt, that it is OK to try and humiliate someone if they favor a political figure we dislike or their sexual orientation is “wrong” or they want to have an abortion.

In short, we are actively teaching our children to be bullies.

So my question is whether this is truly what we want?

Are these the values we want to manifest in this world?

Do we want to perpetuate the ‘dog eat dog’ world of today, or do we want a world where people are expected to show empathy, where we truly believe and act like all people are created equal and endowed by our creator with certain unalienable rights?”

How do we want our children to grow up?

What kinds of people do we want them to be?

How to we want them to remember us?

How far are we willing to go in service of manifesting our vision?

How critical will we be of ourselves to get there and can we handle what we find?

Can we forgive someone who is “undeserving” in order to build the world we want?

Can our kids count on us to live the values we claim to believe in?

Can we count on ourselves to do what we know we should?

I don't have any answers or suggestions for action. I have only questions and a desire to generate thoughtful discussion and honest feedback. Thanks for reading.

Facebook, my Door to WTF

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 05:29:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

Alright now, this post might upset someone, but sometimes, you gotta scramble a few egg heads if you're gonna promote reasonable-thought.

I just read an entertaining and ...hmmm, scathing blog post by Erin Gloria Ryan on Jezebel called, "Banning Confederate Flag Dress-Wearing Teen From Prom Was Totally Unfair, Y'all". I have never read Jezebel before today, but I'll be back.

I found this article, because a Facebook friend posted a link to another great Jezabel post, "A Complete Guide to 'Hipster Racism'" by Lindy West.

After reading West's post, I followed a link at the bottom to Ryan's and if Erin Ryan and Lindy West are indicative of the kind of writing that is normal on Jezebel, I'll be checking in more often. I am left to wonder where has my Jezebel been for all these years?

Anyway, back to the topic of race and Confederate flags. I am half Native American, a term that growing numbers of Caucasians dislike, because from their perspective, we aren't native, we walked here and settled the land...you know across the ice bridge 20,000 years ago. So anyway, the argument goes that the term Native American isn't accurate and should be changed.

Well I suppose I have to concede the point that Native American lacks total accuracy, but hey this is America...Is Football an accurate term? What about white people...are they really white? Seriously, and in all honesty, are we actually preoccupied with concise communication as a country?

Anyway, I don't want to get too far off topic with that tangent. I don't actually write or talk about race very often, in fact it isn't a big topic in my life at all. I am half NATIVE AMERICAN, but I grew up in Los Alamos, New Mexico. Which is the home of the Atomic Bomb (I'm not making this up). My parents bought me a $2000 LASER when I was in High School and let me setup a holographic lab setup in my garage. (Seriously, I'm not making this up). What I'm getting at is that I kind of grew up as a white kid...a nerdy white kid, with brown skin.

So while someone in my life has probably been prejudiced against me based on race, it never occurred to me that I might have been discriminated against, rather I've had the experience, on many occasions, of dealing with complete idiots. The bottom line is that I go through life asserting white male privilege and I get away with it.

I promise, this does eventually tie in with wearing a prom dress made out of a confederate flag...just bear with me, I'll get there.

But first, I feel it is important to remind everyone that the confederate flag was the rallying point, the symbolic inspiration for an army of US citizens who rose up and waged open war against the United States of America. It is true that confederate troops received full pardons after the war, but that does not take away from the fact that they were pardoned ...for TREASON.

Beyond even that, however, it is important to remember that the Confederacy was not only a group of people engaged in open treason. The Confederacy and the confederate flag represent the legalized tyranny of slavery. The systematic oppression of a whole group of people, based on their skin color.

The Confederacy and it's flag represent hooded terrorists arriving in the dead of night to lynch a man for daring to demand his rights.

The confederate flag represents one of the worst forms of slavery that human kind has ever seen. A form of slavery that institutionalized racism and legally defined a human being as less than human.

So yes, like the Nazi Swastika, the Confederate flag is offensive. So for those who want to, you can wear it on your clothing or put it on your car. In the United States of America, you have that right and I support your right. However, your freedom to display or wear symbols of tyranny do not protect you from being pointed out and ridiculed as an idiot and an ass-hole. So if you are going to assert your right to freedom of speech, you might want to check and see if what you have to say is worthy of speaking, because if you're just being a moron, my freedom of speech allows me to laugh at you and call you a moron, which I will do as best I can.

In Search of a plan...

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 03:36:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

Continued from Something Had to Change - click here to read the first part of this story

My sleep that night, was restless. I awoke late the next morning, but felt neither refreshed, nor recovered from the previous night's binge. I stumbled to the bathroom and for perhaps the first time in working memory, I looked, not at my reflection, but at my true self. I didn’t like it either. What I saw, was a barely recognizable young man bloodshot and drooping, he wore a dour expression, which communicated defeat. I’ve heard that eyes are the window to the soul and if this is true, his eyes revealed a beaten old man whose exuberance for life, if ever he had any, had long since dissipated. He stood there, staring at me, terrorizing me. He was a withered and decomposing leaf, tormenting and taunting me to care, daring me to try and change. My head jerked away, I had to avoid prolonged exposure to the emptiness that had invaded me.

I turned quickly grabbed hold of the shower lever and twisted, setting free a stream of water, which would soon fill the room with steam and provide me with reprieve from the haunting visage in the mirror.

For as long as I can remember, showers have had an almost magical restorative quality. They provide relief to sore muscles, vitality to the sleepy, they can wash away the momentary horror of an uninvited personal confrontation. On this morning, the mixture of hot water, steam and soap did not fail me. I stepped from the shower with a restored sense of acceptance and when I looked in the mirror, the reflection was that of a young man trying to get clean for the day...the dreadful spectre of futility had left and I hoped he would stay gone.

The day proceeded as any other. I rummaged the house for sustenance and failing to find breakfast, I walked to the bagel shop. There I drank coffee and ate bread. I sat for hours and watched the patrons come and go. I examined each visitor and considered what tasks their busy lives had in store for them. I envied their sense of purpose and their apparent fulfillment in life.

Two years earlier, I had designed my life to include this free time. I had never intended to sit isolated and depressed each day, rather I had felt it important that I find time to contemplate matters of import. I fancied myself a philosopher, a revolutionary thinker and, at the time, I had needed to free myself from the constraints of “normal living” so I could focus on “my work”. As it turns out, I was to spend hours in solitude, even when surrounded by friends. “My work” somehow included alienating those who were closest to me and envying virtually everyone I saw.

It didn’t start this way. For a few months, I happily thought about topics of justice and human rights. I considered the minutea of racial inequality and contemplated how poverty entombed our class divide. My intent had been to write a credo, to create a message that could change the world. Within months, my musings increasingly shifted toward the mass of unfulfilled aspirations that a younger version of myself had dreamed. I doubted my ability to complete anything and my focus turned increasingly inward.

So though I had been a vibrant and inspired nineteen year old, two years later, I had thoroughly fermented. My thoughts had shifted from concerns about my fellow humans, to considerations of how I might keep my head above water and booze in my stomach.

The intervening two years, had seen me switch jobs three times, hitchhike to Colorado, try to start a new life there and then quickly return to my old life, my old habits and my old job. The only time I felt at ease, was when I rode my motorcycle through the mountains at dawn or on a moonlit night alongside the Rio Grande.

So there I sat, eating a bagel, when suddenly, I recalled the wrenching anxiety that had gripped me the night before. I remembered with mild horror, the revelation that I was deeply flawed and that something had to change. My words came back to me now, “tomorrow I’ll have to think about what to do next...I’m too sleepy and way too drunk right now!”

So I refilled my coffee cup and tried to recount what had happened. I needed to arrive at an informed decision about how to proceed. I thought for several minutes and then decided I ought to ride East to the summit of Sandia Peak, where my mind might be cleared. I finished my coffee, walked out into the late morning sun, mounted my bike and headed East.

As I rode out of Albuquerque, my mind kept focusing on the phrase, “there is something seriously wrong with me and it has to change if I’m going to survive”. This made me panic and I tried to vanquish the idea with all my will, but it kept crashing through my barriers and invading my conscious thought, insistent and intense, much like an early morning visit from the police.

Periodically, I would become overwhelmed with the high desert beauty, but my reverence was always interrupted with the same invasive question. I rode to the top of Sandia Peak and looked out over Albuquerque. I imagined Buggs Bunny taking a left and began to wonder where I should have gone left.

The summit at Sandia is stunning. You can see the whole of Albuquerque from there and you find yourself enveloped with a surprising number of colors, contrasts and hues. One might think of the desert as monotone, but here in the Southwest, it's as if an artist had skipped and danced about the rocks creating scenery that would stir long forgotten emotions, draw them from deep within our unconscious psyche and move us to tears...that’s just the way it is!

...A person can get lost in rapt adoration of the natural beauty and on the peak, the wind blows making you feel it’s possible to spread your arms and fly. To soar with a falcon above the frail existence of humans below—secure in the knowledge that we are insignificant. It is a humbling experience. It strips away pretense and self importance, so Sandia is where I went to think about life’s important decisions.

I stood there and gazed out over the city. I saw the volcanoes to the west. They protruded from the earth just past the city basin, where my home sat empty. I looked beyond...into the desert and ravenously devoured the experience. I stood there, transfixed, waiting for a clap of inspiration.

Continued: Sandia Peak, a Plan is Born

Something Had to Change...

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 05:45:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

Twenty years ago, I owned a 1971 BMW R75 motorcycle. She was my most prized possession—I spent hours learning to adjust the valves, tune the ignition and replace the clutch.

On a regular basis, I polished chrome, cleaned lines and creases, and generally took great care with an eye towards detail as I maintained my ride. I loved that motorcycle so much, that I even named her Mindy. I had spent a great deal of time considering various names, when ultimately, I imagined Mindy would be the name of an exceptionally beautiful woman, so with that, I named my motorcycle and proceeded to worry about other matters of equal importance.

I worried about how to live life, you see, life was a constant struggle in those days. I was unhappy with my personal life and I felt that my work as a front desk clerk for a local hotel was horribly under appreciated. I had dreams of wild financial success coupled with incredible acts of philanthropic generosity, however, I thoroughly lacked the wherewithal to complete college. In fact, I enjoyed distilled spirits entirely too much, while I despised work too zealously to have any chance of fulfilling on my grandiose dreams. I drank every day, skipped sleep regularly and couldn’t force myself to attend class when enrolled in college.

Though I was a talented and intelligent employee, I brought with me the same lack of dependability that had ruined my college career. I was filled with a poor work ethic, and a boundless reservoir of self doubt. All of this was covered with a flimsy facade of self assured arrogance, which often worked against my interests and prevented me from meaningful self reflection. I couldn't tolerate solitude, but lacked the necessary social graces required to be around other people. All of my money was spent at a local bar named Chez What, where I sat alone each day.

Chez What was a quiet bar, with a good selection of beer. I liked the surroundings and particularly, I fancied the waitress, Sarah. I often thought, “tonight I’ll ask Sarah out”, but always, I ended the night by leaving the bar, too drunk to walk straight, having dodged the embarrassment of asking Sarah out in the midst of a drunken stupor. I would stagger to my motorcycle, climb on and ride home. In retrospect, fate must have smiled broadly on me for countless occasions as I rode home without incident or accident.

One night, after I finished work, I walked out and looked up into the open and broad New Mexico sky. New Mexico's night sky is an awe inspiring scene—a cornucopia of overflowing stars, each heavenly body adding to the inebriating magic, which is on no small part responsible for the state's phrase, "Land of Enchantment". The breathtaking scene, a humbling experience of beauty, can capture a person's imagination, leaving them forever changed.

On this night, I looked up, paused for several moments, sighed heavily—expressing a mixture of profound reverence and futile solitude, I shook my head, mounted my motorcycle, and rode off, ready to patronize my regular watering hole.

Arriving at Chez What, I sat at my usual table, and drank till my thoughts ceased or at least slowed enough that my mind could pretend to be at rest. This was a daily routine and though I sometimes would alter my drink orders, I usually started with six or seven gin and tonics, then maybe a few jello shots, and ultimately I’d finish with numerous beers. This pattern had become a well established rut and though I didn't often contemplate the futility of my life, I knew that the numbing effects of alcohol saved me from this grating existence. I was under the dominion of a despotic ruler ceaslessly destroying my future and shredding my hope.

So night after night, I sat there drinking and watching as happy couples or boyant groups of college friends cycled through the bar. I wondered about their lives, what were they like during the day? Could they possibly be as happy as they seemed? Always, I watched Sarah serve them and wonderd if perhaps tonight I'd work up the courage to ask her out.

Then, she’d bring me a refill, I’d smile and pass her some money and keep drinking until last call, when I’d order several more. I'd finish my drinks while the staff cleaned up and finally, the bartender would flash me a smile and say, “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here...it's closing time.”

On this particular night, I stood up from my usual seat, said goodnight to everyone and walked out to my motorcycle. I don't know what came over me, perhaps it was my communion with the night sky from earlier, perhaps it was a revelation that more was available to me. Whatever it was, I had a very distinct thought that night, which told me that something was very wrong with me...that my life was unacceptable and that something drastic had to change. I was immediately overcome with a sense of conviction and profound anxiety. I didn't have the slightest idea what to do, but I knew that something big had to change and it had to change fast or or I might lose my mind.

So I went home, curled up in my bed and went to sleep, thinking that I'd have plenty of time to figure out what needed to happen the next day.

Click here to Continue ...In Search of a Plan

Parenting - Remember the Tiger Mom?

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 06:43:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

Last January, Amy Chua published an article in the Wall Street Journal, which the editors titled, “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior”. Chua’s article examines her views on what she sees as the big difference in how “Western” and “Chinese” parents view their children. She explains that Chinese parents think of their children as strong and resilient. Capable of excellence and capable of hearing blunt feedback in service of fulfilling on their potential.

By contrast, Chua suggests that “Western” parents are overly concerned with their children’s self esteem, thinking their children fragile and unable to endure criticism. Chua, says that “Western” parents could go a lot further in trusting their kid’s resilience in pushing their kids to succeed and flourish. Essentially, she says that in the West, we fail to point out when our kids are being lazy or selfish.

Chua first received national attention on this topic with the publication of her book, “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother”. I haven’t yet read Chua’s book, but a quick perusal of her site reveals complicated and nuanced person, Chua explains that she wrote this book as a way to try and save her relationship with her youngest daughter who was in full rebellion. She wrote the book as a form of family therapy, a way to work things out and figure out how she lost her way. Chua says, “Jokes aside about A+s and gold medals (much of my book is self-parody), in the end for me it’s not about grades or Ivy League schools. It’s about believing in your child more than anyone else – more than they believe in themselves – and helping them realize their potential, whatever it may be.”

Well, that quote about sums up who I want to be as a parent. I don’t do the Chua regimen, I do the dragon Daddy regimen and whether that puts my kids on the wrong end of a seething mythical dragon from the Hobbit or in the good graces of a gentle Eastern dragon is kind of up to them...and how things went at work today, and sun spots, and how much sleep I got...did we run out of coffee, etc...etc...

Point is, I love my kids and I’m imperfect...really, majorly imperfect! Just check out my post on “Parable of the Demonic Feline” to see exactly how imperfect I am...it might make you laugh and hopefully make you think.

Anyway, Amy Chua has sort of slipped off the radar, but I’ve been thinking about some of what she said and letting it germinate in my psyche for more than a year now. I have to confess, I love Amy Chua...now don’t misunderstand, this is no romantic, sending notes and flowers sort of love, rather, I love the controversy she started, I love the vitriol her book and her article in the Wall Street Journal have inspired. I love that people are thinking and discussing. It is true, the bloodsport of controversy can be entertaining, but what I love here is the fact that for the first time in my working memory our society’s conversation about parenting is in flux. Questions have been raised and they aren’t going away.

I love that things are being said, which were strictly taboo only a few years ago, I love that people are being pushed out of their comfort zone and that opinions, which have have gone unquestioned for years are finally receiving scrutiny. In short, I love the creative synthesis that can occur inside of this sort of controversy. I love that we collectively have the opportunity to emerge fortified, armed with new ideas and ready to continue blazing that path of parenthood, which is more art than science.

If there is one thing that drives me crazy, it is someone acting like they’ve got this whole parenting thing figured out. They know all about ADHD and school and homework, etc.... Because, guess what people, no one has it all figured out. Remember in the 80s when they kept telling us that we’re each a unique snowflake...well this is where that cheesy conversation is really useful. My kids don’t react the same to various kinds of encouragement or discipline as someone else’s. In fact, they each react differently than each other. Basically, what worked with my fourteen year old when he was six...That does not work my current six year old.

I remember one day, my wife and I overheard someone say that they didn’t really approve of our parenting. Tara was a bit concerned about this and later she asked me what I thought they might be complaining about. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “either they think we are too strict or they think that we are too lenient...who knows?”

Basically someone is always going to think there is something wrong with my parenting, but why do I care what they think...I have to live with my kids, not them, so I’ll determine how best to navigate my relationship. I’ll make mistakes, I’ll lose my temper sometimes, but in the end, my kids all know that I love them, that I would do anything for them, that I am proud of them and think they are the best things since Amy Chua. This whole being human thing is messy and awkward, and if that aint bad enough, being a human parent is even worse, but I love it. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Because I’m a parent, I have a unique opportunity to try and learn how to be a better person. More importantly, I get to watch these beautiful, fascinating and brilliant people grow into adulthood and unleash themselves on this world...what a miracle!

One final note, the Tiger Mom's daughter, who was admitted to Harvard wrote this rebuttal to the vociferous criticism her Mom received, who apparently received some death threats (my how we love to go way over the top in society). Please read:
http://www.nypost.com/p/entertainment/why_love_my_strict_chinese_mom_uUvfmLcA5eteY0u2KXt7hM/1

One of the Most Difficult Days in My Life

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 22:58:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

It was spring 1979 and I, a confused, seven year old little boy, could not fully comprehend my circumstances. I had just entered a polished and elegantly furnished room. The finished oak, and exquisite wall patterns were complemented by flowing curtains filling the space with a sense of dignified solemnity. My Mom, Grandparents and extended family entered the room first, followed by both my sister and I. In contrast to the decorous surroundings we were a bit skittish. I had abandoned “good behavior” and bounced chaotically about the room, periodically attempting to swing on a curtain or clamber over furniture.

Several relatives tried to gently distract or restrain me. However, no one showed anger or frustration, the situation simply wouldn’t tolerate that. My sister and I would soon confront a difficult and life changing experience. Thus our efforts at distraction were accepted with kindness.

My mom and Uncle spoke at length with the man in charge, after which, we moved towards the front of the room. There, the family paused as my sister and I stepped forward and gingerly peered over the edge of a grey box, where we confronted the remains of our father, Kirby L. Adams.

He appeared to be sleeping, so I reached out to nudge his face, hoping he would wake up, smile and hug me. When my fingers touched his cheek, I was jarred by his cold skin. It seemed to send an electric shock racing through my arm, to my stomach, where it inspired a convulsion before continuing to the focal point of my emotional life. There is crashed through any obstruction, releasing a flood of grief and anger, for which I was completely unprepared.

My legs crumpled and I fell towards the ground. My uncle raced over to lift me, at which point, I pushed free with all my might and darted into an adjoining room. There, I collapsed into a chair, I was overwhelmed with grief, sobbing with every fiber of my being. I cried because my Daddy was really gone, I cried because for the first time in my short life, something truly terrible had happened and I could do nothing to change it. I cried because, despite uncountable dutiful prayers, God had turned his back on me. I cried because there was nothing else to do. I was filled with a limitless reservoir of pain, which would never empty. I thought I might cry so hard that I too would die and be laid to rest with my dad, but this didn’t happen.

I have no memories from the rest of that day. The only thing I’m sure of is that I couldn’t believe he was gone. I couldn’t accept that neither my sister nor I would ever cuddle up on his lap while he tickled us or imitated Donald Duck. My Daddy was gone, he could no longer make me feel safe, loved or important, He was really gone.

For months, I suffered intense grief, periodically bursting into tears, while at play with my friends or watching TV. Slowly, I adjusted to life without Dad and months passed, turning into years as grief was replaced by fond memories.

It has been more than thirty years since those events took place and today they occasionally seem as fresh as this morning’s coffee, while on other occasions, they are more like a movie or book about some sympathetic character, whom you want to reach out and comfort.

I recently noticed that when I think about my father’s death, I usually think of myself as I am now. Meaning, I remember those events through the filter of a grown man, with all the wisdom, knowledge and capacities that I have today.

I can’t truly remember the small child or how he felt. That young innocent and trusting soul is a stranger to me. He has become, dare I say romanticized, though a romanticized part of who I am today.

Several years back, while visiting my Dad’s grave, I watched my then seven year old step-son speed around the premesis. He pranced about, lackadaisically hanging from trees, and intermittently chasing his little brother. I stood at my father’s grave, simply remembering. When suddenly, I realized how young I had been. I saw that little seven year old boy gallivant about the cemetery reflecting the sun's jubilance, oblivious to the significance he played in my life on that day.

For the first time in many years, I began to cry over my deceased father. Not due so much, to personal grief, but rather out of compassion for that young child, whose world had been torn asunder some twenty eight years earlier. I cried for his loss...as I watched my step-son play.

And I realized that though he was a part of who I am as a grown man, I am in no way a part of who he was. That little boy is unknown to me and I will likely never really know him. He is gone, grown into an adult, a father and husband, transformed by life into who I am now.

Bullying...We Still Tolerate It, WTF?!??

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 05:38:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

As we begin this exploration, I must warn you that this is a topic about which I am somewhat bitter! This topic makes me feel, sad, disgusted, worried and just plain angry PISSED OFF! Bullying is like that for me.

A short while ago, while scanning my email inbox, I noticed an unusual subject line for a Gracie Insider email. Usually Gracie messages offer examination of various jiu jitsu tactics used in a UFC competition or information about upcoming classes.

On this particular morning, however, the lead story read, “Another life lost to bullying.” This caught my attention, particularly because in Middle School, I was a victim of bullying. In fact, I had recently published a blog post about confrontation, which explored my experience with being bullied in Middle School and more importantly how, years later, Tae Kwon Do changed my life.

I followed the link and began reading a news article about fourteen year old Eden Wormer, of Ashland Oregon, who had recently killed herself. My emotional stress spiked, as I read how Eden had tried in vain to gain acceptance from her Middle School peers until finally, she decided the torment was too great. One night, she hugged her father and said “I love you, good night,” then she went in her room and hanged herself while her family slept.

Anger, bitter sadness, resentment, disbelief...I was overcome with a deluge of powerful emotions, which I had to keep in check, owing to the fact that I was at work. I wanted some light at the end of this tunnel to offer guidance and hope. I wanted a shimmer of meaning to erupt blessing humanity with beauty. But ultimately, there is no positive spin for Eden’s tragedy. She was too young, her life was too precious and this should never have happened. Her father will never see Eden graduate from High School or college, her older sister will never spend hours talking with her about a crush or a teen romance. Eden's brother will never dance with her at a wedding or visit her as an adult and fondly revisit childhood memories. Those possibilities are forever gone and I find that to be reprehensible.

Bullying in various guises has perpetrated numerous tragedies in recent years. In November of 2009, a seventeen year old boy was shot in the head at close range by a boy he reportedly bullied. In September of 2011 estimates are that 10 kids committed suicide as the result of bullying. In fact, according to bullyingstatistics.org, there is a strong correlation between teen suicide and being bullied. What may surprise you is that there is also a correlation between teen suicide and being a bully.

Enough with the statistics though, each statistic is based on a human being, for every number in any of those figures, there are parents crushed with grief and children lost to our world. In 2012, 14 year old Eden Wormer hanged herself, while her family slept. In 2011, 14 year old Jamey Rodemeyer hanged himself outside while his parents were at work. In 2010, 15 year old Justin Aaberg hanged himself while his family slept. In 2007, 13 year old Sian Yates hanged herself with a belt from her bunk bed. In 2006, 16 year old Desire Nicole Dryer killed herself, despite a loving family and bright future. In 2003, 13 year old Ryan Halligan hanged himself while his family slept. I ask again, what are we doing wrong?

Why haven't we taken any real ground with this issue? Why do we continue to see kids bullied and tormented? What have we missed? I believe the root lies in our collective preference to see bullying as something of an anomaly, a sort of “one off case,” in which only a few “bad apples” participate. However, according to a 2006 article in the Washington Post, 60-90 percent of children report having been bullied and 20 percent admit to having bullied someone else. I recently read a blog article by Hogan Sherrow on the Scientific American web site, which examines the prevalence of bullying around the globe and finds that bullying is a human phenomenon, common to all cultures, though it is more prevalent in cultures that honor aggressive behavior and discourage nonconformity. In fact, Hogan shows that bullying behavior is found not only in all human cultures, primate groups, but also in all groups of mammals. This indicates that bullying is part of our genetic makeup. A hardwired part of being human.

What this says to me is that we need to stop pointing fingers at others and standing back as if were innocent bystanders. As far as I can tell, we all participate in bullying to some degree, sometimes we’re the bully, we say or do things meant to hurt and intimidate others. Perhaps our motives are to facilitate some kind of behavior and on other occasions we simply feel upset, frustrated or angry and we lash out at someone who is unlikely or unable to retaliate. Sometimes we’re the silent bystander, perhaps we're afraid to speak up, perhaps we think the victim is receiving their just deserts, whatever the case, we offer approval with our silence. We communicate to the victim in that situation that what is happening to them is ok and unimportant to us. And on other occasions, we’re the victim, maybe we're too afraid to say STOP, we don't feel we can stand up for ourselves. We duck our heads and wait for the torment to pass, thus communicating to our tormentor that they can do this without concern and reinforcing our own belief that we aren't worthy of respect and dignity.

In the end, we are all collectively responsible for the fact that bullying continues. We are the perpetrators and we are the solution. What irks me is this collective pretense that we want to stop bullying and we just don’t know how. I think we do know. I think we know when we should speak up in someone’s defense, when we should say, "hey cut it out...leave her alone." I think we know when we ought to extend a hand in kindness to someone who has been trodden upon and I think we know when we have failed to do this, because perhaps they seem like a dork or they are homeless, perhaps we've seen them bully others in the recent past. But ultimately, we know that doing the right thing means extending our hand in kindness. It means communicating to a victim that they are a fellow human being, deserving of respect and dignity. I believe we know these things and we know when we have made good choices or when we have been ruled by fear. We all know these things and we choose to feign ignorance, we choose to pretend we are powerless, we choose apathy!

So what is the solution, we are! Every single one of us. We do know what we should do and when we should speak up. We know when someone needs are kindness, so lets do what we know to be the right thing. It may take courage, it may place us in the cross hairs of a bully, but in the end, we’ll sleep better. We’ll know we were right and our values will be not only intact, but fortified for the next time we need to stand up and say “NO MORE!” or the next time we need to sit down and say, “you didn’t deserve that, why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Never forget, we are the solution!

Parable of a Demonic Feline

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 05:28:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

My story begins at two in the morning on a weekday night several years ago, when thankfully, for perhaps the first time in weeks, my toddler slept. He had managed the slowest recovery from chest infection in history. This meant that each night, for more than a week, I had awoken to the sounds of his gentle sobs and wheezy coughs. At intervals of several hours apart, I had risen from bed to comfort and care for him until he dozed in my arms. This repeated night after unrelenting night and each morning, my alarm bellowed, pitiless, and demanding, insisting that I rise and leave for work.

...On this night, however, my little one slept.

Meaning, I too could rest. So there I lay dormant in my bed, sleeping like a battle-weary veteran, when suddenly, I was awoken by the tortured wail of an injured feline.

I stumbled forth from the warm embrace of my bed with the same automaticity that drove me while I tended to my sick child. Down the stairs, into the dark living room, off to rescue the, Super Mike was on the scene. Our cat had managed to drag himself to the back door, and as I approached, he let loose a blood curdling screech, which filled me with concern.

I searched for a switch and ‘click’...the light revealed a cat with no outward sign of injury nor obvious physical distress. Apparently, he had simply hit upon a new and unpleasant way to use his voice.“Great!” I snorted, “The only thing he needs is to go outside...right now! I can’t believe I woke up for this!”

The next morning, I let everyone know what had happened and carefully explained that the cat would not be permitted inside after sunset. My two older sons, however, sharing both the compassion of Albert Sweitzer and the lack of interest in rules common to all children of their age, had other plans. They continued to let this demonic beast into our house. Every evening, while I was upstairs tucking in my little bug-a-boo, they granted entrance to our cat, who would secret himself away, stowed underneath a table or behind some furniture until two or three in the morning, when he would announce his desire to leave, with torturous volume. This infuriated me, so after a week of sleepless nights, I finally threatened to wake everyone in the house if the cat was let in again. The kids relented and each night, this underworld fiend was ejected from our house, so that Dad could rest and his tirade could cease.

Life resumed normalcy and Marmalade Lion would vocalize an occasional yowl, but generally, he was pleasant, maybe even cute. The problem was that he had found an effective tactic and those are never easily forgotten. M. Lion would, with increasing frequency, employ his demonic yowl to get what he wanted. His wail, which could aptly be described as half strangled kitten and half of a choleric demon, would inundate my senses, pushing me towards a precipice of blind rage. On and on this continued, day after grinding day, until that moment of inspiration, when Ivan Petrovich Pavlov’s notion of “conditioned reflex” dawned on me like the loving embrace of morning’s sunlight, gently caressing the cold, hard earth. I had just explained the history of Pavlov’s dog to my then eleven year old son, when it occurred to me that with the deliberate and consistent use of a well aimed spray bottle, I might train our cat to use a more pleasant sound when making requests.

With high hopes, I undertook this project in secret. I would not be thwarted by the Sweitzer-like instincts of my wife or kids, who never once woke up to deal with cat. I proceeded to administer a squirt to our feline on any occasion that his voice assaulted my serenity. Just one squirt, simple and consistent, this experiment continued for more than a year. I pitted my stubbornness against his instincts, betting on Pavlovian conditioning to carry the day. Each day, I would spray and each day, the cat would yowl. I sprayed again, and he yowled AGAIN. This cycle repeated, until our cat was reduced to a pitiful, sopping wet mound of fur and I, a defeated man, with little faith in the rational nature of life.

Ultimately, my cat learned the wrong lesson. To him, I became the Overload of Terror, the Man of remorseless Spray, a tormentor to be feared. He never associated the spray bottle with his vocalizations. Rather he hid whenever I entered the room and, from his shelter, his serenade courted ghouls.

Finally, I relented. I accepted that he would not be trained, that his vocalization must be hardwired and I could not change it. This was a blow, but I knew I had been wrong. Let me assure you, I did not undergo a thorough change of heart. I still dislike Marmalade Lion, but I do regret having traumatized him. If I had it to do all over again, I’d perhaps, search for a cat muzzle...or perhaps, just leave him alone.

This article is not, however, about my cat. Rather it explores what I have learned from him, about myself. I have learned that through me, Pavlov has tormented not just one slightly barmy feline but also my children, my wife, my co-workers and countless others. Like a merciless scientist, I have, periodically lashed out with this idea of “conditioned reflex” and wounded those who are closest to me, leaving them hurt and confused. Always, this has followed some incident where I interpreted their actions as cruel or callous. Usually, they were simply trying get something done as best they could and they had no more intent of malice than my cat had when he wanted out.

Frankly, this bothers me. I could easily conclude, based on this insight, that I am a thoroughly rotten person. That I have little or no self-control. That there is something seriously wrong with me. But my conclusion would be erroneous, my reactions are rather typical. It seems, that virtually everyone has a bit of Pavlov in them. His retribution lurches forth from our bruised feelings and inflicts emotional pain on others. This leaves us in the position where either we confront our mess and try to offer a meaningful amend or we justify our cruelty, placing blame solely on those we love.

Now, when things get ugly and we’re looking at poor behavior, there is almost always someone thinking, “This doesn’t really pertain to me.” More often than I care to admit, I am that person. So, if you find that you are having those thoughts, take a moment to reflect on these typical sorts of human interactions:

A parent says to their co-parent, “DON’T talk to the kids that way! You ask why I snap at you and criticize? That’s why! You make me so mad. Stop talking to the kids OR me like that, and I’ll quit snapping at you.”

To which the first parent responds, “Give me a break! You can’t possibly pretend ignorance to the fact that your constant negativity and criticism angers me to the point where I get mean. Why don’t YOU stop?!”

Meanwhile, somewhere else, a married couple has the following exchange, “exasperated GASP...you spilled that drink down the front of the cabinets and walked away? Do I have to do everything around here?”

The other spouse says, “Do everything...seriously? If you could trouble yourself to reattach the lids to juice bottles, vitamin containers and spice jars, we wouldn’t have so many spills. I don’t know why I should clean anything up! Maybe if you did a bit more, you could figure out how to close containers properly.”

I think we get confused. We forget that we’re talking with someone important, like our spouse, our best friend or our children. Instead, we act as if we are dealing with some sociopath, or a rabid Nazi. We act like Pavlov, remorselessly harming the subject of our experiment.

THIS IS INSANITY!

One of my favorite definitions of insanity, has been attributed to several professional athletes, to Albert Einstein and finally to Benjamin Franklin. It is frequently quoted in 12-step recovery groups and it reads “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results.”

Doesn’t this seem to describe us? From my perspective, we humans have a strong tendency in this direction. We seem to have some pathological streak that compels us to believe it is not only OK, but advisable to treat people like this:

Wait a minute, that person just acted like a jerk!

I better make sure they know it.

Maybe I can teach them a lesson while I’m at it...They’ll never do that again!

Then, I’ll forgive them...comfort them...and love them.

I am such an enlightened soul!”

This never really works out, but we persist in it anyway. You can see it play out in every theatre of human interaction, spanning the gamut from our close interpersonal relationships to our international policy and cultural diplomacy.

In my life, this oft repeated drama plays out after dinner, during clean up. Each one of my kids is unusually distractible. In fact two of them have a diagnosis of ADHD. So every evening, right after dinner, we all head into the kitchen and begin the cleaning cycle.

It is important to note that when I say “We all begin cleaning,” what happens, is that I begin cleaning, while the kids saunter around our small and crowded kitchen not cleaning. My frustration mounts as I repeatedly ask them to look please at their chore lists. If I’m not careful, this is is where I become possessed of a fury. I begin barking orders and cause all pleasantry to dissipate as I plunge our kitchen into drudgery.

This usually ruins the entire evening, so recently, my wife and I agreed to try and characterize dinner cleanup as time spent with our kids…a time to talk with them and enjoy their company.

To be honest, this takes a considerable effort on my part. I often force a smile and say, “yeah that’s pretty clever...say, how much is left on your chore list?” A few seconds later: “pretty funny, but I don’t think you should be putting the dish towel in your mouth. Oh that reminds me, how’s that chore list coming along?”

I understand no one would be reminded of chore list, because they see someone chewing on a dish towel. This communication tactic is effective, thus my kids have never noticed the transition...shhhh!

I suppose the reason I’m sharing this with you is that it points to something I think is important. For a few years now, I have been writing these sermons and delivering them to groups, which are filled with people, who can make a difference. At some point, I had to contrast my actions towards those closest to me with the values about which I speak so passionately. “Parable of a Demonic Feline” is the result of that insight. I believe that humanity’s ability to coalesce around anything important is rooted in how we treat each other. I am worried about the world we are leaving the next generation. I’m worried about our debt, our pollution and our tendency to constantly be engaged in some military action. All of this seems so overwhelming and truth be told, I will not be able to change the world!

I can, however, try to inspire the best in those around me. I can share my shortcomings, my struggles, my hopes and my dreams. Perhaps, if I’m honest enough, if I share enough hope, enough inspiration and enough passion, then, someone else might do the same and share their dreams. Together, we might start a chain reaction, we might inspire more dreamers and cumulatively, this could cause humanity to change this world.

So I am publishing this article, because I believe that you can make a profound difference for future generations. I believe that you are the agents of transformation. Though I am an atheist, I have faith in my fellow human beings. I have faith that, despite our Pavlovian tendencies, we humans are miraculous, capable of the most astounding beauty and incredible charity.

You are my teachers, my heroes and my inspiration. I am writing to try and mirror back to you, your own greatness. I am writing to try and inspire you to walk out into this world sharing that greatness.

I hope my message is well received and I thank you for taking the time to read.

Shenanigans...who'd have known?

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 02:29:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

I smiled, when first I read that this week’s GBE2 prompt is shenanigans. This would be fun, a light-hearted topic, where I could revel in youthful pranks and funny memories. So after a quick trip down memory lane, I went to Thesaurus.com. There, I learned that the word shenanigan is complex and encompasses a range of “pranks” that include lighthearted, mischievous fun, and vile deceit or outrageous damage.

This piqued my curiosity and sent me to mirriam-webster.com , dictionary.com and etymonline.com in order to learn more about this word that I thought I knew.

I had always believed shenanigan to be an Irish word. Something that Darby O’Gill would utter with a tinge of affection while recounting his adventures with Ireland’s “little people”. It turns out that the earliest record of shenanigan is dated 1855 and it originated in San Francisco or Sacramento. Mark one against my home brewed etymology. Next, there doesn’t appear to be much information about shenanigan, except that it possibly is derived from “chanada” or “charranada”, meaning trick or deceit. “Hmmm, chanada, there is a word I haven’t heard in a long time…in fact, I’ve never heard it!”

OK, time to hit Merriam-webster and dictionary.com, both of which define shenanigan as either a youthful and lighthearted prank or a devious and underhanded trick. Wow, I hadn’t known that shenanigans could be so dark.

It turns out that the list of synonyms for Shenanigan includes: atrocity, catastrophe and devilry. To my surprise, there is even a book titled “Financial Shenanigans: How to Detect Accounting Gimmicks & Fraud in Financial Reports”. This book even has a second edition.

This shows me how I've limited my use of the word shenanigan over the years. I think perhaps I should practice deploying this word in a more diverse venue. Say, a threat, “Just be aware, no one will like that…if you proceed, you may well find yourself on the wrong end of a shenanigan!” or “Don’t cross him, his shenanigry runs deep and it is filled with vile and heinous deceit.”

Thanks GBE2, you have broadened my understanding of a rather common word. I’ll use my newfound knowledge only for good though, because as we all know, “with great power, comes great responsibility.”

Confrontation - a frightful visage!

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 07:34:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

Confrontation! ...Sometimes the very word sends a tiny spike of adrenaline racing through my body. It is not a topic that I relish, nor one I would typically write about. In fact, for me, it is fraught, occurring as something to be feared and avoided. However, Ms. Word Nerd has spoken, and confrontation is this week’s GBE2 writing prompt, so I’ll put my head down and proceed.

What first comes to mind when I think of confrontation are the myriad regrets and half remembered humiliations from my life. Times, when I over reacted, or times that I failed to take a stand, each leaving its own chink in the armor of my self esteem.

In this, I certainly am not unique. Everyone regrets certain episodes in life, where they acted foolish either by way of melodrama or by way of cowardice. My first strong memories of this are from seventh grade. Middle School is a tough period for human development and my Middle School years were terrible. By the end of seventh grade, I had gained nearly one hundred pounds easily placing me in the category of obesity. This marked me as a prime target for verbal and physical abuse. My peers relentlessly taunted me to the point where I could barely hold back the tears, which would only have encouraged their cruelty. In class, the teachers did nothing, leaving us to “sort out our interpersonal difficulties.” At lunch, other students punched me, kicked me, spit on me, shoved me and threw me to the ground each day. They smeared ketchup in my hair, held me down and poured drinks on my crotch and relentlessly called me, Fatso, Faggot, Dough boy, Stinky, Indian blood fart, etc...

I hated life—I hated school—but mostly, I hated myself.

Occasionally, I would seek out a weaker victim and pick on them hoping to feel some relief, a sense of power, but this always backfired, leaving me more depressed...not only did I feel like a loser, but I had also been a complete ass, so I stopped.

Thankfully, High school brought reprieve. I was reasonably well liked, I achieved a healthy weight and I joined the swim team, the track team and the cross country running team. On a primal level, however, my self image was unaltered. I knew, with the same certainty that I held for gravity, that if anyone really knew me, I’d be rejected, ostracized, ridiculed again.

Living in constant fear of exposure and disgrace really twists a person’s ability to live in harmony with their own values. So I avoided all confrontation at any cost. My younger sister, had been my best friend since childhood and in high school, she was generally liked but the so called “cool people” didn’t “hang with her”, so I didn’t spend much time with her either. The hardest memories, however, are a few occasions, when I overheard someone make rude or condescending comments about her. I wanted to say “Cut it out! ...that's my sister you're talking about!” But I was afraid, so I looked away and kept quiet. Every time that happened, my spirit died a little...my self esteem took a dip.

Twenty three years later, as my two older kids were approaching Middle School age, I began to worry about how they would fare. I began worrying about how they would navigate the Middle School years. In an effort to bully-proof my kids, I began talking about how all three of us could study Tae Kwon Do together. After some cajoling, they agreed and we all three enrolled in a class at the local YMCA.

Several years have passed since that and today, my middle son is preparing to enter Middle School. He holds a brown belt in Tae Kwon Do. My eldest will begin High School next year and he holds a black belt. I could not be more proud!

What has surprised me most, however, is the effect that studying martial arts has had on me. A few years ago, while sitting in our mini-van waiting for everyone to come out of Target, I had a life changing thought. Out of the blue, it occurred to me that, I could defend myself if I had to.

With that thought, I found freedom. I shattered the oppressive shackles that had held me for decades...that dreary chains that had kept me small fell from me and though I had never been aware of their existence, I couldn't imagine how I had lived with them for so many years.

I began to view the world in terms of what I’m willing to work for and what I’m willing to fight for. Life’s difficulties and challenges have increasingly occurred as a punch or side kick. My job, step aside or block, redirecting the force away from me. Avoid personal injury and react quickly with a well delivered counter.

I no longer cower in some secluded corner waiting for confrontation to pass. I still have to contend with that frightened, beaten, and emotionally damaged twelve year, who yearns for invisibility. But today, I am also a loving and powerful forty year old man, who has earned a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and who carries with him, the courage of conviction.

I have become the kind of person, who can be counted on to say what I think. I can be counted on to try and see others as an expression of their commitments. Today, I try to view people as a reservoir of possibility and potential—as reflections of who they want to be. I try to inspire the best in those around me, because I believe that everyone can be great, that each of us are capable of miracles. Perhaps I'm part fool, but I believe that somehow, I can make a difference in this world, that somehow, despite our perilous course, I and people who believe as I do can leave this world a better place for the next generation.

Today I am generally happy with myself. Though I have many flaws, I am content. This journey has forced me to confront my sense of worthlessness. I've had to confront my tendency and capacity to live in delusion. I've had to speak my mind, especially when I felt terrified. I've had to point out the hypocrisy of people I admire and whose approval I desperately want. Somehow, I have emerged, a burgeoning leader within my own Unitarian Universalist Congregation.

I continue to be plagued with the fear that I’ll be exposed as a loser and be ostracized...laughed out of countenance. However, the gentle warrior, the man, who loves and would do anything for his family, the man who never followed through on anything until his late thirties, when finally he persevered to earn a black belt. The man, who believes we might yet change this world for the better, if we believe and work for it. He keeps getting stronger and he keeps getting more persuasive.

So here are a few things that he wants me to tell you.

1) I believe that human beings are neither inherently good, nor inherently bad. We have a choice to make from one moment to the next. We choose whether to be good or bad. We each have the capacity to be ruthlessly selfish and perform acts of unthinkable cruelty, or to perform human miracles, to inspire the best in others and to extend compassion to someone when they need it most, no matter how low they may have sunk. This is important, because I believe that by ignoring our capacity for evil, we risk being its servant, even while we try to do the right thing.

2) I believe it is simple to make a big difference in another person’s life. Seventeen years ago, when I lived in San Francisco, I stopped one day to talk with a homeless guy, Bob, whom I had seen every day for a year.

Bob surprised me. It turns out, he had earned a Bachelor’s degree in sociology and later became a fire fighter in a small town. He loved being a fire fighter, however one night at a house fire, he had made a mistake and a two year old girl was killed. Bob couldn’t live with this, he tried therapy and anti-depressants but he was haunted by the image of that little girl’s mom collapsing to the ground, wailing in agony, thoroughly inconsolable.

He drank and used drugs to blot out this memory and by the time I met him, Bob had been living on the streets for more than ten years. As I was getting ready to leave and continue with my day, Bob began crying. He told me that I was the first person to and talk with him for as long as he could remember. I was the first person to make him feel human, so he asked if he could call me a friend. Every time I saw Bob from that day forward, his face lit up and he donned a buoyant grin.

So looking back on that day, there are a few things that seem important. First, to speak with Bob that day, I had to confront my own bigotry towards homeless people. Additionally, I had to deal with my own discomfort concerning Bob's personal hygiene. But in the end, I somehow stumbled into making a profound difference for another human being and I got to be a better person for having done so.

So while confrontation is something that I would prefer to avoid at all costs, in the end, it seems that opportunity hides within its frightful visage. So I encourage anyone who will listen to welcome confrontation, to embrace it as an old friend who always offers transformation. Ask the hard questions, the ones that seem impossible to answer.

If you don’t like the answers, ask them again. Why do we tolerate having so many people, particularly young children living in abject poverty? Why do we tolerate the fact that fifteen million children die of starvation each year? Why haven’t we ended slavery yet? In the USA, we have a law called “no child left behind” and yet we are leaving thousands behind each year, for want of early childhood education, proper nourishment, a safe place to learn, etc...why is this acceptable?

I’ll leave you with these words from the preface of a book that I may finish writing some day.

I am motivated to write this book, not because I believe myself a skilled author or profound thinker. Rather, my reasons are very personal, they consume my time and energy, they motivate my focus on career and they simultaneously invigorate, and deplete my personal energy reserves. Regardless of any immediate emotional state I may be experiencing, they motivate my efforts to become a better person and provide a continued reason for my identification as a Unitarian Universalist. In short, they constitute the foundation for my unyielding commitment to try and make a difference in this world.

My motivations are named, Rowan, Devin and Mikalh. They are my three exasperating, inspiring, draining and beautiful children. To me, they embody humanity’s future and they serve as a constant reminder that my generation’s legacy, though still unwritten, may prove a burdensome load for its inheritors.

Simplicity - GBE2 Writing Prompt

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 07:51:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

This week's GBE2 prompt, simplicity, inspired numerous thoughts, each of which seemed, to me, simply brilliant. So on Saturday evening, in the eleventh hour, when the posting was due, and after having recorded none of my ideas. I realized, with amusement, that had I committed them all to writing...you would be in the unfortunate position of reading a college term paper about simplicity, which charts a course of complexity, that makes Odysseus’ famed trip look like a mere row around the community pond.

Alas, I have been to busy with life’s required tasks to inflict that on anyone, which is a good thing. So my simplicity post, will have to be simple...how appropriate!

Tomorrow morning, my fourteen year old will be completing a coming of age program and he, along with other youth participants, will be delivering their “This I believe” statements at our church service. This has been a long path, filled with intellectual conversations about challenging topics, difficult questions and examinations of personal values, honest reflection on how our youth might react in various morally difficult situations and the logistical equivalent of juggling five bouncy balls, while wearing base ball mitts. In the end, though, it has been worthwhile. Tomorrow, I get to sit back and watch with pride as my eldest son declares himself to this world. He is simply growing up and moving into the next phase of his life. This is exciting to witness, and inspiring to be a part of.

Today my middle son, who is at his dad’s for the week, called to let my wife and I know that his team won their soccer game. Last year, they didn’t win any games, so this was a BIG DEAL. Later this month, I will complete a two year sentence as a board member for the soccer club. Finally my kid’s team is coalescing into a competitive force and this is great. It really fulfills on so much of what I’ve wanted for him as a soccer player. It is deeply gratifying to see him revel in elation over such a simple pleasure.

This morning, my “little boo”, who is six years old, came and cuddled up next to me on the couch. We talked about Star Wars, about how he wishes he could have a real light saber, except that he’d be worried about accidentally killing someone, because he would forget it is real and accidentally cut someone in half. This made me chuckle and love him all the more. Next, he expressed how glad he is that we don’t still have legal slavery in this country...”Things are better than they were before, right Dad!?” He has a brilliant and warm smile. A gentle soul and a streak of creativity, which might fill Claude Monet with jealousy.

These brothers are the source of my deepest motivation in life. They are simultaneously exasperating, inspiring, draining and beautiful. To me, they symbolize humanity’s future.

I love them.

A sordid tale of lacerations, Hungarian hip-hop performers and an icy petting zoo

noreply@blogger.com (michael adams) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 05:19:00 +0000

--by Mike Adams

GBE2 - #40 Posting Topic: "Jane's Story" This idea caught my imagination and I had fun writing this...I hope you enjoy it!

Before I delve too deeply into the details of this story, I think it best to ensure that we are all on the same page. Though this is probably pointless, because if you are one of the two or three people who read my blog, you are obviously on this page, so perhaps I’ll proceed to the next order of business, namely, providing a short explanation of Hungarian hip-hop artistry as it has been revealed to me during my life’s most recent ...and dare I say confusing travail.

First, I’d like to assure you that I am no eccentric nincompoop, whose idea of being uber-cool entails being a fan of obscure, and probably sub-par, artistry. Rather my exposure to an Eastern-Block interpretation of African American entertainment, was entirely coincidental to my attending the grand opening of an “Arctic Petting Zoo” in down town Phoenix last week.

I’m sure you are thinking, “What was that lunatic doing in Phoenix, when he lives in New Mexico, and did he really drive that hapless excuse for a car to phoenix in order to witness the grand opening of an arctic refuge in a completely in appropriate biome?” Unfortunately, the answer here is yes...I am the dork, who traveled hundreds of miles in a rattling and squealing heap of petrol powered steel in order to witness the thoroughly out-of-context commencement of a wild-life habitat, which serves the dual purpose youthful entertainment center.

It was here that my auditory senses were overcome with the sounds of hip-hop, but not really done quite right. Apparently, the event organizer had acquired a number of arctic animals who are naturally denizens of frozen fields in far flung places, whose names, though unpronounceable, mostly end with the four letters “stan”. For purposes of this fable, we’ll lump them all together under the affectionate term, “refrigerate-a-stan”.

I assume the organizer had gone in search of eastern music, In an effort to either make the animals feel more at home or to be culturally sensitive in spite of the forced relocation that had been perpetrated. As it turns out, the only response to her query came from a Hungarian hip-hop band, so without giving it much thought, she hired the band, and with that, the wheels of fate commenced to turn towards the culmination of unfortunate events that would unfold on this day in this icy oasis, nestled amidst humid golf courses and soaring temperatures in the western city of Phoenix.

As I walked slack jawed towards the Hungarian funk masters, my dumbfounded gaze was momentarily shaken by another bewildered arctic pilgrim. As our eyes met, we shared a moment of telepathic understanding. One of those spaces where you intimately share an experience with a complete stranger and when the moment passed, she smiled and said, “this is amazing!” To which I replied, “I know! I never could have imagined that I might have the opportunity to enjoy DJ Funkgarian, while petting a Siberian Hamster.”

My new acquaintance, Jane, had also traveled to Phoenix for this grand opening, and it turns out her husband, like my wife, wanted nothing to do with visiting a sub-zero winter wonderland in the middle of a blistering desert. Unimpeded by the disapproving and emotionally more mature gaze of our spouses, Jane and I began to explore the possibilities of our surroundings. She mentioned seeing a sporting goods store at the mall right next door and in a moment of shared genius, we simultaneously exclaimed, “Ice Skates!” Goaded by the pulsing beat and hypnotic expression of the Funkgarian experience, we hastened to Big 5 in hopes of finding a pair of size 7 and size 13 ice skates. After searching through Big 5 for less than three minutes, Jane triumphantly,hollered, “Frank...or John...I mean Mike, MIKE! Get over here now!” I sailed on wings of misguided glee to the side of my co-conspirator and gazed with hallowed awe at two pair of clearance priced hockey skates in exactly our sizes. The price barely broke thirty dollars, even after tax. so off we went to join the penguins in sliding through Phoenix’s new winter haven to the throbbing beat of Funkgarian the Hungarian.

As we hastened towards the arctic petting zoo, I suddenly exclaimed “STOP!” “We cant just go traipsing in there with ice-skates, there is no way this is allowed...we HAVE to be stealthy Jane!” She acquired a look of purpose and said, “They’ll never know we’re commin’ man...you’ll be Mike the unseen and I’ll be double-O Jane. Before anyone has caught wise, we’ll have completed a minimum of three laps.” I affected my own purposeful expression and said, “follow me, I’ve got this covered.” Following a few preparations, we proceeded into the arctic petting zoo, easily evading detection, as we employed all the guile that a snow leopard might use, while stalking a skittish rabbit. Within minutes, we both were inside and ready to skate.

At this point, Jane looked at me and I saw for the first time a glimpse of terror in her eyes, as she confided that she hasn’t been ice skating since she was nine years old and she really didn’t want to be arrested. With the jovial and inflated assurance that one normally conjures only as a teenager, I smiled and assured my new criminal accomplice that all would be well, that we were impervious to legal consequences and that we should start skating before we’re spotted. Jane’s smile was immediate and it buttressed my confidence, so like the Wright brothers at Kitty Hawk, we took off into the winter museum on blades of hope, spurred by our vision of greatness, hoping to avoid disaster if only by a razor’s edge.

Within minutes, I heard the terrible sound of a billowing voice yelling, “Hey, you can’t ice skate in here...what are you doing, get over here right now.” But Jane and I were prepared, we broke for the exit, our plan...to place rubber covers on our skate blades and dash through the parking lot, to where we had left my grizzled clunker unlocked and running in preparation for our grand escape. At the exit, I attached my rubber blade covers with uncommon agility, but Jane was unfortunately shaken and she was having a great deal of difficulty preparing for our exodus, so as the guards bore down on us, I quickly affixed her blade guards and in a panicky voice said, “we better skedaddle, lest we cool our heels in the can tonight.” With that, we darted into the parking lot, guided by the singular focus of escape, driven by the overwhelming desire to remain free and it was then that I heard Jane’s voice, she was screaming in agony. I turned to see her clutch her face, and contort in pain, but she glared at me and said, “I’m not getting arrested...run faster, DON’T STOP!” We jumped into my car and sped from the scene of our crime with the same alacrity that Michael Weston might use in escaping disaster.

It was then, that I noticed the blood running down Jane’s face. Noting the look of concern in my expression, she explained that in fleeing the zoo, she misjudged her proximity to a Russian Olive tree. One of it’s protruding spears had, unfortunately, latched on to her left cheek and tried to tear it from her face. Fortunately, it had failed and twenty seven stitches later, with a great story to explain her scar, Jane slammed down a Dos XX and siad, “I don’t always drink beer, but when I do...it’s after a close shave with the law and a closer shave from a Russian Olive Tree...thanks for the adventure Amigo!”