Being Frank

Memorial

2012-05-27T11:16:00.000-05:00

In the midst of this late Spring weekend, commonly regarded as the gateway to Summer, while grilling burgers and hot dogs, watching the Indy 500, and cherishing the three day weekend many of us have, keep in mind the real reason this weekend is important - Memorial Day.

Since the Civil War, people have reserved a weekend in May for the remembrance of those men and women who gave their lives in war. The holiday grew from local and regional celebrations with varying names into a federal holiday. By 1967, after the passage of the Uniform Holidays Bill, the day and name of the holiday solidified into what we celebrate today.

Memorial Day, for much of America, is no more than a convenient three day weekend. Monday has become a great day for outdoor BBQs and picnics instead of a day of reflection. We flock to movie theaters in droves instead of to cemeteries, choosing to honor living entertainment instead of dead heroes.

Many would argue that our Memorial Day behavior is further evidence of the moral bankruptcy so many pundits claim America suffers. Sure, we lower our flags to half-staff (if we have one), we might watch a war movie on TV, but the extent of our honoring the fallen ends there. Maybe we are bankrupt?

No. I don’t think we are. I think America is suffering through a different problem. A humongous portion of the population has grown up experiencing the same problem, one which is hard to avoid in today’s geopolitical environment.

Peace.

Recently, CNN published a modified version of Fareed Zakaria’s commencement speech to Harvard, which brought this issue to my attention. Zakaria offered some interesting statistics, which profoundly illuminates today’s peace problem.

First, we currently live in a world which experiences half as much death from war, civil war, and terrorism than in the 1990s. Sure, news broadcasts seem to inundate the airwaves with reports of prolific death, but compared to the 1990s, the number of people dying as the result of war has dropped drastically. From a specifically American angle, though, in the last decade we have lost slightly more than 6,000 soldiers during war actions, which is significantly more than lost during the 1990s. But on a whole, the world has had 50% less death caused by war.

Second, if we look back further, through the past half century. The number of related deaths drops further - 75%. The world has definitely come a long way from the Cold War related military actions of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. Additionally, the population of the US born since the end of the Vietnam War accounts for almost 65% of our population. The vast majority of us - including myself - have never experienced a conflict anywhere close to the realm of the war years. Personally, I can not think of any person I have ever known who was a war casualty. I wonder how many of us can anymore.

Third, if taken back to the 1930s and 1940s, the number of people killed in war drops by an astounding 99%. The population of the US who experienced the total war of WWII is less than 10%.

Since Memorial Day is a holiday designed to honor those who gave their lives for their country, it makes sense that its roots are planted deep in the history of the Civil War. Approximately 625,000 American soldiers lost their lives as we fought each other. That number is more than all other other military deaths combined since. During the 1960s, when the Uniform Holidays Bill was passed, the American population remembered well the feeling of war.

While we are currently wrapping up the last decade of limited war, the general American public has lived most of their lives insulated from the realities of war. We don’t know how to honor the fallen because many of us have never had to. Our lack of Memorial Day fervor stems from this reality.

Despite the circumstances, those of us with no one specific to memorialize should still pay our respects somehow. Whether we pay our respects through the display of a flag, by visiting a cemetery, participating in a Memorial Day ceremony, or simply exercising our right to a free life, we should keep in mind the origin of the peace we enjoy and how it was paid for by the blood of so many heroes over the years.

Pounding the Rock

2012-05-20T15:56:00.000-05:00

For those of you who don’t know, I am a San Antonio Spurs fan. I grew up in San Antonio cheering on the hometown heroes first in HemisFair Arena, then in the Alamodome, and now in the AT&T Center. I worship the names David Robinson, Sean Elliot, Bruce Bowen, Avery Johnson, Tony Parker, Manu Ginobli, and Tim Duncan and somewhere I even have a George Gervin autograph. I have an affinity in my heart for every player to ever wear the Spur logo. I have bled silver and black since I was little and even now, though I live in the midst of Rocket fan, I proudly sport my Spurs gear. More than just a sports team, the Spurs have long taught me about life, leading through their uncommon example in today’s sports world.

One of the most honorable and respected athletes I have ever seen was David Robinson. Besides sporting the most amazing physical stature ever (Michelangelo would have loved for Mr. Robinson to pose for his statue of David), Mr. Robinson lead the Spurs with a pure heart and dedicated spirit. He truly was the Admiral, not only for the pre-Duncan Spurs, but for the city, piloting the team to heights unimaginable while instilling San Antonio with a sense of pride and worth. For as long as I live, David Robinson will always stand as a pinnacle of a value driven life.

Tim Duncan, truly the greatest Spur to ever play the game, has for years educated me on how to handle adversity. Always known as a mild mannered player, Timmy has quietly handled the pressure of his role as team Atlas, hoisting the Spurs onto his shoulders from the first day he arrived in the city. Known as the Big Fundamental, Duncan’s dedication to his individual foundation as an athlete has long primed him - and the Spurs - for success. It is not a coincidence that, since the Spurs’ drafted him first in 1997, the franchise regular season winning percentage has been 70%.

Beyond being an amazing athlete, Duncan has long been the face of calm on the court. His quiet ways haven’t earned him a national following like some other showy sports superstars, but it has definitely earned a place of respect among his peers, sports pundits, and San Antonio fans. Every time he steps on the court, Tim teaches a clinic on the value of peace in the face of adversity.

I have long understood the value of Greg Popovich, but until yesterday’s Game Three playoff win against the Clippers, I never truly understood where exactly I should place him in my Spur’s pantheon. Pop’s argues he is just the luckiest coach in the history of sports, but as most Pop devotees would argue, that is simply not the case. Game Three was a tribute to the reason Pop has been just as key to the Spurs’ success as his players. Back in the 1990s, Pop placed a quote in the Spurs’ locker room. The quote, taken from immigration reformer Jacob Riis, has been the impetus for Spurs’ play sense

When nothing seems to help, I go look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it, but all that had gone before.

Though the Spurs were down 33-11 at the end of the first quarter against a freshly reinvigorated Clippers team, they never gave up. Instead, they pounded the rock. Through Pop’s teaching, they knew their consistent efforts lead to results. And so, they pounded. And pounded. And pounded. By the end of the third quarter, the rock had split and the Spurs controlled the game the rest of the way, winning their seventeenth straight game.

Popovich’s dedication to his method, his willingness to reinvent their basketball style to fit their needs (and frankly just to keep it exciting), and most importantly, to teach a philosophy of life centered on perseverance through belief in your own efforts, places him high in my pantheon. His lessons on how to accomplish translate to any effort: individual or team, personal or corporate, small or large.

While the Spurs organization doesn’t seek to establish itself as a life coach or to hit the road on a tour of motivational speeches, they certainly could. I am who I am partially due to the Spurs and what they have shown consistently since I was young. And though I don’t live there anymore, you can bet that I will always hold the San Antonio Spurs organization in the highest regards where ever I live.

Tribute

2012-05-13T11:45:00.000-05:00

What can any of us say about our Mom’s that probably hasn’t been written on a hallmark card, been acted out in a sappy, tear-jerking film, or sung in a song? Not much, right? Odds are, the card, the film, and the lyrics probably do a much better job than most of us could ever do. Something we should always keep in mind, though, Hallmark, Hollywood, and Nashville can never live up to the one tribute only we have to give - ourselves.

Everyday, as we interact with other people, as we work our jobs, raise our families, and build our lives, we offer tribute to our Mom. While we will have many teachers in our lives, our Mothers are one of the most influential we will ever have. From the very moment of conception, our Mom begins to teach us life lessons, behaviors, and the very components that will make up our lives. Some lessons will be immense, some will be tiny.

Even if you never knew your Mother, or do not have a relationship with your Mom, she still offers lessons, if you are willing to learn. Some Mom’s might teach how to forgive, if only by being the worse mother imaginable. Others might teach unconditional love, because the only way to love them would be to abandon all conditions on which love would rest. Find the lesson your Mom offers and be thankful that she has placed her fingerprint upon your life.

My parents instilled in me an appreciation for the written word when I was very young, and my Mom helped to fan the flames of my young hunger for reading. I would not be sitting here writing today without my Mom’s influence. In fact, from the age of eleven on, I could strongly argue the fuel for the projection of my life came from my Mom allowing me to read my first Stephen King novel. From that point on, the written word filled my life. I couldn’t get enough books. Days went by where I only read, ate, and slept. I would still spend many of my days the same way if Samantha would let me.

While not alone, our Mom helped to design us. She offered half of the blueprints for our internal circuitry, made as many adjustments as possible to our programming, and then sent us out into the world to be the best product possible. If it sounds like software engineering, that is because, in many ways, raising a child is like the world’s greatest design product. Could you imagine attempting to build the world’s most complicated computer from scratch without any experience, limited manuals, and an unlimited supply of contradictory advice and armchair quarterbacks?

Everyday you live, shine as a tribute to the women who added you to the face of the earth. Follow her lessons, even if she taught them unwillingly or unknowingly. Be the best product she could have created. No card, movie, or song could ever compete with that.

The French Connection

2012-04-29T11:24:00.000-05:00

The Eiffel Tower from the Trocadero.

In the spirit of TAKS and STARR standardized testing this past week, I took some time off from teaching lessons. Instead, Samantha and I took advantage of our free time by jumping on an airplane and flying to France to visit my youngest brother Joey. This was our first time in France, and I do have to admit, I was readily anticipating encountering stereotype after stereotype. I was pleasantly surprised - the French did not live up to my negative expectations.

As timid Americans, we emerged from our United flight weary and excited, unsure in how well our limited French skills would help but eager to try. With the help of a very polite airport employee (speaking clear English), we were able to locate the trans-terminal train and find our way to the Gare Charles du Gaul (the train station at the airport). After fighting with the electronic ticket machine for a little while (it helps to read ALL the directions), we had our tickets in hand and were ready for the four hour train ride to Nantes where we would meet my two brothers.

Waiting to catch our train connection in Le MAns.

Our train ride was our first experience with an unexpected French characteristic - silent trains. Whether on a cross-country train, a regional commuter train, a local tram, or the Paris metro, French people are uncomfortably silent. Conversations take place in hushed whispers, leaned in close to the ear. I am a mumbler - I fit right in.

We did encounter a stereotype in our train commutes, but not a French one. The French regard Americans as loud and brash, unaware of their surroundings, who never attempt to meld into the local culture. Unfortunately, we discovered the truth behind our own stereotype. While we were not the typical Americans - neither of us are loud people - Americans on the trains might have well been draped in the Stars and Stripes. They were loud, brash, and even made us uncomfortable with their volume.

Our time in Nantes was characterized by walking tours of the city, enjoying the local food and wine, and enjoying the French people. Joey, my brother, is wrapping up a year of study in Nantes as a French Studies major. He was a gracious host, welcoming us into his dorm and cooking for us, acting as translator everywhere we went, and leading us through the sights of Nantes and the surrounding area.

Another French stereotype proved wrong for us both in Nantes and in Paris - the French are polite. In every encounter, whether in a restaurant or cafe, at a ticket window, on a train, or with the bathroom attendant, French people are pleasant. Bonjour! Sil vous plait! Merci! Bon soir! Always ready with a please and thank you, the French welcomed us into their country with open arms. Even when they knew we were Americans.

Gigantic crepes at The Puss in Boots cafe in Clisson.

French food was tasty. We had crepes a plenty, galettes smothered in cheese, the traditional croque monsieur, croissants nearly every day. Freshly baked bread accompanied every meal, and sometimes became the meal. Cheese was delicious and abundant - we even saw hamburgers served with a thick slice of parmesan reggiano perched delicatly atop the bun. The vegetables had to have been picked that day, perhaps from a garden just behind the cafe.

The best food we ate the entire trip was on the Rue Cler in Paris. This little pedestrian street nestled between the Eiffel Tower and the Invalides Museum, where Napoleon’s tomb rests, transforms from a bustling market street during the afternoon into a row of sumptuous cafes after sunset. The first night we ate at Cafe du Marche and enjoyed traditional french fare - I dined on Confit du Canard (duck fried in its own fat) accompanied with roasted pomme du terre (potatoes - literally apple of the earth), and a green salad. We accompanied our dishes with a pichet of Burgandy.

The amazing Tomate Mozza

The next night we ate next door at a place owned by the same people. Tribeca is a traditional French cafe serving Italian food. We sat a few tables down from some loud Americans and feasted on Tomate Mozza salad, Lasagna Bolognase, and a Parma Ham pizza, accompanied by a pichet of Bousilly Grenache. Wow! This was the best food yet. It was only outdone upon our return to Tribeca the next night. We began with the same salad, but this time dined on the Penne and a Margherita Pizza. The wine was so good from the night before we ordered another pichet.

Just a funny little note - my breakfast of choice in Paris was Pain du Raisin from a boulangerie near our hotel. The translation is grape bread. The French don’t have a word differentiating between grape and raisin, so even though I ate raisin bread, it is called grape bread. Oh, and it is delicious.

Now, we didn’t just ride trains and eat the whole time. We saw the sites as well. In Nantes we enjoyed the Chateau du Ducs Bretagne - the castle protecting the region of Britannia from the French Kings during the 1200s. We saw the Cathedral du Nantes, and were even filmed by an amateur French filmmaker making a film about a spy. Samantha and I played the role of anonymous spies, sitting in a pew to covertly receive a “package” from the main spy. We traveled to the small town of Clisson to visit another chateau, this one part of a defensive ring of castles surrounding Nantes.

In Paris, we climbed the stairs to the second level of the Eiffel Tower, said hello to Napoleon, learned about WWI and WWII, got dirty looks in Chanel on the Champs Elysee, climbed the Arch du Triomphe, wandered the gardens of Versailles in the cold wind and rain, saw where Marie Antoinette escaped from the Parisian mobs, negotiated the maze that is the Louvre, basked in the ethereal light cast by the stained glass windows in both Notre Dame and Saint Chapelle, and ate at the most profitable McDonald’s in the world.

All in all, our trip was fantastic. Sure, the weather could have been more pleasant (low 40s, windy, rainy), but at least the lines were short everywhere we went and the French BO was kept to a minimum. The people were beautiful, the food and wine was amazing, and the aura of France was magical. Thanks France for showing us such a great time and for dispelling some stereotypes in the process.

Spilling the Beans

2012-04-15T11:53:00.000-05:00

Ever feel like this is you?

I have been carrying around a lot of stress recently. I have piled it up on my shoulders, determined to struggle alone with my burden, not wanting to throw it off on anyone else. It has pulled my mood down, and instead of keeping a delightful air about myself, I succumb to the sarcastic and slightly negative. There have been times in my life where I have been stressed worse, and I am sure there are many of you out there thinking “buddy you don’t know what stress is,” but for some reason, this particular bout of stress seemed to carry a little more weight than it should have.

Stress shares characteristics with the physical properties of pressure dynamics. Imagine a closed pressure chamber in which exists air contained at the pressure equal to outside the chamber. Now, by adding more air into the chamber, the pressure increases. As more and more air continues to enter the chamber, the pressure climbs higher and higher. Internally, the environment is gradually becoming more hostile. As the pressure climbs, so does temperature. The air becomes thicker as more and more molecules are forced to exist in the same space. The walls of the chamber are designed to withstand a particular amount of internal force, but when the pressure exceeds that amount - BOOM! The chamber blows.

We are all pressure chambers, but instead of our pressure regulators measuring the amount of air pressure within us, they would should stress. For the most part, we exist with stress well below what we can handle, but periodically, as more stress barges into our lives, our stress chamber becomes more full, increasing our internal pressure. The more stress we have, the higher that internal pressure becomes, and unless we find a release for the stress, the results will not be good. If release never happens, our temperature will rise, and eventually, we will blow.

This particular stress episode of mine stemmed from feeling overwhelmed at the variety of my responsibilities. I felt like I wasn’t able to fully accomplish anything I set out to do because of all the other things looking over my shoulder. If I took a moment to relax, I felt guilty because there was a pile of work I needed to do in my office. If I took a second to work on a personal project, my professional work grumbled. While I worked on teaching schedules, I couldn’t help but feel that I was neglecting the activities that lead to a happier life. It never seemed to stop. My pressure was building.

The image I have in my mind of what happens when a person reaches their stress point took root way back in the 80s when I was growing up. One of my favorite childhood movies - The Ghostbusters - reaches the pinnacle of tension at the end of the second act when they are forced to shut down the containment grid. Those of you who have seen the movie know the exact scene I am referring to. Vankman and Egon slowly creep away as the order is given to shut it down - they know what is about to occur. The lever is thrown, a red light flashes and an alarm sounds. Steam shoots out from the walls. Bricks fly. The walls shake. Then everyone runs. The grid blows, unable to handle the pressure inside, and from it spews every ghost, ghoul, and demon the Ghostbusters had been able to catch.

This is what it is like when someone blows.

We each have varying degrees of containment grids. Some of us can withstand quite a bit of stress, while others can barely take any at all. I am pretty certain we each understand our individual limits, but I am not sure we are all certain of how to find a release of that internal stress pressure before we blow.

For me this week, my release came from simply having a conversation with Samantha about it. For weeks, I succumbed to the stupid masculine idea that I was strong enough and didn’t need to burden her with my worries. All I succeeded in doing was to give her the impression I was in a funk - which was true. Finally, I admitted to her what all was bothering me. I spilled the beans. While I spoke, I could feel the stress leaking out of me. The next morning I felt so much better. The stress was still there, but it was manageable.

I forgot that just because my stress burdens me, it won’t necessarily burden other people. Talking about my worries to Samantha didn’t add to any worries she might have, but it relieved the pressure I was feeling on the inside. I will not be blowing anytime soon.

There are many stress relievers out there to help you manage your stress levels. Just the first page of a Google search for “stress reducers” produces this hearty list of choices - humor, diet, exercise, sleep, music, thinking positively, deep breaths, getting up early, play ahead, writing things down, changing it up, patience, simplify, don’t worry, organize, add love into the plan, be flexible, delegate, don’t judge, journal, water, kissing your loved one, cuddling, tea, massage, and sex. There are many to choose from that can fit all lifestyles.

If you are stressing right now, find something to help let off some of the steam. Maintaining a positive balance takes concentration and focus, but the results are worth it. For those times when the stress seems to pile up, just remember what will happen if you don’t let it out. Think the Ghostbusters.

Finding Your Gethsemane

2012-04-08T15:28:00.000-05:00

One of the most vivid dreams I have ever had occurred over ten years ago, when I was in college. In the years since, the dream has stuck with me, constantly encouraging me to keep the right perspective through every decision, no matter big or small. The most significant factor in giving this dream the influence over my life that it has? I died.

Today is Easter; billions of Christians the world over are celebrating the Resurrected Christ, who, according to the Bible overcame death and sin through personal sacrifice. For Christians, the act of Christ’s submission to God’s will as the sacrificial lamb has and always will be the centerpiece of their faith. Through Christ’s voluntary death, sin no longer has a hold on a Christian’s soul.

While many people focus on the most harrowing portion of the Passion story - the trial, the scourging and mock coronation, the long, burdened walk to Golgotha, the crucifixion and Christ’s release, and ultimately the resurrection - as the most significant portion of the story, I do not. Though diminutive compared to the scope of other stories, Gethsemane is the most profound story of the Bible.

My dream, all those years ago, reflects the message found in Gethsemane. While I don’t recall all the specifics, the generalities are clear. I am in a large city and within the city is a nuclear bomb. Detonation is immanent. My job is to ensure everyone is clear from the blast area, and at the time of my dream I am sure that everyone has been saved. Except me.

As Christ knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane, at the foot of the Mount of Olives, alone amongst his sleeping brethren, the weight of circumstance bore down upon him. The silence stretched on as he prayed, searching for solace and comfort. He knew what must be done, but accepting it and moving forward did not come easily.

As I raced through the city, empty except me, I struggled with what to do next. I knew there was no time to escape the blast radius, yet my will to survive refused to give up, and so I continued in my attempts to discover a way to escape the surety of my death.

Eventually, both in my dream and in the Christ narrative, resolution arrived. I came to terms with my certain death, and, in fact, found comfort in my resolve. I knew the only recourse available was to ensure my death was as painless as possible. Christ, suffering alone, found peace in working the will of God. He confronted the facts of his situation, acknowledged the reality of his circumstances, and found a place within himself where he knew the significance of his death mattered more than physical suffering and death. This acceptance propelled Christ into the next series of events, leading to his death and resurrection, and eventually, the Christian belief in Salvation.

Gethsemane contains the power behind the Easter message. Yes, the Bible tells Christians that the suffering, death, and resurrection releases them from the grip of sin, but without Christ’s powerful contemplation and eventual acceptance of God’s will, the rest of it would have never occurred.

In my own dream, I found comfort in the knowledge that my life was forfeit in order to save the lives of others. My Gethsemane moment occurred after the completion of my job. In the mad scramble to escape the city, I came to terms with my death and embraced it. I raced towards the bomb instead of away from it, and upon entering the room that contained my death, I felt impossible peace that seemed to stretch on forever. In the next moment, the bomb clicked. My dream went white and the peace I felt a moment before became fortified with an immense love. The burden of my death felt so insignificant compared to the enormity of that feeling. I woke, sobbing at the profound feeling of joy bestowed upon me by my dream.

I imagine, despite the horror between Christ’s acceptance and his death, that my dream shares similarities with what he might have experienced.

Since the dream, I hold the feelings I experienced as close to my heart as I can. Though I have never had the opportunity to experience such a challenging trial in my waking life as finding comfort and acceptance with the immediacy of my death, I seek to employ the same lessons I found in my dream with everyday decisions. At any junction, acceptance with the results and possibilities following the made decision is vital. Without it, peace in life remains beyond my grasp.

If you are a Christian celebrating the Easter resurrection today, remember Christ’s decision. Remember the last lesson he offered to the world before he allowed himself to be carried away on the current of destiny. Though your life moves forward with the comfort of eternal peace upon your death, remember that Christ shows you how to find peace every day before then. He shows you how to find your own Gethsemane.

Reserving Judgement

2012-04-01T10:51:00.000-05:00

Trayvon Martin. George Zimmerman. Right now, these two names cause more turmoil throughout our nation than any others. Their simple mention spurs discussions and arguments full of anger, resentment, and outright hate. The entire situation boils down to one simple, common, and extremely dangerous concept - prejudice.

More often than not, the word prejudice conjures ideas of racial profiling, but the definition of the word is not exclusive to skin color. We practice prejudice constantly, making decisions about people without the slightest bit of information. I am sitting in a Starbucks writing this, and every time someone walks in the door, I form an opinion about that person based on what I see. I am pre-judging them.

A family just walked in. I see they are well dressed, their clothes appear to be taken care of. I assume they have money.
Some young men walk in. Their faces sport beards and glasses, their hair is mussed in a controlled fashion, anchored by product. Earrings decorate their lobes. Their dress is casual, but hip - faded jeans and t-shirt for one, untucked button down with a tie over dark jeans for the other. My first impression is Indie rocker types. Being that it is Sunday and churches are nearby, my assumption is praise band members.
Two middle-age men come in wearing comfortable clothes, and short hair. The act important, look meaty, but in that swollen, I-haven’t-worked-out-in-a-couple-years way. Their gestures are large, they speak in loud voices. My assumption is former high school or college athletes who are now involved in sales.

While none of these first impressions will affect my life or theirs, the fact that I have prejudice for these people is still real. My opinions were formed without information and were based solely on how they looked and how they acted during my brief encounter. My assumptions are based on my experiences, which have nothing to do with the truth. If I encountered them in the future, my prejudice would inform they way I deal with them.

These kind of prejudices create the unfortunate and sad situation in Sanford, Florida.

In the first instance, the events leading up to the encounter between George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin were rooted in prejudice. But, without any further knowledge of George Zimmerman’s mindset, the only prejudice we can assume is that, as a member of the neighborhood watch, Zimmerman was fundamentally prejudiced against unfamiliar individuals walking his block after dark. On the evening of February 26, Mr. Zimmerman’s duty was to keep an eye on the neighborhood and inform the authorities of any potential wrong doing. He did that. It was his choice to follow Martin, instead of letting the police handle the situation, that lead to the shooting.

The second instance of prejudice surrounding the situation is rooted in the hearts of the rest of us. From the moment the story blew up on social media, the news crews, newspapers, and talking heads have all pushed the public in thousands of different directions. We have heard that Trayvon was an angel, a druggie, a violent kid, a gentle, respectful young man. We have heard that George Zimmerman is a racist, a good wholesome man, or a violent individual. It is hard to put the pieces together, and the media, eager for ratings, certainly tries hard to do it for us.

Keeping ourselves un-prejudiced towards someone or a situation is hard. With the barrage of media reports from opposing camps, the ramped up rhetoric from social organizations, the explosion of social media opinions, it is no wonder George Zimmerman has gone into hiding. This kind of un-informed prejudice leads to mob mentality. Someone will go too far, and instead of one dead young man, we could end up with two. We can only hope no one decides to take justice into their own hands.

Prejudice is dangerous on a more personal level as well. As a teacher, I know I practiced prejudice towards students on campus. I made assumptions based on how a student dressed, or who a student was with. I lumped them into groups, which is unfair to the student, who has to dig their way out of the pit into which I have thrown them. It is also unfair to me, as I haven't given myself a chance to develop an accurately informed opinion.

We can work to limit prejudice in our own lives. Don’t make up your mind about someone until you know about them. If you have deep seated prejudice already, give those individuals or that group the opportunity to prove you wrong. You may be surprised at how often you are.

The Snooze Button

2012-03-25T10:25:00.001-05:00

For as long as I can remember, I have been in the midst of a winner-take-all struggle with my alarm clock. Every night, when I reset my alarm for the next day, I vow not to allow the fourteen year old clock-radio to win. I look into its oversized face, daring the glaring red letters to tempt me into hitting snooze again. Sure, at night I am bold and resilient, ready to resist the temptation of six more minutes of sleep, but, when morning arrives, my hand acts of its own accord, bridging the yawning void between my nightstand and bed, drawn like a buzzing bee to the freshly opened flowers of spring. It hits snooze, and I slip fitfully back into the kind of slight sleep which brings no true rest.

Unfortunately, this is my daily battle. It seems like the only time I ever win this one is when my wake up time is earlier than 5am (which is extremely rare), or when I circumvent the alarm completely and choose to wake up when I wake up (this is rare as well). So, instead of keeping my head up high, strong in the knowledge I determine my own destiny, I trod along, burdened by the fetters slapped on every morning by my snooze button.

Sure, the snooze button appears harmless. After all, I have managed to adapt my lifestyle and morning routine to accommodate its unwanted gifts. What is six minutes here, six minutes there? Six minutes tend to add up. The most frustrating aspect of my dilemma stems from two bits of knowledge I frequently use to beat myself over the head.

First, I never feel more rested after hitting the snooze button multiple times. Does six minutes really make a difference in my day? Does twelve? The answer is no. Most mornings, I actually feel more rested the first time my alarm goes off. After I hit snooze a couple of times before I emerge from my warm, fluffy cocoon, my body feels like I ran a marathon the day before and then went on a ten hour bender, mixing every possible liquor before slumping my way into the sack, exhausted and near death. Does it change anything? Never. I still succumb to the intermittent siren call of my alarm. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Hit-snooze. Hit-snooze.

Second, I miss out on the things I would prefer to do in the morning before I start my day out in the world. I know my writing productivity would blossom if I would just get up on time. I also enjoy a freshly cooked breakfast, and while I don’t despise a microwaved oatmeal or a bowl of granola, when compared with three eggs over-easy accompanied by crisp bacon and some breakfast potatoes, the easy, quick option quickly loses its luster.

How much time have you lost?

Think about it. If you are a snooze addict like me, consider the time you spend in bed, barely sleeping, wasting away your day, all because of this vile button. Think back on last week. How many times did you hit snooze each day? Two? Three? I think I hit snooze an average of three times a day - eighteen minutes. I did that five days last week. I lost an hour and a half of my life to the snooze button last week alone. Now multiply that out over your entire life. In the last year, I have lost more than three complete days to the snooze button.

For me, the idea of hitting snooze extrapolates out into the rest of life. Hitting the snooze button is simply a way to avoid moving forward into your day. By granting ourselves six more minutes each time we give our alarm a soft pat, we delay the beginning of the daily journey. We drift back into our dreams for a few minutes more and push reality back.

But, reality is where our dreams come true.

How many of us hit the snooze button in our waking life? When the universe triggers an alarm, urging you to take a step forward to seize your dreams, do you do it? Or do you hit the snooze button?

Instead of allowing ourselves a few more minutes of dreaming like we do in the morning, our waking snooze button pushes our true dreams further away. Dreaming about your future can be daunting, and I understand not wanting to take the first step towards making your dreams come true, but every moment wasted by not pursuing our dreams only increases the possibility they will never come true.

Do you want to live your life trapped in the mediocre purgatory of snooze inspired drowsing, or do you want to wake up when called, taking the leap and emerging fully awake into the possibilities your life has to offer? Do you want your life experience shortened six little minutes at a time, or do you want to give yourself the gift or more life every day?

I think, when put plainly, the answer is simple. Now, all you have to do is get out of bed and start dreaming.

The Best Time of the Year

2012-03-18T11:09:00.000-05:00

The best time of the year has arrived here in Houston - spring time. Our coastal city has shrugged off the vestiges of winter, welcoming the green accouterments common to this portion of the seasonal cycle. Our fields explode with color, the bare skeletons of trees are once again filled in with verdant life, and birds sing invitations to emerge from our hovels to enjoy the renewed earth.

Spring began early this year, if a little fitfully (as I referenced a couple of months ago in a political leaning post Wildflowers, Flip-Flops, and the GOP). Warm weather briefly pushed through the mild winter, thoroughly confusing the circadian rhythms found in our ecosystem. Some trees budded early, wildflowers burst from the soil with a fervor typically reserved for March and April, warm-weather clothing made an escape from the backs of drawers. For a while, we seemed to have a battle between seasons - a week of winter here, a week of spring there - and neither could seem to overcome the other.

Until now.

Appropriately enough, Spring Break 2012 heralded the true coming of Spring 2012. The warm weather was ushered in with an outpouring of rain, adding to our particularly wet year. Though we still fly towards the Vernal Equinox, the calendar beginning of the spring season, our climate is already there.

Spring time for me is a time for shorts and flip-flops, a time to put away the coats, sweaters, and scarves. It is a time of warm sun and cool breezes, of sitting on the patio and enjoying a beverage or two. It is a time of balance.

Spring time also brings birds to the limbs of trees, singing songs of the earth’s beauty. Slow bees buzz amongst the flowers, collecting and distributing pollen to ensure next year’s spring time floral explosion. Green pushes through muddled brown bark as fresh new growth stretches towards the sun.

While I usually do some precursor work in my flowerbeds and yard in February - pruning the roses and crepe myrtles, fertilizing the yard - most of my work is done during Spring Break. On Wednesday, after the rain settled down, I finally got into the yard for some good, hard work. I dug holes and filled them with plants, removed overgrown bushes and weeds, dead-headed the roses, excavated a failed drainage project, built a base for my sinking outdoor storage cabinet, and cleared out winter junk from the flower beds. I finished my day happy, stinky, and sporting a red shade on my shoulders a lobster would be proud of.

Despite the burning pain, I loved every minute of it. I worked again on Friday and Samantha joined in with me Saturday. Now my yard is just about finished, needing only a few more bags of mulch and a little bit of top soil.

Now, I get to relax and enjoy the fruits of my labors. As we delve further into the seasonal cycle, I hope that spring will fend off summer as long as it can, maintaining the beautiful feeling the combination of springtime delights delivers to my joyful heart. If not, and the heat of summer comes when called, I am certain to find a slew of summer characteristics in which I can find a similar joy.

Untethered

2012-03-11T10:19:00.000-05:00

The other night, I was talking to Samantha on my cell. I was at home relaxing and she was on her way back from a Mary Kay appointment. We usually call each other when we are on our way home, beginning our time together a little earlier. Yeah, I know, it’s sweet. Anyway, nature called, so I got up from the couch and headed to the bathroom. I tucked the phone between my ear and my shoulder, leaned over and lifted the lid and seat on the toilet. The next thing I know - KERPLUNK! My phone slipped from its cradle and gravity did the rest, aiming my phone straight at the toilet bowl.

I snatched the phone from the bowl, grabbed a towel, and dashed for the kitchen, wiping as I went. I ripped open the pantry door, grabbed a zip-lock sandwich bag, and snatched an open bag of jasmine rice from the shelf. The outside now dry, my phone went into the bag, followed by as much of the rice as would fit. I only hoped everything I had read on the internet about using rice to save a phone from an unfortunate encounter with water would work.

With my phone now buried in a bag of rice, I immediately felt gratitude I hadn’t yet started to pee before my phone took its swan dive. That might have been a mess rice couldn’t have solved.

Now, a few days later, I am happy to report that my phone still holds a charge, makes all the necessary sounds, reacts to swipes on the screen, and appears dry. Unfortunately, I can’t see anything on the screen. It has managed to not run out of a charge even though the last time it was plugged in was two days ago. It remains sequestered in a bag of rice on my kitchen counter.

So, since Thursday night, I have been phoneless, unconnected, and untethered to the world.

In this age of instant connectability, living life without a cell phone has been odd. When I went to teach Friday, I told Samantha I would call her to meet for lunch. She asked if I even knew her phone number. I am happy to report that after ten years, I confidently have it memorized. But, I am not sure I have many others memorized. I tried to recall friends’ numbers, family numbers, and other important numbers. I got nothing. I know mine, Samantha’s, 911, and a smattering of useless numbers from my pre-cell phone childhood. Awesome, huh.

The next trouble I encountered was red lights. I hadn’t realized how much I depended on my iPhone to get me through the red lights I encounter during my day. I don’t use my phone while driving, except for directions or to talk. When stopped though, the story changes. I think I read most of Stephen King’s latest thriller 11/22/63 at stop lights through my Kindle app. I check the weather, as if I need digital confirmation for what I can see right outside my car window. I check my email. I text. I pay bills, reload my starbucks card, learn french.

Now that I don’t have my phone, what the hell am I supposed to do with red lights?

I can look at the wildflowers outside my window. I can acknowledge the other people around me (if they weren’t all on their cell phones). I can look up at the sky and experience the beauty of the planet on which we live. I can take a moment and let my mind be still.

In a way, I find it slightly ironic, and a bit pleasing, that this happened at the beginning of Spring Break. I get a vacation from my normal weekly life and at the same time, I get a vacation from my digital shackles. I appreciate being unavailable. I can only be reached if I want to be reached. I am free to sit here, writing my blog, without the distraction of text messages, facebook notifications, myfitnesspal bothering me about entering my breakfast, or any other distractions my phone thinks up. It is nice.

Try it. Try a day or two without your phone. Let people know you are disconnecting so they don’t worry - because they will. You know they will. Then put the phone away. Turn it off. Open yourself to the world out there.

Just don’t go about it the way I did. Water and phones don’t mix. Let’s hope the rice works.

Six Months to Live

2012-03-04T10:25:00.000-06:00

This week was just another tumult filled week in the history of our planet, but it brought me back to a topic I occasionally ponder - would I live my life any differently if I knew exactly how much time I had remaining in this existence?

Given this question, I think most of us would quickly make some sort of bucket list and try to check off our most prized experiences before we expired. We would make sure to do all the things we ever imagined doing in our life, see all the places we had hoped to see. I am sure I would do the same exact thing.

I always consider how differently we might treat other people were our time limited. Would we be nicer? Would we show more love? Would we apologize more? Would we live as better people?

I am fairly confident the answer is yes. We would live our lives expressing the joy we feel in every moment remaining in our limited life. I think we would cherish the people we meet more heartily. I think we would give thanks to those around us for simply being. At least, this is my optimistic hope.

Invariably, my mind drives forward to the next question - how much time is required for a change in our behavior to take effect?

If you were told you had three months to live today, how would your behavior change? What if you were told six months? A year? Two years? Is there a limit on when your impending mortality affects you? What if your doctor called you into the office today, sat you down, and explained to you that you only had fifty more years to live? Would you change?

See, we all have an expiration date of some sort. As of now, we only have a limited amount of time on this planet before we leave. The time we spend amongst the rest of the human race is measured. If you said you would love more, you would be nicer, and you would live as a better person if your time was short, then I applaud you. But, regardless of how much time each of us might have left, my last question is always this - why would we act any different towards our fellow man whether we had six months or sixty years?

Giving It Up

2012-02-26T10:12:00.000-06:00

Eyes opening sluggishly. Movements slow. Early afternoon headaches and falling asleep by 7pm. Never quite on edge, but trending towards crabby. Cravings so insistent the playful combination of bitter and sweet flavors actually dances along the crenelated surface of my salivating tongue, though the warm liquid responsible for delivering such homey comfort is unfortunately absent.

This is how the Lenten season began for me.

I am not by nature a religious person. I feel no spiritual obligation to participate in Lent, though invariably I jump on the bandwagon every year. As odd as it may seem, I find a certain attractiveness in depriving myself of anything towards which I have an uncomfortable fondness for forty days. Last year was meat, and though I didn’t reflect the reason in my blog Meatless, Lent was the trigger that allowed me to abandon it. Well, for six months or so.

My decision to test my functionality caffeine-free was actually pretty easy. I questioned my behaviors and habits, and settled on the one that seemed the most addictive and the hardest to kick. Caffeine was obvious, as most other private music teachers will attest.

My last caffeinated beverage was Tuesday afternoon courtesy of Starbucks (surprise!). Using my free coffee card earned by way of addiction, I went big, ordering a Quad Venti Soy Caramel Macchiato. For those of you unfamiliar with the hot, sweet, goodness delicately balanced by the Bux baristas, this is an espresso (not pronounced with an “x”) drink layered for a tiered flavor profile. A well made Caramel Macchiato will delight your buds with a tunnel of flavor, the warm (soy) milky center, flavored with vanilla and caramel, passing through the bitter espresso until it reaches your waiting tongue. Usually a Venti is made with two shots. I had four. Sort of a Bon Voyage to Caffeine.

Needless to say, Wednesday was rough. Thankfully, my teaching day on Wednesdays doesn’t begin until 11am, so I had the opportunity to stretch the alarm that morning. When I arrived at the school of the day, I didn’t recognize the kids on the stage.

Uhoh.

These kids are on a rotating block schedule. They have four classes every other day. Today wasn’t my day to teach them; the day before was. A Monday holiday threw a kink in my schedule, and I hadn’t caught it. I felt like standing on the edge of the stage, fists shaking in the air, yelling “KHHHHAAAAAANNNN!”

Oh well. The beginning of a glorious Lenten season can not be ruined so easily. Feeling thoroughly chastised by the universe for missing a day of lessons, I went the one place I would feel better - Starbucks.

To tell the truth, I was invited. Samantha was already there, doing some Mary Kay business, and we had already planned to meet at a different Starbucks on one of my breaks later in the day, so it wasn’t as bad as I make it sound. I ordered a decaf Latte for her and a Iced Passion Tea for myself - it is the only decaf iced tea, and it was warm out. The headache started a little later. Then the fatigue, which quickly turned to exhaustion.

Thursday was no better, especially since I taught 18 lessons between 7:45am and 7:00pm. I survived on the eager hope I would make 39 more days, combined with the gentle placebo affect of a decaf (yes, I know there is a tiny amount of caffeine in decaf, but for all intensive purposes it is negligible - it would be like trying to get drunk on non-alcoholic beer). The placebo effect ended as soon as my cup was dry.

Now, Sunday morning, sitting in the inviting environment of my usual Bux, Led Zeppelin radio on Pandora.com, I feel semi-normal. My body hasn’t always relied on caffeine to stay alert, and I look forward to rediscovering early morning wakefulness without plugging my veins into a percolator.

The challenge of giving something, even if it is only for a limited time, is a tough one. The longer the habit has to develop, the more effort the dislodging process takes. My coffee habit began only a few years ago as a result of the energy drain of marching band season. It cemented itself that spring.

I know a few years is nothing compared to some people’s caffeine habits. I imagine my struggles are just a microcosm of the immense struggle it would take for a true addict to kick the habit. But, at least for my experience, I like to know I can choose to go without something if I make the decision. All it takes is one second at a time. Those seconds add up to minutes, hours, days, and weeks. Finally, at least for me, it will total 40 days, and if I choose, Lady Caffeine can be mine again.

Frank Chambers

@fxciv

Making Waves

2012-02-19T10:17:00.002-06:00

A couple of times a week I drive past the Liberty Tax services office near my house. I always feel amused by the young person stationed on the corner, dressed in a poor impression of the Statue of Liberty, dancing as if they are in the middle of their own private Soul Train.

I can’t imagine working that job. Sure, a paycheck is a paycheck, but my personality just doesn’t fit the job requirements. In fact, I imagine it takes a very special person to stand out in public, dressed in ridiculous garb, and wave at people all day long.

For the longest time, I felt embarrassed for the kid, projecting my own feelings onto their experience. Why, though, does it have to be embarrassing? Should dancing in public, in full view of thousands of people a day spur thoughts of inadequacy? Most of the people working the corner don’t display the best dance skills, but does it matter what anyone else thinks? I have written many times that it isn’t any of our business what others think of us. So, why should anyone feel uncomfortable selling tax services by dancing on the corner?

Honestly, I felt embarrassed for myself. No matter which Liberty Tax service I passed, the dancing statue always waves at everyone. I refused to wave back. Deep down, I felt that if I acknowledged their presence through my return wave, I would encourage their ridiculous behavior. By not waving, I ignored the potential discomfort felt were I dressed in a frumpy, green dress, jamming to the latest top 40 hits.

How dumb is that?

Recently, I decided to change my own ridiculous behavior. I now wave at the Liberty Tax Service dancers, wherever I find them. The first time I waved was spontaneous. As I approached the corner, I noticed the kid throwing down some awkward moves. Traffic was slow, so I watched for a long time from the corner of my eye. Of course, as I passed, he waved at me, and although I looked away and didn’t make eye contact, my right hand raised into the air and waved back.

Immediately, I giggled. I know part of my reaction stemmed from the amazement that I had actually acknowledged his presence. I just couldn’t contain my mirth that I had actually waved back, and accidentally, no less. I also giggled at the face Lady Liberty made, a combination of both surprise and joy I can only assume derived from my wave. Is it possible that through the simple action of a wave, I validated someone’s existence?

Since that day, I have made sure to wave every time I pass. I get the same reaction every time, though the dancers vary. They wave, I wave, then I giggle at the silliness of the whole episode. But, silliness is ok.

The one random wave that broke my pattern exposed a profound truth about my actions - the only reason I had to be embarrassed rested in my own inability to participate in something as simple as acknowledging another human being. My experience also opened my eyes to the majority of the people around me. If my waves could engender reactions of surprise, how infrequently do other people wave back? I don’t think I have been alone in my reluctance.

There is no reason not to wave back in a situation like that. No one needs to feel embarrassed for the Liberty Tax Service dancers. In fact, the only embarrassment any of us should feel originates from our unwillingness to pick up our hand and wave back. How hard is it, really?

Shot Through the Heart (and you’re to blame)

2012-02-12T17:55:00.003-06:00

Valentine’s Day is near. Can you feel it? The supermarket candy aisles pay tribute to candy hearts and oversized boxes of chocolates, floral markets burst with the giant influx of roses, and the diamond industry would have us believe the only way to your loved one’s heart is through sparkly minerals. Yes, America, St. Valentine’s day approaches - capitalism’s take on love.

The Valentine’s holiday has always amused me to some extent. In college, there was always a group of students who refused to participate due to the lack of a significant other. Instead of the celebration of love, these poor individuals focused on their lack of a partner, mourning their situation through Singles Awareness Day, or SAD. They wore black, some wouldn’t speak, and they refused to entertain the notion that love was possible.

Samantha and I officially started dating right around Valentine’s Day in 2002. We had our “coming out” at a joint mixer with Phi Mu Alpha and Sigma Alpha Iota in the music building at the University of Houston. We had both recently emerged from long relationships and planned on taking things slowly. She made me peanut butter cookies and gave me yellow roses. I gave her a book I made out of construction paper (elementary school style) detailing the reasons I liked her. I think it worked, after all, she has kept me around for another ten years.

Since we have been married, we have always agreed not to do the extravagant gift exchange celebrated by Valentine’s Day’s commercial sponsors. Our decision isn’t a protest of the commercial nature of the Hallmark Holiday, instead we have chosen to spend our money differently, creating memories instead.

Whether or not your buy an expensive gift, make something crafty, or do nothing at all (with your love’s permission), be sure to celebrate the holiday beyond the gift giving - celebrate the love (or pre-love) you share. It isn’t just about the gift wrap, the floral presentation, the fancy dinner, or the pay-off afterwards. Valentine’s Day is about the time you have spent together, the experiences you share, the moments you are apart and can’t stop thinking about each other. Valentine’s Day is about how you feel when your love is around, how you feel when they look at you, and how you still feel ten after you first got together.

Valentine’s Day should still be about love for those people tempted to celebrate SAD. Whether or not you have found love before, know that love is out there. Don’t feel saddened by the sappy couples that pop up like wildflowers on Valentine’s Day, feel emboldened by the possibility that love will find you for the first time or the thousandth. The most important thing to remember when thinking about the future possibility of love is that most people find it impossible to love someone who doesn’t love themselves. If love is avoiding you, turn introspective, make the decision to love yourself.

No matter what your plans are for Valentine’s Day, treat everyone you encounter with simple human love. Celebrate every personal encounter with the spirit of Cupid. Give those who have love a reminder and those who do not a reason to hope.

Happy Valentine’s Day 2012

Garbage In - Garbage Out

2012-02-08T10:48:00.001-06:00

I find most demotivational posters funny. They keep the humor simple, accessible, and pertinent to current trends. Barney from How I Met Your Mother decorates his office with demotivational posters (what does he do for a living anyway?), keeping anyone who enters his office grounded. Recently, I found one on Facebook I thought particularly funny. Under a picture of a hoverboard from Back to the Future II the caption declares “Scientists: You have 3 years.”

I always appreciated the power source for the futurized Delorean - trash. 2015 technology takes garbage and turns it into fuel for flying cars. Wow! Somehow, in the next two years, we are going to be surprised with rapid development in antigravity technology and a reimagination of our roadways.

I think many of us believe our bodies work the same way as the Delorean. We fill our bellies with heavy, unhealthy food, yet we expect to be fit and trim, full of energy. Somehow, our bodies are supposed to take garbage and turn it into fuel to fly. I am not sure biology works that way. Most of us know this, yet we do it anyway.

We treat our mental health the same way. When we input rubbish, we output rubbish. Garbage In - Garbage Out. We are not futuristic Deloreans. Dr. Brown has not been tinkering under our hood. We should not expect miracle results after filling our minds with trash.

Please allow me to clarify exactly what I mean by trash. I am talking about people and situations that pull us down. How many of us have a friend who chooses to dump on us every time we see them? That person fills our minds with trash, weighing us down, and eventually bringing us to a place where we are even with them. Ever heard the phrase “misery loves company?” Well, it does. When misery goes in, misery comes out.

The same goes for what you read, listen to, watch on television and in movies. All the stimulus found in our environments does one of two things - it lifts us up or it brings us down. Think about your experience. Do you fill your universe with garbage elements or with uplifting elements? Do you wake up to a series of demotivational posters, constantly describing how much you suck? Or is your life filled with the opposite - positive messages, stocking your soul with energy and life?

Garbage In - Garbage Out is true, but so is the opposite. Surround yourself with people who beam with positivity. Find friends who always build you up. Fill yourself with abundance instead of emptiness. Demotivational posters are fun, but your life should not read like one.

While a Delorean that flies using only garbage is fun to think about, our spirit does not work that way. The only way we are able to fly is to fill it full of positive energy, freeing us to float high above negative influences.

Frank Chambers

Follow on twitter @fxcIV

The Hero

2012-02-05T11:26:00.000-06:00

Our culture loves to celebrate the Hero. We idolize these men and women, placing them on a pedestal in hopes that someday we too can share the same characteristics they so prominently display in their lives. More often than not, these heros are sports characters, TV or movie stars, cultural and societal faces; all people who are detached from our everyday experience. But, what is to stop us from being the heros?

The term hero is versatile, used to describe a person who acted extraordinarily in a particular set of circumstances. In 2010, the year my band marched in the Tournament of Roses parade, the Grand Marshall was pilot Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger, the man who safely landed his disabled plane on the Hudson River shortly after take off. Most of us know nothing of this man other than this one heroic action. He was feted, then forgotten.

No doubt this year’s Super Bowl will feature a hero of sorts, the sports superstar who leads his team to the win. Millions will buy his jersey, displaying their proud support of their hero, eager to live up to his on field heroics.

The idea of the hero is an ancient one, stemming back to the Greeks. Heros were usually demigods who shared complicated relationships with both the people around them and the Gods who spawned them. Hero worship was real, as cults were typically founded to celebrate the hero mythology. Later, the idea of hero transferred into literary archetype, presented as a common man or woman who performed amazing feats of bravery without regard for their own safety.

The modern concept of heroics still fits into these two molds, with our sports superstars playing the part of conflicted demigod and more common, everyday people like Sully Sullenberger filling the role of the literary archetype.

I would like to suggest a third type of modern hero, one who never receives airtime on news stations, is never discussed over coffee with friends, or has their name plastered all over merchandise. This is the hero that does the right thing as often as possible, the hero that demonstrates how to live life through unremarkable example, quiet and steady, yet strong.

This is the hero we can all be.

Most of us will never win the Super Bowl. Most of us will never land a plane full of scared people on the Hudson River. But we can all live our lives in a way that encourages others around us to find the best way to live themselves. Our words and actions can be rooted in love. Our legacy could be as simple as leaving behind people who have chosen to live more positive lives.

While our heroics will go mostly unsung, we should take comfort in knowing that people are watching. Just as those familiar heros we see on TV will never know the names of all the people they have effected, neither will we. The power we have to be a positive force of change is amazing; use your power in the best possible way.

Be the hero to those around you. The true hero is one who doesn’t live to be a hero, but simply through living, becomes one.

Signing Day

2012-02-01T10:14:00.000-06:00

Today is college football connoisseur Christmas. It is Signing Day. This is the day where high school seniors and junior college standouts officially commit to a university football program, signing their next three to five years over to a coaching staff, a university body, and to a fan base. This single choice can make or break their career depending on a slew of influences beyond the recruit’s control.

I had a Signing Day of a sort while writing my last blog. There wasn’t the same kind of fanfare that accompanies a top recruit inking his name to the line, but the commitment is the same. In order to accept my February challenge of living more positively, I had to make a commitment to myself. I committed to being positive.

Unlike the college recruits, my commitment shouldn’t have a shelf life. Most of these athletes will be part of the squad at least four years. Some schools will red-shirt them for a year, elongating their eligibility to five years. If they happen to injure themselves during their college experience, they could even gain a sixth year of eligibility. If they are good enough, they might even declare for the NFL after three.

My commitment to retaining a positive outlook on life is indefinite. There is no expiration date when it comes to changing your life. No person with physical addictions ever wants to quit for just a few years; they want to quit for good. By signing up to live a more positive life, I am quitting negativity, not just putting it on hiatus.

Another difference between the young football players and myself are the benefits that accompany the commitment. They have to finish high school, move to college, pass their classes, practice, work out, then win football games while performing at a high level. Their big payoff is down the road, assuming they have worked hard enough, are talented enough, and have gained the right notice from scouts and pundits.

My commitment to finding positivity begins paying off right now. Immediately, my human interaction gains an extra level of connection as I look for the positives. I look for reasons to love everyone I meet. I look to celebrate simple moments.

Sure, there is as much work happening within my soul to maintain my positive positioning as there is with the future linebacker or wide receiver to become stronger, quicker, and more agile. While they spend time working on their bodies, I spend time crafting my spirit. They will see results just as I will, but while both sets of results are personal, mine are intangible and immediate.

Signing up for any commitment takes strength. These young men are choosing a college to craft their future, and whether or not they know it, their decision can have a long lasting impact on their success. Committing to personal change takes strength as well, and it is strength all of us can find within. If there is something you dislike about yourself, make a commitment, sign a contract. Making that decision is definitely scary, but finding the faith to go through with it is the first step towards something beautiful.

Today is Signing Day. What is your commitment?

When in Doubt, Say Thanks!

2012-01-29T16:14:00.002-06:00

One of my readers recently issued a challenge. While I am not sure the intention was to drive me in a different direction than I am currently headed, it certainly knocked me off my course for a little bit. Now, I am happy to say, I have faith I am back on track, albeit a different one.

The reader didn’t issue a challenge straight-up, medieval style, slapping a glove across my face. In fact, I am not sure the point was ever to challenge me at all. Needless to say, the result is the same - I need to take a more positive view of the world in which I live.

Looking back on the course my blog has taken, I see the message has altered, straying from my original uplifting and positive messages focusing on how to live a better life. Lately, I seem to live in a semi-cynical world, full of selfish people only interested in self-serving opportunity - at least, that is what my blog might have you believe. I know this is not the world I live in. I have let myself develop tunnel vision, focusing only on those people whose actions and words seem to force my conclusions into an ego-driven corner.

February will be my challenge. I will remain positive every day, looking for the best in every situation. Instead of looking for the worst in people, I will actively make the choice to see the perfection hiding behind a scared and hurt facade. I will find opportunities to practice what I have preached in my blogs, working to help the people who share my existence find the same positivity in their own universe. Then, I will come write about it.

I know the first few days, maybe even weeks, could be challenging. While I fear that I might have been marinating in this negative stew for a while now, I am confident my destiny lies somewhere other than cynicism.

My first step, and probably the most important, is to always be thankful for what the universe brings my way. Every situation offers a teachable moment, no matter how negative it might appear at first. Finding those lessons and building upon them is primary to my success. At the very least, I will be thankful for the learning opportunity brought to me.

Laying a foundation in thankfulness should help direct me towards the positive goal I hope to achieve. By establishing my life in a place of thanks, I can be confident that my mindset will begin to change. How fast change occurs depends on how devoted I am to finding the best in every situation.

I would like to challenge you with the same goal. Make February the month you determine to find positivity in every experience. See the best in everyone you meet. Look behind upsetting actions and words and see the real person, then find a reason to love them. Share your experiences by emailing me or commenting on the blog. I would love to know what obstacles everyone else has overcome in the drive to discover the world we live in is, in fact, awesome.

Frank Chambers

Follow on twitter @fxcIV

Spin Cycle

2012-01-25T20:44:00.000-06:00

Last night, I wasn’t sure my washing machine was working properly. I could hear it making noises, but couldn’t tell if anything was actually happening on the inside. We have a front loading washer with the window in the door, so I snagged a flashlight and shined it through the window, peering into the guts of the machine. Inside, the towels were tumbling as the washer was going through its spin cycle. Everything was as it should be.

The laundry room isn’t the only place we experience the spin cycle. Last night, the entire country received a lesson on the spin cycle from our two major political parties and the Tea Party. Facts were bandied about, claims of success and failure presented by all three sides, figures and numbers were held up for all to see. Spin was in full session. Afterwards, the news media took the spin and spun it some more, twisting vague statements, squeezing every last drop of advertising value from the political statements.

This is every day in the political sphere and the news media. In the GOP primary process, one candidate makes claims about themselves only to have them disavowed by another candidate. They make claims about each other that later are exposed as lies and falsehoods. This is spin. This is the game played constantly in every aspect of political life.

The media is famous for spin as well. Each news outlet, regardless of what they might say in public, is driven by a certain set of principals. The reporters, copy writers, and editors at print and television news establishments have their own politics which will invariably color their content. Each company spins the news, choosing its presentation to garner the appropriate reaction from readers and viewers.

Spin isn’t just a game played on the national level. We practice spin within our own circles. We might exaggerate to our friends to make ourselves look better - “I once caught a fish thiiiiiiiiiiis big!” We cover mistakes with viable excuses, we avoid telling the whole truth to people to protect our image, we attempt to recuse ourselves from situations that would make us appear unfavorable.

We even spin ourselves. Have you ever done something, felt bad about it later, then justified it to yourself just to feel better, despite the fact that you still disagreed with your own actions? I have. Sometimes we spin ourselves so well we confuse the truth and end up believing the false story. Only later, when we truly look within, do we see where we hid the truth.

Look behind the mirage. Look past the spin to find the real story. Get your news from multiple sources, then piece the real story together. Listen to what the politicians have to say, but check their facts before you believe them. Sometimes, like I had to do with my washing machine, you just have to get a flashlight and look around a bit to see if what you are hearing is the truth, or just the spin cycle.

Frank Chambers

Follow on twitter @fxcIV

When the Reason has Gone . . .

2012-01-22T11:25:00.002-06:00

“Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties

And one day passed away in his sleep

And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days

And passed away”

These are lyrics from the Ben Folds song “The Luckiest.” This touching song struggles to describe the undefinable feeling of love people share. In the quoted verse, after the man dies, the woman passes too. Her reason for existing - her husband - has left, leaving her without a reason to live any longer.

Joe Paterno, the stalwart icon of Penn State football, succumbed to the same fate. While I certainly do not discount his relationship with his family or his wife, Penn State football was JoePa’s life. His tenure in State College began in 1950 when he followed his college coach as an Assistant Coach. His relationship with Penn State lasted for 61 years.

The story of Paterno’s death really began three months before he actually passed. Abandoned by the school whose success as a major university and football powerhouse are closely tied to Paterno’s tenure, Paterno went home. Nine days later he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Three weeks after that he fell and broke his hip. Six weeks later he was in the hospital due to failing health. Nine days after he entered the hospital, he died.

While Joe’s passing was not as quick as the woman in the song lyrics, his death derived from the same source. Penn State was his life blood. While he still technically remained a tenured faculty member of Penn State, he was not the coach. He was forcibly put to pasture.

I have to wonder, had Joe left on his own terms, would he have fallen so quickly so fast? Part of me thinks not. The void left by Penn State football would have been large, but manageable. But, can anyone survive when their heart has been torn from their chest? Penn State was Joe Paterno’s heart.

While I find the lyrcis of “The Luckiest” touching and heartfelt - it is the song Samantha and I danced to at our wedding - the same circumstances found in Joe Paterno’s death are sad. Heartbreak is tough to overcome.

Frank Chambers

Follow @fxcIV

The Difference Between 15% and 31% is Zero

2012-01-18T22:08:00.001-06:00

I am not entirely sure what the deal is with Presidential candidates and their tax returns. Apparently, there is no law on the books that requires candidates to disclose their income tax return, but since 1968, when Mitt Romney’s father ran for President and released his own records, it has become tradition.

Recently, Romney revealed that he was taxed around the 15% level. His income comes primarily from financial investments made years ago, which keeps the bulk of his income taxed at the capital gains rate. By contrast Newt Gingrich revealed his tax rate was 31%.

So what.

What is the big deal that Romney was taxed at a lesser rate than Gingrich? Does this somehow affect either of the men’s ability to govern? Does it change their politics or their electability?

No.

So what is the big deal? Well, the point Gingrich seems to be hinting at is that Romney’s income level, based primarily on investments, prevents him from understanding the plight of the working man. How can someone worth over $200 million understand what it is like to worry about bills at the end of the month? How can someone who theoretically never has to work a day in his life to earn a dime connect with the overwhelming number of Americans who are now below the poverty line?

I think Gingrich has a point. Romney can’t. Now, please don’t get me wrong. I am not saying that because of Romney’s financial situation he would not be a good leader. I am saying that Gingrich is correct. Romney can’t understand. Romney himself, in an effort to make light of his own income level, shoved his own foot into his mouth by saying his speaking fee income for last year wasn’t very much. It was $374,327.62.

You know what is even funnier about Romney’s not very large speech related income? In 2009, it only took $343,927 to be in the 1%. I think this is where Gingrich hits the nail on the head. Romney is so used to a lavish life, so used to money always being there, that an income that qualifies him for the 1% is regarded as “not very much.”

So, does Gingrich prove anything about being a better Presidential candidate by exposing Romney as wealthy? Not necessarily. Gingrich, while being taxed at twice the level as Romney, was still taxed at 31%, which also happens to be the tax rate for the top 1% of income earners in the US. So both Gingrich and Romney are in the 1%. The only difference is that Gingrich was taxed on earned income versus investment income, leaving him subject to a higher tax rate.

Gingrich has since said that his goal in getting Romney to reveal his tax level is not to lambast the man, but to point out that everyone should be taxed at that rate, not just the super wealthy. I don’t think he minded scoring political points with lower income groups though by seemingly bloodying Romney’s nose.

Gingrich himself is worth somewhere between $10-$20 million. While only a paltry 10% of Romney’s worth, his net worth is still at the very least 100 times the net worth of the average American citizen. While Gingrich still has to work for his money, he is still a far cry from the ability to connect to ordinary, everyday Americans.

I am sure many of you think I am trying to play the angle that the Republicans are out of touch with the common American experience. You are right, I am. But, I am playing this angle as well - so are the Democrats.

The point I am trying to make is that it doesn’t matter what the finances of the President are like. Presidents over the years have been very wealthy men. Some were not wealthy until they left office, but most recent presidents already had accumulated wealth prior to entering office. If Romney were elected President, he would be the 4th wealthiest man to hold the office (accounting for inflation). Gingrich would be the 21st wealthiest. Even the esteemed George Washington was worth over half a billion dollars.

What matters is their character, their leadership traits. Bullying someone into releasing their tax records accomplishes nothing because it proves nothing. The only result is that it demonstrates that the current tax code benefits those with a lot more money than you or I. We all know these men have more money than we do - does it matter how much more?

Instead of losing ourselves in the drama, pay attention to how the candidates act. Review their record, not what they say. Sure, the rhetoric can be entertaining, but half of what any politician says seems to false and the other half confusing. Choose your candidate based on what you see in their soul. You can just about count on them being rich.

Frank Chambers

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The Marathon

2012-01-15T10:59:00.002-06:00

Runners by the thousands descended on downtown Houston today for the running of the Houston Marathon. All kinds of people braved the cold morning to get this years chance to conquer the course. Of course, to get to the starting line, each and every one of them had to conquer something else first - themselves.

For the amateur runner, the decision to run 26.2 miles is not an easy one. There is a large leap between running three miles as a fitness routine and swallowing the twenty-six week training period that typically precedes running a full marathon. Many people start the training and never finish, succumbing to injuries or excuses.

I trained for the marathon a few years ago but failed to make it to the starting line due to a knee injury. While I was disappointed not to have to opportunity to participate, I still learned much about myself. Without the guts to jump into the training process in June, I wouldn’t be able to say that I have run sixteen miles straight. Apparently, sixteen was my limit, because after that last run, my right knee wouldn’t even let me go one mile before the pain was so much I couldn’t even walk.

I have since recovered from my injury, but have consistently succumbed to the other reason runners don’t compete - excuses. I have experienced the excitement of following the race on my bike though, and while I definitely didn’t feel the joy of success at the end of the run, I did enjoy myself.

The runners in a marathon are all types - professional, amateur, recreational, exhibitionist, etc. Some are running for causes, having raised money for a charity. Others run for themselves, eagerly desiring the 26.2 sticker they can add to the back of their car. While following the marathon on the bike, I saw people wearing normal running clothes, bathing suits, trash bags, and even a statue of liberty costume. Like I said - all types.

At one point, our friends running the race texted “need advil.” We raced to the nearest drug store and bought a bottle, then tracked them down north of the Galleria and delivered the goods. After they ran off, we offered the advil to the other runners passing by. It didn’t last long, eager hands grasping at the tiny pills. Later we did the same with a tray of Oreo cookies.

Running a long race like this teaches you a lot about yourself. Over the course of the training period, you run hundreds of miles, and unless you have a partner or a running group, much of it is spent on your own. Some people get lost in their iPod, others in their own mind. I ran without music, listening to what my body had to say, making adjustments as I went.

Steady activity like this is a lot like meditation. Rhythmic breathing, steady footfalls, conscious awareness of your body, your mind, and your surroundings, all contribute to a meditative state. The results of long distance running are similar to practicing yoga, producing states of a gentle euphoria along with an intense knowledge of self.

I applaud the runners today for their dedication to their goal and to themselves. Persevering over such a long time is difficult, and your race today is tribute to both your strength as a runner and as a human. Congratulations on both your physical and mental resolve.

Some of us might be involved in marathons of our own without ever running a single step. Remember, just like the runners today, if you believe in yourself and never quit, you can feel the exhilaration of conquering your goal as well.

Frank Chambers

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There'll be Banana Hammocks Everywhere!

2012-01-11T21:53:00.000-06:00

Have you ever taken a situation, and anticipating some sort of dread consequences, blown the potential end result way out of proportion in your mind? Yes, table of one right here! I think this is one of the reasons I have always felt a kinship with JD, Zach Braff’s character from the TV show Scrubs.

JD’s fantastical departures from reality were the backbone of the comedy element to the show. No matter the seriousness, any situation lent itself to being elaborated upon through JD’s wacky imagination. He would play out fights, adventures, tragedies, and love stories, lost in his own mind until snapped back into reality. The results were always funny.

I often find myself lost in mental episodes like JD, although the humor level is never quite so high. I frequently play out conversations I am about to have, attempting to anticipate the direction in my head. Arguments seem to be a favorite, going through the he said, she said, as if my mind really could understand the way other people think.

The funny part about my own episodes? Like JD’s, they rarely ever turn out the way I imagined.

For JD, imagining alternate realities provided an escape from the drama of his real life. Sometimes his fantasies took him to a place where he could feel like a kid again, lost in his cotton candy dreams. Other times, his mind jumped track like a runaway train, ending in a place no one anticipated, like finding his apartment full of male strippers wearing nothing but thongs.

Where JD got lost in the wacky and absurd, I get lost in the negative too often. There have been plenty of occasions where I attempted to avoid the mental parlay, but the ego is sometimes hard to control. Playing through the negative provides one small benefit - I prevent myself from saying something stupid out loud when I have already said it in my mind. On the other hand, when my brain does go the way of JD’s comedic romps, I have the opportunity to ready jokes and anecdotes.

The imagination is a wild horse, full of spunk and eager to run. Just like any feral animal, it can turn on us and bite. When harnessed properly, imagination opens doors to worlds we couldn’t have previously imagined. You have to be careful, reigning it in at times and letting it run free when appropriate. If not, you never know where it will take you.

Frank Chambers

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Wildflowers, Flip-flops, and the GOP

2012-01-08T11:41:00.000-06:00

I am wearing shorts today. I wore them yesterday and the day before. I also wore flip-flops, which in Hawaii are called slippers. Is it really January?

Dropping Samantha off at church this morning, I noticed a field full of blooming wildflowers, their bright colors a refreshing contrast to the typicaly bleak Houston winter. But, they are spring bloomers. Isn’t it January?

The GOP field had yet another debate last night. Again, it was touted to be Mitt Romney vs. the Un-Romneys, but ended up as yet another fight to be the Un-Romney of the week. The fervor of the election cycle ramped up early this year, begging the question - is it November? I thought it was January?

The major difference between warm weather, wild flowers, and wily political banter? I will never tire of the first two.

I pledge allegiance to never go away, even when I should.

I am surprised the political handlers of the GOP have allowed so many debates. Gearing up so early creates voter fatigue, generating future disinterest in the political process when it actually matters. Can they really imagine the typical voter continuing to welcome the GOP candidates into their living rooms for another nine primary debates. Thank God the first Presidential debate won’t be until October 3 - we will enjoy a blessed seven month reprieve from the debates.

Perhaps I misjudge the differences between flowers, nice temperatures, and stuffy politicians. Maybe I should search for similarities.

We got to know Mr. Cain so much he dropped out.

The longer the warm weather persists, the more opportunity people have to dress in lighter, more revealing clothing. Shorts make an appearance; tank-tops, t-shirts, skirts, and the afore mentioned flip-flops emerge from winter storage to show some skin out in public. The same happens with the GOP candidates. The longer they show their face on TV, the longer their blurbs are featured on the internet, and the more debates they have, the more we get to know them. Just like warm-weather influences the length of hemlines, the more we get to see what these candidates are hiding. Perhaps this is the reason we have enjoyed seeing the cycle of Un-Romney’s parade across the GOP’s favor. After a little time in the spotlight, we see more of the candidates than we wanted to.

When compared to the beauty of wildflowers, I balk at finding an accurate comparison with the current crop of GOP candidates. While their personalities are sometimes as colorful as a field of blooms, I have a feeling few parents would be comfortable photographing their children sitting in the midst of the GOP field. The biggest similarity between the GOP candidates and these early blooming wildflowers can be drawn to their longevity. The earlier they come out, the sooner they wilt, their flowers losing color and falling to the earth, becoming fodder for the next crop to emerge.

The only real conclusions I can draw on this early January day are ones that suggest my joy at finding unseasonable warmth and an early splash of color will soon be extinguished. Unfortunately, I will only be left to survive the grey Houston winter with the warmth of knowing that when the flowers return for real, accompanied by clear skies and comfortable temperatures, the GOP field will be gone, leaving in their place only one candidate. Maybe the election cycle will take a break. Probably not though, but, at least it will be nice enough to go outside and avoid the craziness that is this current election cycle.

Frank Chambers

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A Starry Night

2012-01-04T21:21:00.000-06:00

Have you looked at the stars recently? I mean really looked at them. The kind where you step outside the city lights, away from the light pollution, away from the urban hustle and bustle, and stare into the heavens. It is majestic. If you haven’t done it recently, I suggest you create some time in your schedule to do so, even it it means just driving until you can’t see the obscene glow of a nearby metropolis creeping over the horizon.

I had the opportunity to bare witness to the sky over the recent holiday break and I have to admit, I had forgotten about the natural beauty constantly hanging over our heads, hidden behind the sheen of electrical progress. I stood there, draped in the cloth of night, gazing at the unfamiliar stars whose names I had once known. I could make out the constellations I faintly remembered, find the unblinking planets whose names I knew but locations I didn’t, and spot the faint glow of the Milky Way constellation floating across the dark night.

It was beautiful. And the sad part - I was still not nearly far enough from civilization to taste all of the beauty the night sky has to offer.

As more and more of our population flocks to city life, we increasingly lose touch with our place in the universe - I know I had. Ancient man constantly knew his seeming insignificance. Overhead, placed by unknown forces, the glowing embers burned through the dark of night. While looking up at the multitude, our ancestors couldn’t help knowing haw small they were. As the universe is blocked from view by the glow of cities, we observe less and less stars, forgetting where we are.

As I stood looking upwards, I realized how tiny we are, our insignificance in this world. I am only one person in seven billion living on this planet. Humans are only one species out of millions. How many planets hide in the billions of undiscovered solar systems belonging to uncounted galaxies. Our average life span only counts for .00000002125% of the Earth’s total existence. The Earth has only been around for a quarter of the time the Universe has existed.

How small are we? How infinitesimal? How unimportant?

It would be very easy to sit back, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of imagining the immensity of the universe, but doing so would be unnecessary and unwise. As tiny as we are, as simple and small our impact on this Universe might be, we still mean something. We play a part in the grand drama simply by existing.

Naturally, we might feel lost looking up at the glowing tapestry of stars, but our influence is definitely worth something. Imagine this world if our heroes had looked up at the stars and decided to do nothing, choosing insignificance when faced with the overwhelming reality of the universe. We face the same choice every day. Our actions determine whether or not we choose insignificance or importance.

Staring up at the stars on an early winter night, I felt unburdened by their presence. Looking billions of years into the past proved to me that we are part of something greater; each of us plays a part. No matter your beliefs, there is no denying the beauty of this Universe we call home. Take a trip. Look up. See into your own heart. You might be surprised to find billions of lights shining back at you.