We did what the US government wanted and predicted we would do. We shopped. We bought middle-class items for our middle-class home and our middle-class family: Lacrosse stick, kids ski goggles, ski gloves, a $300 Costco run with the predictable staples – toilet paper, tissues, two huge ass head and shoulders bottles and of course some Kirkland brand Prilosec. And if that wasn’t enough, to top it all off “literally” we purchased a rooftop cargo box so that we could hall all our stuff. Mission accomplished.

Despite all this consumption, we found time enjoy being together as a family. We bought our Christmas tree at a street side lot in San Jose. It is small but has a lot of character. And it was only $25, a big win in the savings department.

On Sunday, I took a quick spin up to the UC and down in time to make it to church where the pastor spoke about challenging bible verses that promote slavery or seem to encourage man’s dominance over women. These bible verses make me cringe so I was delighted to hear it being tackled head-on. He introduced me to a new website God’s Imaginary which wasn’t nearly as sensational as the title led me to believe it could be.

And now I am headed to bed. Lucca just came in crying because he had a bad dream, so I heald him for a few minutes. Layla spent the afternoon preparing for her upcoming production of the musical Footloose.

Tomorrow it’s back to work.

It was a quieter time, a less troubled time. Now it follows that I go wherever it goes. If not in my hand, always by my side.

Distracted

Idle moments turn into information for information’s sake. At the cost of my attention.

Justify it I do, no time wasted, learning, evolving, connecting to the point where we are all disconnected.

On the eve of the end of net neutrality, the death of the free internet. But was it ever really free? The best-paid SEO rises to the top of the Google search engine.

There has been a long lapse between when I last wrote and now. Many websites have popped, and one, well it is lost to the woods. The cream that rose to the top, sip, drink up, savor the flavor of a warm new cup. And now it is gone.

And this is life, here one day, gone the next. Close my eyes and move on. Tomorrow is a new day, with new media, and a consuming consumption, eating away at my presence. Distracted, so distracted.

Extras:

1. Stephen’s Health Assessment 2012

“God put me here for a reason and He has a perfect plan for me.”

I don’t know, but it just seemed that, if the T-shirt is true, then God is not a nice guy. 

I know there are kids born into this world who have terrible lives, who were just born into unfortunate situations—kids who die young of cancer, starvation, abuse. 

There are kids who are disfigured or caught in the middle of wars. 

Kids are born without homes or parents who love them.

Maybe I’m just getting old and grumpy, but it just seems that, if you really believe that God has chosen a special life for you, then you are failing to see the rest of the world. 

It’s an egotism of sorts to think that God planned out your life when there are billons of people on this planet, many living in horrific conditions.

– Excerpt From: Mitchell, Deborah. “A Parent’s Guide to Raising Kids without Religion.” Sterling Ethos

I imagined the child, reaching out to a trusting adult, only to be slowly and painfully murdered. 

I imagined the grief the parents felt, knowing that their son not only died, but horrifically so. 

It was not even my sorrow to bear, but I broke into tears. If there were an omnipotent God, he surely would not let this happen to an innocent child.

No explanation about God leaving us to our own devices could make sense of tortured children. 

No prayers that the faithful prayed asking God for silly things, such as houses or a new job, mattered. 

No one—and I mean no person, no matter how gifted in preaching—could convince me that a “kind and loving God” sits watching over us while allowing ininnocents to suffer. 

The God of the Bible—with all his supposed omniscience, power, and fatherly love—had failed as a parent. 

In an instant, I lost my faith.

– Excerpt From: Mitchell, Deborah. “A Parent’s Guide to Raising Kids without Religion.” Sterling Ethos. iBooks.

There was a time in my 20’s when each day seemed filled with endless possibilities.

Where each moment built systematically upon the one before it.

Orchestrating something which resembled music.

A symphony upon which dreams were built.

Choreographed by God himself?

Now each day seems monotonous / monotonous / monotonous, windless, effortless doldrums.

In which I sit waiting for the next breeze to come and fill my sails.

I am on the path of least resistance.

A plane running on autopilot.

Selling my time, and my soul to the lowest bidder

The world would like me to wait.

But for what?

I have been working all day, editing the PA-Life blog, creating a new virtual learning environment in which to teach online students, and then trying hard to make it all come seemlessly together.

I have struggled here a bit and part of this come with the territory. Part of this comes from knowing that this blogging “hobby” is now going to have to be what we will need to support our family for the rest of the year and into the next.

This is a lot of pressure.

Not to mention where does all this fit into my life?

Circles

Google plus is interesting in the fact that it lets you create “circles” of friends. In other words instead of (like Facebook) just putting your friends in one big pool, Google Plus allows you to sort and then message to them based on common interests. As a marketer this can work well. If I write a blog post about getting into PA school, the practicing PA’s I know could care less. If I write an article on Salary negotiation, this may be much better recieved in the later group.

But, the idea of circles really does extend beyond this. We place ourselves in circles everyday. And somewhere along the line we start to let these circles define our lives.

1. Healtcare Provider
2. Dad
3. Husband
4. Santa Cruz
5. Homeowner
6. cat lover
7. computer geek
8. surfer
9. etc. etc. The list goes on and on.

If we live though inside these circles there is very little room for growth.

So after college we stop reading books, working for knowledge and generally growing. We grow old and experienced within our circle but beyond that much is lost.

Is it fear, is it habit is it security. What folds us back?

That conservatives seem fixated on the notion that poverty is basically the result of character problems among the poor. This may once have had a grain of truth to it, but for the past three decades and more the main obstacle facing the poor has been the lack of jobs paying decent wages.

How are children of the poor, or even the working class, supposed to get a good education in an era of declining support for and sharply rising tuition at public universities. Social indicators like family stability are, to an important extent, economic phenomena.

And of course, the greatest truth of all:

It’s difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on him not understanding it! – Upton Sinclair

Edited with BlogPad Pro

We weren’t the only kids who grew up this way
to this day
kids are still being called names
the classics were
hey stupid
hey spaz
seems like each school has an arsenal of names
getting updated every year
and if a kid breaks in a school
and no one around chooses to hear
do they make a sound?
are they just the background noise
of a soundtrack stuck on repeat
when people say things like
kids can be cruel?
every school was a big top circus tent
and the pecking order went
from acrobats to lion tamers
from clowns to carnies
all of these were miles ahead of who we were
we were freaks
lobster claw boys and bearded ladies
oddities
juggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottle
trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal
but at night
while the others slept
we kept walking the tightrope
it was practice
and yeah
some of us fell

but I want to tell them
that all of this shit
is just debris
leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought
we used to be
and if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself
get a better mirror
look a little closer
stare a little longer
because there’s something inside you
that made you keep trying
despite everyone who told you to quit
you built a cast around your broken heart
and signed it yourself
you signed it
“they were wrong”
because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a click
maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything
maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth
to show and tell but never told
because how can you hold your ground
if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it
you have to believe that they were wrong

they have to be wrong

why else would we still be here?
we grew up learning to cheer on the underdog
because we see ourselves in them
we stem from a root planted in the belief
that we are not what we were called we are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway
and if in some way we are
don’t worry
we only got out to walk and get gas
we are graduating members from the class of
fuck off we made it
not the faded echoes of voices crying out
names will never hurt me

of course
they did

but our lives will only ever always
continue to be
a balancing act
that has less to do with pain
and more to do with beauty.

http://tothisdayproject.com

http://www.shanekoyczan.com/

I was thinking about my granddaughter, Layla, over Christmas and remembered a wonderful day she and I spent together last summer when I picked her up from Bible School.

 I didn’t pay enough attention to where in the church complex Wendy told me I was to pick her up, so went to the wrong building and was taken to the wrong room.  I was concerned when I didn’t see her.  A trip back down stairs brought more clarification when the lady looked on her sheet again, realized she made a mistake, and Layla was in the main church building.

            Soon I had her hand in my hand and headed to my truck.  Layla likes riding in my truck because she sits higher than in their van, which they’ve named VanGo.  Clever, right?

            We drove to Burger King, but Layla wanted to eat the lunch Wendy made for her.  I ordered a number one without pickle, drove under a tree behind the park located next to Our Lady of the SeaChurch, and ate lunch with Layla.  Time has passed and I don’t remember exactly what we talked about, but she offered me some of her grapes and roll-ups and I offered her my French fries and a couple sips from my diet Coke.  We had a lot of trouble freeing the fruit from the backing of the roll-ups.  At some point, I wondered if you weren’t supposed to eat both.  But what I remember most is how content we both were sitting there in my truck in the shade talking.

            After lunch I drove around to the church side and spread a blanket on the grass under a tree where we talked about BiblesSchool, dancing, gymnastics, and piano lessons.  Layla needed something out of my truck and I gave her the key and instructions on how to get the door unlocked.  Her face reflected the excitement of doing something new.  I remained on the blanket and gave her instructions.  As it turned out, she couldn’t find what she was looking for, I got up and got it for her, and then showed her how to lock the truck.  She had to go back to the truck again and did everything by herself this time.

            There was a woman who sat by herself eating lunch in the sun and a man, who looked poor and maybe homeless, spread out on the lawn in the shade.  I’m not sure if it was appropriate, but I told her to never go with a stranger and to scream if they grabber her.  “Bite their hand if they put it over her mouth.”  She took it all in calmly as if she already knew what to do.

            Layla got up off the blanket, got on top of the picnic table, and started dancing.  She has a lot of talent and creativity.  When she was done, we took our shoes off and walked barefoot on the grass across the park to a tree at the other end of the park.  My fear was one of us might step on a bee, but it never happened.

            “Layla, do you want to climb the tree?  She nodded and moved toward the tree.  I wanted her to have a positive experience so helped her with the first few steps and then stood close as she slowly worked her way up a couple branches.  When she was ready to come down, a look of fear crossed her face.  I moved up, grabbed her, and brought her out of the tree.

            After her trip up the tree, she wanted to collect leaves from the tree to make designs for her dad for Father’s Day.  The leaves were too high for her to reach so I picked them as she pointed to them.  We spent the next half hour creating all kinds of creative designs.  Before we knew it, it was time to return to the Sea Bright House where Wendy would pick Layla up.

            It was a memorable afternoon for me and I hope it also was for Layla.  And the best part was that for the next few days until today, she still loves climbing trees.

The official online site  is miserable, outdated and it lies.

The large buses to Las Terrenas leave at 11 and 1:40 from Santo Domingo.

The large bus from Las Terrenas I believe,  leaves only at around 3:30 pm. I don’t know this for sure because both times I have been told the earlier afternoon bus from Las Terrenas would be big, and it wasn’t.

Santo Domingo – Las Terrenas

Below are some instructions on how to get from Zona Colonial – The main tourist point of Santo Domingo to the Bus Station that takes you to Las Terrenas and the Semana Peninsula. I am posting this in hopes of helping others, since this is a topic of great confusion and is not covered at all in the guide books. The locals, the hotels, and the cab drivers are equally of very little help.

Quick Tip:

Best Bank in Santo Domingo in Zona Colonial

This Bank is inside!  This is the best place to get cash on “the strip” right  up the street from El Beaterio. Since the bank is inside you can withdraw money very safely.

Las Terrenas Bus Times From Santo Domingo

Note: 11:00 and 1:40 are direct large and comfortable buses.  They show movies and there is plenty of room. Coming back the only large bus is the 3:00 bus from Las Terrenas – Don’t ride at any other times or you will be in a small, cramped bus.

Photo of the “Semana” bus station:

Walking directions from el Beaterio to Las Terrenas Bus Station

It is a 20 minute walk from El Beaterio and Zona Colonial.

Straight pp calle 19 de Marzo till plaza Lama (big blue grocery store)

We made it!

I said something to him about cooking bacon and potatoes for breakfast.  He wanted bacon and an English muffin.  We both ate and I got him to the soccer field at 9:55 only to see the children finishing up and getting stamps on their hands.  My heart dropped.  “Lucca, I think we’re  late.  I thought practice was at 10:00.”  Disappointment washed over him as he wilted like an unwatered flower.

He’d put his shoes on the wrong feet at the house and let me quickly change them back with a look that said he hoped I was wrong.  He grabbed my hand and we walked the thirty yards to the open gate.  The coach greeted him by name and asked him if he wanted to kick the ball into the goal.  Lucca gave a quiet, “yes.”    The coach blocked the first two kicks before letting Lucca kick the ball into the goal.  He patted him on the head.  “Good job, Lucca.  You can even kick with both feet.”  Despite the complement, Lucca stood, clothed in disappointment.  I suggested we kick the ball around.  He ignored me and looked up at the coach and asked, “Can I have a stamp?”

The coach said, “Of course, Lucca.”  He grabbed the pad and stamped both hands.  Lucca said thanks, but still had a lost defeated look hanging over him.  It made me sad.  I kicked the ball and suggested we kick the ball around and all he said was, “I want to go home.”

I know it was only a soccer practice, but I think I felt as sad as Lucca, maybe even more so.  He wasn’t mad though.  I’d have to call it acceptance, which is the last state of grief.

Lucca gave me a big hug when I dropped him at home.  He was so loving and forgiving.  And as I drove away, I got tears in my eyes.  I felt I’d failed him.  It reminded me of a similar incident that happened with my dad when I was in the fourth grade.  I wrote about it it my book, A Warrior’s Son.  It follows:

—————————————————

The Kite

I was reminded of a time when I was in the 4^th grade and my dad and I spent weeks making a box kite that would see its first flight in a kite-flying contest on the soccer field at Mark Twain Elementary. Judging would be on design and flight. We worked on it a little each day. He showed me how to cut the wood, glue the sticks together, wrap and glue the paper, always telling me we had to keep it light.

I thought we’d never get it done in time. We did, but it wasn’t until the Friday before the contest, There wasn’t any time to give it a test flight. It didn’t bother my dad, but it bothered me.

I was up and ready to go at 7:00 AM, even though we didn’t have to be at the field until 8:45.

“Come on Dad. Hurry. I don’t want to be late.”

He gave me a calm smile. “Relax Mutt. It’s going to be fine.”

We got in the car around 8:30. I held the kite on my lap, checking to make sure all the parts were snug. The school was about four miles from our house, but it seemed like fifty. My heart was pounding when we pulled up in front of the school around 8:45 and found it deserted.

“We’re probably early,” my dad said.

There were a few clouds in the sky. There hadn’t been a wind, but a strong breeze blew in as we stood there. It was going to be a great day to fly kites.

I looked up at my dad. “Shouldn’t somebody be here?”

He pursed his lips and squinted. “Seems like it.”

We sat on the grass and made sure the string wasn’t tangled and the tail snug. We waited and waited until 9:30 AM, but no one showed.

“Maybe we have the wrong time,” I said.

He shook his head.  “Looks like  we have the wrong day.”

I stood up. “Wrong day? How could you do this to me?”

“It was a mistake,” he said.

I plopped back on the ground. “A dumb mistake.”

I expected him to scold me for talking to him that way, but he calmly said, “I’m sorry,” as if that would make it all right.

My heart sunk. The disappointment was greater than the anticipation. My dad stood and looked at me with sad eyes. I looked up at him. There wasn’t any hint of his perpetual smile. I started crying and he stood there looking helpless for a few moments.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said as he picked the kite up and grabbed the string. He ran toward the other end of the field, pulling the kite behind him until he stood alone in the middle of the field, our kite flying. I wiped my eyes and got up and ran to him. He handed me the string. The kite pulled hard. “Dad, the string’s going to break.”

“It won’t. Just hang on and let more string out.

There was something about the pull of the string that made me feel tied to the earth like the kite to the string. I looked up at the kite and then at my dad. We both smiled. “Dad, this is awesome.”

The kite soared and there wasn’t any doubt in our minds that it would have won the day, if it had been the right day. We stayed there for thirty or forty minutes, just Dad and me flying that kite. It was a perfect day.

I love this part of online work. The problem is I tend to get caught up in this, maybe it is just a distraction to the often more painful and complicated task of writing.

We spent 10 days with the grandparents and had a great time. We took the kids camping, hiking, swimming in the river, horseback riding, fishing, boating… No wonder I am tired.

And I even took a day alone on the N. Coast of Washington to work and write.

This alone time is sacred, maybe it is a waste of time to sit and write. Maybe it’s just a feedback loop of self analysis and contemplation.

The web work is often quiet and solitary work. But it is a bit like creating the Mona Lisa, except it will be lost to space and time, this is the problem of bytes and bits.

When I came back home my Desktop wouldn’t do anything. I pressed the power and… nothing.

Found an article about using a paperclip to short the power supply and test to see if it was transmitting power to the motherboard. So I pulled it out and tested it… and nothing! So I went to best buy threw in a new power supply and here I write. Awesome how that worked.

Spent a day at the beach surfing at Oswald with the family as well in Oregon. The water was brisk, but I had so much fun.

feeling the need to find some better purpose for 2014. Will see I guess how this transpires.

Some up and comings and doings and things:

• Excited about Haiti, will be bringing Wendy’s Cousin along for the ride and meeting Wendy in the Dominican Republic.
• Booked the car out again on relay rides, for another 10 days of passive income. Picking it up tomorrow
• Started a new account on Lending Club and I am investing in Peer to Peer Loans.
• Thinking it would be cool to start “Peer to Gear” a website for sharing stuff like surfboards, tennis rackets, etc….
• Working on finishing my auidoblog series… too much on the plate. Plus I need to finish two books.

It basically said that we’ve done so much for black people that they have no excuse for the lives they have now.  The argument was the we have a black president, many successful black men and women, and that of course everything is fine now.

Which of course, ignores the fact that the tea party and the Republicans as a whole, suffer from misguided and subtle racism.

I responded with a couple emails, but I wrote this today, and think it sums up the Republicans in just a few words.

===================================

I read part of the Stop Stealing Dreams essay and agreed with it, but I’ll have to admit that I never finished it.  Thinking on it now, I think it was because I figured I already knew what was in it and agreed with it.

It’s too late for kids who are behind to catch up when they’re college age.  It has to be done when they’re children.  It used to be that we had Head Start to give poor kids a head start.  But guess what, the middle class and the wealthy started sending their children to preschool.  So Head Start was no longer a head start.

Sometimes it seems like a conspiracy of the wealthy and middle class to always keep poor and minority children from rising.  For some I’m sure it’s true.

There was an audio essay on This American Life called Baby College.  It was about a project in Harlem where they took mothers who were either pregnant or had newborns and gave them the skills necessary to create a word rich environment with positive discipline for their children.  The program has been a huge success.

This program was started because they found that bringing young adults or adults into work training programs wasn’t very successful because they didn’t bring many of the skills to the job that middle class children and parents take for granted.

If education is the key to success, then it has to start at the earliest age.  Middle class children hear over three million more words than a poor child by time they’re three.  Middle class parents read to their children and use a bigger vocabulary than poor parents.  Most middle class parents use positive discipline.

So the idea here is to train poor parents to do the same things middle class parents do with their children from the time they’re infants.    That’s the only way to give poor and minority children a head start.  But of course, we need to keep in mind that to some, giving these children a head start is something they fear.

You may have already heard about parents who red-shirt their children by starting their children in kindergarten a year later than usual.  That way they are a year older and a year more mature mentally and physically than their classmates.

I could go on, but will end there.  The idea that much will ever be done to help poor and minority children get a head start seems very unlikely until we have a society that is more compassionate and carrying toward their fellow Americans.   People love to say how they love America when they really only love that part of America that is like them.