Luna

Tonight I surfed under the moon.

All eyes were fixed on the west

the others bobbed and watched the smoldering sun kiss the horizon good night

not I

My gaze stayed with the rising moon

to the east.

The sun has too many lovers

he sends his warmth and flashes rays to any suitor that will have him.

Not the moon

she shows her face but once a month

she teases

she ebbs and flows

waxes and wanes

she pulls at my heart like she pulls at the tides.

She shines bright as she rises

penetrating my core

sending cosmic light through the warm autumn night

I am immersed

I am transfixed

Yet I know she will soon turn her back

a slow march beyond reach.

I shiver in the water and mourn her while I still have her

I yearn to dance underneath her soft glow

again

always.

She teases.

It is not easy to love the moon

but I will forever try.

Phototropism

I took a bus today.

A secret bus.

It takes you from one Vietnamese sandwich shop to another, in a different state, for fifty bucks.

Your fare includes a bottle of water, spotty wifi and a delicious banh mi sandwich. The bus is filled with smiling passengers and smells like Saigon. Light but fragrant wafts of gasoline, incense and fresh herbs.

For fifty dollars you get a ride into the desert and a space to reflect, rest and write. The splendor of God’s creation dances outside the window as we cut through the Sonora. Cacti wave their long twisted arms and mystical mountains stand watch over my heart as I pass by.

It has been many years since I have taken this trip but the driver smiled and greeted me like a long lost friend. I had arrived sleepy eyed and unsure if leaving the comfort of the Pacific was a wise decision.

“I remember you! I am so happy to see you, friend.” He exclaimed before taking a drag of his cigarette and continuing his conversation with another passenger in blistering Vietnamese. I smiled and boarded the bus, comforted by his warm salutation

The west is home, it will always be. From the ranges of the Rockies to the shores of the Pacific. My nose smiles when greeted with the delightful smell of petrichor before a desert monsoon.

I will continue to grow roots in the hills of Tennessee. But my branches will always bend and stretch to the west, toward the setting sun. I guess there is a word for this tendency of plants to grow toward sources of light. I looked it up.

Phototropism.

I like that word.

The Road of Happy Destiny

John F. Kennedy once wrote,

“The highest duty of the writer, the composer, the artist, is to remain true to himself, and let the chips fall where they may.“ 

Jack, as JKF was called by many, proceeded—

“He has, as Frost said, ‘a lovers quarrel with the world.’ In pursing his perceptions of reality, he must often sail against the currents of his time.” 

He went on, detailing the heightened emotions and sensitivities of those called to create, and the unique role they serve within our society.

Further describing Robert Frost, he explained how—

“His sense of the human tragedy fortified him against self-deception and easy consolation. ‘I have been’ he wrote, ‘one acquainted with the night.‘ And because he knew the midnight as well as the high noon, because he understood the ordeal as well as the triumph of the human spirit, he gave his age strength with which to overcome despair.”

These words impacted me with indescribable magnitude. 

It was not until I read them that I began to feel comfortable identifying as an artist. Doing so previously felt utterly pretentious. 

When the modern person hears the term ‘artist,’ the they think of the visual masters, Picasso, da Vinci, Monet, Warhol. Images of classical pieces like the Mona Lisa and Starry Night race to the forefront of their minds. 

And the pinnacle of my visual artistic achievements comprise a series of derivative Dragon Ball Z canvases and graffiti bubble letters I painted for my ex-girlfriend during her gigs as a muralist. 

So ya, being with her and calling myself an artist made me feel like a fucking imposter. Don’t get me wrong, I have a steady hand and a decent eye. But anime and bubble letters? Come on, papi. You ain’t no artist.

Despite this critical inner monologue, the words of my favorite American president resonated with me deeply. Like Frost, I too, feel differently. I always have. My perception of the human condition has always had a deeper spectrum, depriving me of ‘self-deception and easy consolation.’ I am well acquainted with midnight. But I have also basked in the brilliant sunlight of high noon at temperatures that many have not, many cannot. 

And the urge to release the often overwhelming surge of emotions and energy bursting through my soul has always called. 

Your boy made his first art show when he was in the third grade, my Nana was so proud. It was a still-life portrait of the pencil cup that sat on my desk at school, but that thing was cleeeeaaan.

I still remember the high I got when I finished that piece. I was able to take something in my physical world and repeat it, by my own hand, from my own perspective. And people actually liked it and recognized the beauty of my rendition. 

For many, this urge to create does not exist. For others, it is a necessity. The life blood of our existence. 

The soul of the artist feels incomplete if this ability to create and purge the emotional energy that courses through their veins is not firmly incorporated into their daily lives. A true artist must build a lifestyle and surround himself with a host of friends that encourage and enhance this necessity. 

I also remember when I first used words to satisfy this burning desire. When I was finally able to corral the emotions and fragments of my soul and transcribe them into something permanent. Something perfect. It was an out of body experience, a moment of divine clarity. The incredible satisfaction encouraged a leap of faith to share my musings with you, with the world. And the response I received was intoxicating. Comments from friends and strangers alike rushed in, describing how I moved them. They thanked me for making them laugh or cry or even better, inspiring them to make positive changes in their lives. 

And when my eyes opened to this new existence, the vastness of the Lord’s splendors crashed over me like a powerful wave. I sprinted to take it all in. I flew with mouth open, straining to suck in as much of the fragrant air as possible. I scrubbed my old skin and surfed through life raw and exposed, desperate to absorb every sensation, every encounter, and write it for you. Like a child catching fireflies with jar in hand, I chased the moon and wrote the world as I saw it. 

I had found my purpose, I had found true meaning.

But somewhere along the way I lost connection with the principles and foundation that led to my new life and the ability to create.

You see I suffer from more than the angst of an artist. I have a spiritual malady that thrives on insecurity and fear. A selfish nature and complex wiring that if left unchecked, leads me to incredibly low valleys and destructive behaviors. 

But there is a solution to my condition. 

I joined a fellowship of likeminded feelers that gave me the structure needed to leave behind my previous struggles and connect to the only source that could pull me from the undertow. 

We all call this source something different, but I know Him as God. 

And once I put my reliance upon Him, my paths were made straight. I changed course in a way that only few have. Everything shifted dynamically in such a short amount of time. I was no longer the same man. My mother saw this transformation in my eyes hours before her passing. No words were needed, no explanations. She looked into the eyes of her son and knew that he was finally on the path she had worked so hard to carve for him. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she nodded and smiled. The most precious gift of my life.

And I beat the hell out of that path. For seven years my frequency vibrated like never before. In simple and vulgar terms, I was a fucking walking miracle. And not one day passes that I do not feel gratitude for this radical grace. Surely, there are days when the gratitude is just a flicker, but the knowledge that I am undeservedly blessed has always permeated my heart and mind. 

But like I mentioned, I drifted from this fellowship. And more importantly, I drifted from their principles. The principles that enabled me to live a balanced and virtuous life and finally strive towards my full potential. The solution is not a cure. It’s not a ‘one-pop and you’re all better’ kind of deal. If practiced properly, the actor receives a daily reprieve, contingent on the maintenance of their spiritual condition. To feel consistently grateful and maintain the desire to put others before yourself are the keys. But I lost them. I’m always losing my keys. And without those pillars, I am blocked. I choke. Without my connection to the Source, I am selfish, insecure and fearful. 

Without connection to God I cannot create. And when I cannot create, the flow of my energy is disrupted. I cannot help and serve others, I only think of myself and my desires. At that point I’m playing Minecraft in Survival mode, just trying to evade the Creepers. And I really suck at Minecraft. 

When I first moved to Nashville I went on a couple of dates with a professor from the Vanderbilt School of Philosophy. Our initial connection was substantial. We visited museums and cafes and spoke of life and art and love with immense profundity. But she soon stopped replying to my messages. When we finally connected, she explained that I had a beautiful mind and a rich heart, but that my energy seemed “disjointed.” Her words stung immensely. They affected me deeply. And they cut so deep because she was right. 

Have you ever seen a parched field flooded with water? The cracked earth, in dire need of moisture, is unable to absorb the sudden rush of hydration it so desperately needs. Water rushes over the surface in search of hospitable soil and eventually moves on. The earth stays dry, in desperate need of tilling. It needs time and work. Patient hands, sweat, investment. Consistency and routine. 

Without these things the field soon becomes flooded. Seeds planted with the intention to grow roots and sprout life are quickly washed away. Pools of shallow water gather where the grade drops, and I drowned in those shallows. 

For over four years I drowned. My character defects returned with a vengeance. My insecurities, my judgement, my selfishness. And even worse, the choking of my artistic expression and connection to God suffocated the inspiration and vibrancy of those around me, one person in particular.

I had sensed this regression within myself early on, and tried desperately to reintegrate several of the components of my previous success into my life again. I went to therapy, joined a boxing gym, deleted social media, and volunteered at my church. The list goes on, ad infinitum. But like the friends from my fellowship always said, “half measures avail us nothing.”

I tried to write too. Flashes of inspiration came and spurred me to produce short pieces or poems or moving love letters to my girlfriend. The bare minimum. Just enough to survive and give her a glimpse of the real me. It didn’t work.

I was diagnosed with ‘general anxiety disorder’ and prescribed a cabinet full of medication that I hated. I took the doc’s pills for a grand total of four days and then flushed them into the Cumberland River.

In an effort to help others and inspire creativity, I started a mental health non-profit. I designed hats that asked a simple question intended to normalize conversations about mental health. You Good? No man, I was NOT good. I eventually let the enterprise fizzle away because— you guessed it— the constant upkeep increased my anxiety. If that’s not funny, I don’t know what is. But I still wear the hats, they actually work!

My core was dying, and these sparks of creativity were desperate cries from my soul to return to my previous way of life.

My anxiety progressed, and I was soon unable able to participate in the things that defined me as an individual. The cortisol levels in my bloodstream were consistently high, making anything that required focus extremely difficult. I could no longer read books and I certainly lost the ability to write consistently.

Social situations became dreadful experiences.

I am a natural born extrovert who is invigorated by a room of strangers. I love to learn and connect with others, to ask a new acquaintance what they burn for and see their eyes catch a flame as they begin to describe their passions. I loved meeting my girl’s friends and family and watching her beam with pride as I made them laugh or smile. No one knew that each conversation was a struggle, a charade, a performance. I was not putting on, the lie was my confidence and comfort. I couldn’t even hold a conversation, eat a Chipotle burrito or sip my morning coffee without experiencing dizziness and heart palpitations. And if a man can’t drink coffee or eat Chipotle than what the hell is the point? 

No, but seriously, my anxiety crippled my life and ruined the most meaningful relationship I ever forged. And no amount of roses, Shakespearean sonnets or flowery poems can fix it. 

Do you believe in soulmates?

I do, sort of. I believe there are several individuals roaming this strange and wonderful sphere that the Lord crafted of the same elements, the same clay. Special someones who God designed for your hands and your heart, in the same batch.

It is a strange experience to meet a soulmate while your true self is drowning. Running on fumes and self-will. Swimming upstream, against the current. Completely incapable of the patience, trust and selfless love that is required to blend two lives and create a family.

I feel like I am waking from a four year slumber, a misty dream. The memories feel as though another actor was playing my part. They feel so distant, but they also feel like yesterday. The regret is often difficult to shoulder. The biology behind the human tendency to romanticize our past is fascinating, but it offers little consolation. Especially when we know we could have done so much better, done so much more.

But it’s over. Kiss it goodbye, Smalls.

I am just thankful that God quickly set us on two individual and parallel paths of health, love and inspired creativity. Two unique trails that lead to self actualization and true meaning. The only type of road that can bring an artist joy and contentment. 

And we cannot see beyond the horizon. Only God can. Solo Dios. Only the Lord knows if our paths reunite in the distance. 

Most likely they drift apart slowly and lead to similar destinations. And it brings me great strength and joy to know that our paths are separate yet kindred. I will do nothing but smile and thank the good Samaritans she meets on her journey.

All we have in this world are choices. 

And poor choices have consequences which bring regret. But regret can bring great clarity and inspire transformational action. 

When we abandon the desire to be the star and director of our lives and move in the direction of God’s will, we hear His voice clearly. When we begin to put others first and live in prayerful gratitude, He speaks to us through a megaphone. He speaks through friends and strangers and even through priests that generally have mediocre and confusing homilies. 

Last week I was praying the rosary in a quiet chapel that has recently brought me peace and serenity. After finishing my prayers I glanced to my right and saw a small book with a sticky pad that read “free” on the cover. Anyone who calls me friend knows that I never say no to free. I’m working on it, but I took the book. Always take the book.

The book was called “Holy Moments” and it has provided much comfort, these words especially:

“Choices have consequences. We know that. But we throw this indisputable truth aside in order to deny the consequences of our unholy moments. But by denying that our choices have consequences, we abandon our power to create holy moments, and render ourselves spiritually impotent.”

And I don’t about y’all, but I want to have a life filled with good choices and holy moments. I want to be of service to others and shine the Lord’s light like the dawn, as I trudge the road of happy destiny. And I sure as hell don’t want to be associated with the word impotent, in any way. 

I will continue on this path and reinfuse my life with art, compassion, humility and gratitude. I will continue the Aristotelian pursuit of self actualization and strive to be the best version of myself. To do anything less would be a great dishonor to those who were forced to endure the lesser. 

So stick around if you want to read my words. They will be available here and will hopefully bring joy, levity and perhaps, if I stay the course, inspiration. 

With love, humility, and refreshed purpose,

Aaron 

Autumn Rider

The storm rode in fiercely, autumn on her shoulder.

She came screaming, hissing and blowing, changing the seasons in an instant. Gone as quickly as she came, taking summer in her back pocket.

The crisp fall breeze kisses my cheeks as I take a deep breath.

My lungs fill.

The smell of petrichor, wet grass and a fire in the distance.

A good omen.

Change is in my air.

Kobe Bryant and the Aristotelean Ethic

 

I’ve written this piece at least six times.

Each version was painted with a different tone, a slight deviation in message, a catchy introduction.

As I came close to finishing each night, steps away from sharing my words with you, apprehension swept in and seized the day.

What can I add to the narrative? How could my words compare to the waves of commentaries that have reverberated throughout the world? Great men and women who knew Kobe Bryant personally or were directly impacted by his physical presence have rushed to share their stories. Coaches, journalists, athletes, politicians, artists and actors. Leaders of men sobbed in front of cameras, overcome with grief, grasping for a sliver of poignancy to honor a man they respected so much.

Who am I to chime in? Some fan with a ubiquitous Kobe saga and a neglected stack of writings?

Who am I?

That is the question that kept me writing.

And as I observed the unparalleled global reaction to the man’s tragic passing, it became obvious this was a question Kobe Bryant was very familiar with.

From a young age his destiny was clear. Kobe was made to play basketball. His father was an NBA standout, his maternal uncle was too. He had every gift and advantage at his disposal: genetics, lineage, exposure to the life of professional athletics, and an intrinsic predisposition to strive for excellence. It was the latter quality that has perhaps been most salient in the Kobe Bryant postmortem commentary. Words like “passionate,” “perfectionist, “grinder,” “relentless” and “focused,” were used to describe the charismatic lifelong Laker. Heartfelt commentary from opponents and teammates  alike shared similar themes. For me, one tribute stood above the rest. The messenger was a man composed of Kobe-like elements, another outlier in sport, a fierce competitor in the constant pursuit of perfection; surf legend and eleven-time world champion, Kelly Slater. The delivery was humble. Kelly posted a black and white photograph of a young Bryant, sharing a personal anecdote and condolences beneath. But the final words struck a chord, “thank you for following your dreams big and small and letting your unadulterated passion for the game reach so many of us in our own little ways.”

“Unadulterated passion.” What did Kelly mean by that? The term is far from colloquial, especially on a social media platform such as Instagram. It’s definition, “not mixed or diluted with any different or extra elements; complete and absolute,” inspired thoughts of Aristotle.

What is the essence of the mystique surrounding athletes like Kelly? Men like Tiger Woods or Tom Brady or Michael Jordan. Which ingredients allow them to rise above the hordes of mortals on the path to self actualization? How do they capture imaginations by bouncing a ball or riding a wave on a piece of fiberglass? In true Aristotelean fashion, men like Michael and Tiger and Kelly, on first name basis with millions of humans, strived for greatness in the name of the grind itself, transcending sport and inspiring millions along the way. And no one did it better than Kobe Bryant. Let me explain.

 

What does it mean to live well?

How does one obtain happiness?

What is the good life?

These fundamental questions underpin every ethical and philosophical school of thought known to man. The ancient musings seem to outreach our limited collective consciousness, predating recorded history and permeating the modern hyper-polarized, Twitter-obsessed, echo-chamber-loving political landscape. To this observer, the conflicting conceptions of the good life feel further apart than ever before. Perhaps they are.

In his classic and influential work, Nichomachean Ethics, prolific thinker Aristotle laid out his concept of the good life.

Aristotle claimed that every individual innately contains a specific and perfect potentiality, the highest version of one’s self, or telos. His famous example referred to an acorn’s innate or intrinsic telos as becoming a full-grown oak tree.

To Aristotle, the path to Eudaimonia, his version of happiness or flourishing, was virtue. In order to live a good life, one must fulfill their potential through displays of virtue. Most interpret virtue to be a set of standards or qualities passively possessed by an individual. However, Aristotle emphasized that virtue and character are not passive habits or dispositions but are active qualities that require constant attention. In order to reach actualization and completeness, one must display Entelecheia, the continual expenditure of effort required to stay there.

A drive to perfection that must be sought purely for itself. THAT is the good life. Wealth and fame and glory are residual benefits that do not equate to happiness. The pursuit of perfection and the striving towards self-actualization through an unwavering commitment to hard work and practice lead to happiness and fulfillment.

There are only a handful of individuals that embody this ethos, a select few who transcend their respective realms and speak directly to the hearts of men.

Kobe strived to polish every aspect of his being. We all know about his game, many know of his follies. But he constantly strived to improve and maximize his potential. I will never forget his last night on the basketball court. As always, his game was impressive. Mustering 60 points on weathered legs and sheer determination, who else could deliver such a performance but the Black Mamba? But it was his post-game interview that was most striking. As reporters lined to ask their final questions to the star, Kobe spoke eloquently and with confidence, first in English, then Spanish, and finally responding in Italian to media personnel that had travelled from Italy to take in his last game. Michael Jordan was an icon who transcended basketball and established a global brand, but he could never do that. When Kobe left the game he focused his attention on his family and their pursuits. Inspired by the young Giana’s love for basketball, Kobe found passion in telling stories and inspiring youth, eventually winning an Oscar for his first short film, Dear Basketball. Once again, telos… the fulfillment of potentiality.

As news and reactions broke about the tragic passing of Kobe Bryant, his 13 year old daughter Giana, and seven other souls… I began to realize that human beings are as similar as ever. Within each beating heart is a desire to self-actualize. Race and creed and political affiliations be damned. We all yearn to maximize our potentiality and be great. Some hear the call as a whisper they often ignore. Many hear the voice clearly, but fall victim to complacency, injecting their lives with spurts of motivated action when circumstances require such measures. Mortals. Muggles. Whatever you want to call them, these are the regular dudes like you and me. Men like Kobe Bryant inspire us. After years of witnessing their tireless efforts we are forced to ask ourselves difficult questions. What is it that I truly love? What is stopping me from achieving my goals? Am I working as hard as I can be? Am I constantly trying to be the best version of myself? Their relentless pursuit of maximizing their capacities is infectious, enkindling the flame that burns within us all. That is what Kobe Bryant did for me. That is his legacy. That is the Mamba Mentality.

I’ll leave you with the words he prepared for the athletes of the 2016 Special Olympics, for I have found none that encapsulate his ethos and legacy more precisely:

 

 

Space Dust

What do I have if nothing but radiating love and affection for my family? And they for me.

The waves are reciprocal. Emanating from each individual, forming one, glowing, impenetrable system of solar dust.

We share more than a name, more than memories.

Or is it less?

Maybe not less, just more simple. A common yearning to share space and time, to laugh and to cry. Together. Our arms reach out into the abyss, grasping; like the rings of Saturn.

That is what we share. That is all we have.

My chest fills with this thought. My breath is devotion to them, above all else.

 

2019: The Year of the Buzz

I wrote a blog post about New Year’s resolutions in 2015.

I blasted people for setting unrealistic goals and hammered on about consistency and loving the process and hard work. Blah blah blah.

It was a typical piece from mid-twenties Aaron, obnoxiously self-assured, critical, yet simultaneously optimistic and positive in tone. The things a man can do with a full head of hair.

At the end of my rant, like a true smart-ass, I made a resolution for 2015 anyway, proclaiming, “this year I am going to travel.”

Well shit… that changed my life.

2019 Aaron has nothing bad to say about New Year’s resolutions. How could he?

Just do me a favor and pause before you commit to the 200 dollar monthly membership fee at your local Equinox. We don’t have warmed eucalyptus towels, but Fitness 19 is happy to have you for… you guessed it…19 bucks a month. You won’t feel so bad when you stop coming by February.

epic-gym-fail-treadmill

The smashing success of yesteryear’s facetious resolution in mind, I set aside time for reflection and personal inventory during the holidays. Where can I improve? What can I change this year? How can I be better? You know, those super unique questions that no one else is asking themselves at the end of December.

After answering all of the ubiquitous questions I came to a realization, a personal truth of sorts: I sucked at being ME in 2018. Now I’m not saying I’m the bee’s knees or anything, but I have some redeeming qualities, one or two at least. And one of the qualities that defines me most is my persistent pestering. Seriously. I am a professional nuisance. The prince of pests.

I BUG.

And not always in a bad way. Let me explain…

I love people. And if I care about you, you will hear it. If I am thinking about you, I will fire off a quick text and let you know.

If we ditched work when were were 19 and drove to Rosarito listening to the T.I. vs T.I.P. album all the way to Mexico, I will text you EVERY time I hear Big Shit Poppin’ (what’s up Cory? Miss you bro). If I walk past you in the mall and we make eye contact and you’re with your side-chick and really don’t want to stop for a chat, I WILL come over and say hello. If you call me, I will answer. Text me and your boy will text right back. If I drive by your house, chances are I’ll pop in for a quick hello around dinner time. I keep in close contact with my family and my friends and just about anyone with a pulse.

My craving for layered and genuine human connection can also have residual effects. I’m no Anthony Bourdain, but I LOVE cooking for the people in my life. And nothing makes me happier than sitting back and observing two groups of friends meeting for the first time and hitting it off.

Softball friends, meet my surfing buddies.

or

Falicia, we suck together romantically but I think you should meet my brother’s girlfriend, Lacey, she needs friends. I bet you’ll become besties and she’ll ask you to be her bridesmaid one day.” Boom. True story.

That’s me, and I learned from the best.

My Momma.

Even though she passed nearly seven years ago, our family is still finding unopened letters and handwritten notes letting the recipient know that she was simply “thinking of them.” I still have the voicemails, “Hey mijo! I was thinking of you and missed your voice. You’re probably surfing, let’s Skype when you’re done!” Her love was not passive, it was work.

Every time I told my mother I loved her the response was the same. Three words. “Love you more.”  She didn’t, but she sure as hell was better at showing it. She spread it too. Ana always had an extra place (or three) at her table. Family gatherings were familial only in name. My mother built a community of friends that otherwise would have never mixed. A home built on inclusion, never exclusion. A home with doors wide open, laid on a foundation of active love. That is her legacy, a legacy I was pretty damned good at perpetuating.

But I lost something when I came back from Spain.

Friends.

No seriously, my phone was on Do Not Disturb most of the year and people really seemed to hate that.

Jokes aside, my mother’s legacy is a taxing one. A vast amount of emotional capital is invested when you’re constantly the person reaching out, bridging gaps that space and time can bring. When the love isn’t reciprocated, it stings. A few unanswered texts and calls can make the life of a recluse seem alluring. Perhaps the move back to the States had me feeling lost, and when you’re lost and lonely a cocoon looks pretty damn comfortable. I know I said I bug, but I ain’t no caterpillar.

Damn it. No more bug jokes.

And no more Do Not Disturb. My phone is now set on vibrate. 2019 is the year of the buzz (NOT a bug joke).

Sometimes, without noticing, and for no apparent reason, we deviate from prior successes. We tend to get swept up by the shimmer of new and forget that we were already pretty damned good at a few things. The self-help/change your mind, change your life industry is just that, an industry. An 11 billion dollar industry! Let me save you some change friends… do you. Do more of what you’re good at. Maximize the gifts that you have been blessed with and spread them ’round. Answer your phone. Write a love note. Call your grandma! I’m off to call mine.

Happy New Year!

 

 

 

 

 

The Pursuit of Happiness

My hairline is dropping back.

Like, way back.

Everyday I take a shower and rub in some expensive conditioner that’s supposed to thicken my ever-thinning man mane.

After applying the fraudulent product I always pull my hands down and assess the damage.

On a good day, there are only two or three black strands lying limp between my fingers.

I praise the brittle, dead hairs for fighting valiantly and them let slide away, down the drain, to Valhalla.

A Viking burial.

Luckily, my head isn’t shaped too oddly, so once I give up the good fight and shave I think I’ll be able to pull the look off. My younger brother Daniel, who looks just like me with bigger ears and more body hair, has been pioneering the Lex Luthor with moderate success for about two years now.

My brown, furry, Brooks Brothers-wearing guinea pig.

Not all heroes wear capes.

 

Cure-For-Baldness

 

As I processed and eventually accepted the inevitable arrival of shiny-headed Aaron, I began to take a look at my life on a grander scale. Okay, to be honest, that’s bullshit. I’m always analyzing. Over the last six or seven years I have pounded introspective processes and mindfulness into my routines. Plato said, “an unexamined life is not worth living,” and I examine the shit out of mine, probably to a fault. I’m working on it. Writing helps.

That’s actually one of my favorite things about writing. Sure I love to motivate and make you guys laugh, but if nothing else, my blog posts and short stories serve as my own digital roadmap. With one click of the mouse I can revisit my old pieces and analyze past perspectives. I can see exactly how I felt about my career path or my personal relationships or my abuelito thinking I’m gay.

So, no. I didn’t need a case of male pattern baldness to catalyze self-examination, but the gradual and consistent reminder of my ‘maturation’ served as a reference point. And it reminded me of an article published by my life guru Mark Manson called, “The Four Stages of Life.”

In his article Mark lays out his simple theory about, you guessed it, the four stages of life. Let me give you the Readers Digest version:

Stage One: Mimicry

Mark calls his first stage of life ‘Mimicry.’ In the first stage of life humans learn to navigate the world, both physically and socially, by mimicking those around them. Young humans are like little sponges, observing and imitating the behaviors of parents and siblings and the snotty-nosed punks they go to kindergarten with as they learn to navigate the world. Once an individual develops the capacity to make rational decisions and act independently, they move on to Stage Two, ‘Self-Discovery.’

Stage Two: Self-Discovery

Stage Two usually begins in late adolescence or early adulthood and lasts until a person reaches their mid-twenties or mid-thirties. As the name suggests, these newly autonomous individuals set out on a journey of self-exploration.

Manson says it best,

In Stage One, we learn to fit in with the people and culture around us. Stage Two is about learning what makes us different from the people and culture around us. Stage Two requires us to begin making decisions for ourselves, to test ourselves, and to understand ourselves and what makes us unique.

This stage of experimentation can manifest itself in a myriad of ways. Some go to college. Some try various jobs and career paths, others experiment sexually. Whoa, that sentence escalated quickly. But it’s true.

Some people prefer to try drugs, lots of drugs. Still others yearn to explore in a more physical and temporal manner, setting off to travel for extended periods of time (cough, cough). After some time running through the gauntlet of experimentation, most people begin to reach their limitations.

In short, we figure out where we excel and where we, well, suck. We discover the things we like and the things that move us. We also begin to realize that some of the things we experimented with don’t serve us in the marathon of life. Our strengths and weaknesses become apparent and we begin to envision a general course for our lives.

Stage Three: Commitment

Stage Three is the commitment stage, the time to start setting some roots.

Manson writes,

Stage Three is the great consolidation of one’s life. Out go the friends who are draining you and holding you back. Out go the activities and hobbies that are a mindless waste of time. Out go the old dreams that are clearly not coming true anytime soon.

The very genesis of this blog was sparked by a personal quest to finalize my transition from step two to three. I stood at a turning point. I jumped and brought ya’ll along for the ride. I had vision and a sense of purpose and damn, it felt good.

One more ride on the experimentation express and I’m done, I swear. I can remember the sense of assuredness that coursed through my veins as I typed the question (and subsequently answered myself )”… do you want to quit your day job and travel the world before you start teaching again? Fuck yes. ” 2015 Aaron was a smug little bastard.

But the bridge between self-exploration and commitment has been everything but easy.

As I travelled my sense of purpose surged. I found great joy in meeting fresh faces and exploring new cities. I was invigorated by exposure to foreign ways of thinking and the customs that accompanied those mindsets. I thought my passion rested in exploration, so coming back home hurt. I mourned my time abroad instead of celebrating it. I took a good paying job in an industry I knew nothing about and frankly, didn’t ‘love.’ After years of writing and telling you guys to break the chains of complacency and go for broke, I felt like a sell out. I had an ocean view, a shiny new car, and a shitty attitude.

After months of wallowing I realized something that seems obvious in hindsight… traveling is not my passion, I was just blessed with an opportunity to do some really cool stuff during my stage of self-discovery. Mr. Manson says screw finding your passion, I say amen brother. But we all get caught up trying to find that “p-word” these days. It’s all around us. Every time we open our smart phones it slaps us in the face. We are constantly drowning in an endless array of options, doggy paddling through pictures and inspirational captions of our smiling friends ‘never conforming,’ ‘chasing their passion,’ and ‘catching flights not feelings.’ This never-ending barrage of imagery leaves us ill-equipped to deal with the levels of cognitive dissonance that come with commitment.

For right-swiping, Instagram obsessed Millennials, stage three is scary.

You mean to tell me that I have to pick one career? One vacation destination? One lover? Billy is in Bali swimming with sea turtles and homie hasn’t had a job in like five years. Ooh, Brett and Bonnie just bought a house. How the hell do I buy a house? I don’t have a cool million lying around. Fuck Brett. Damn, I need a wife. What should I eat for lunch? A burrito. It’s always a burrito.  (All names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Fuck you Brett.)

I may have gotten carried away with the alliterations in my “scrolling through Instagram inner monologue” but you can see how this over exposure to a false reality made up entirely of success and accomplishments can lead to low self efficacy, envy, and hell… even depression. These modern day highlight reels also cultivate indecisiveness and wire our brains to crave constant distraction. At the very least, high levels of social media usage can alter our daily moods, effecting our overall sense of happiness, productivity and personal relationships.

It’s no wonder older generations have taken to calling Millennials the Slash Generation, referencing their inability to commit to one specific career path. The fact that a high number of Millennials feel that they have no influence in the workforce doesn’t help. How are we supposed to be passionate if we don’t think we can make a difference?

Maybe we’re just asking ourselves the wrong questions.

Instead of seeking to align our careers with our passions or looking for our life’s purpose, perhaps we should simply ask ourselves “what can we do with our time that is important?” And for me, that subtle shift in questioning has made all difference. The need to constantly over-analyze my path and purpose has been lifted ever so slightly. The pressure has been lessened. I’ll take it. It’s all about progress, not perfection. Thanks Mark.

The question has also helped eliminate negative thinking patterns and unproductive habits that snuck their way into my daily routines. The shift is gradual and requires constant tending, but I can feel the difference. No, managing a small business who’s signature service is killing German cockroaches is not my passion, but learning how to be an effective manager and leader is definitely important. The volunteer work I do through my church with the immigrant community is important. Being in close proximity to my family and spending quality time with them is important. Building capital to provide stability and security for my future family is very important.

I feel better about it.

Perhaps you do too. If not, try getting off your phone ya dummy.

Now quick, let me tell you about Stage Four so you can take your dog for a walk or something and get some fresh air.

Stage Four: Legacy

The last stage of life is all about cementing one’s legacy. After decades of dedication to whatever it is an individual deemed worthy of their commitment, a person enters into the last phase of their life, working to ensure that their hard work survives, even if they do not.

Stage Four is important psychologically because it makes the ever-growing reality of one’s own mortality more bearable. As humans, we have a deep need to feel as though our lives mean something. This meaning we constantly search for is literally our only psychological defense against the incomprehensibility of this life and the inevitability of our own death. To lose that meaning, or to watch it slip away, or to slowly feel as though the world has left you behind, is to stare oblivion in the face and let it consume you willingly.

At a young age, after enduring some difficult seasons, I gained the understanding that Stage Four is a luxury. Many of us never get a Legacy Stage. Others are forced to scramble in haste, scratching and clawing to ensure their legacies will be protected.

I suppose I’ll worry about Stage Four when I get there, but I have a feeling I’m on the right track.

A little less scrolling and a little more gratitude goes a long way.

It feels good to be back.

 

 

 

 

Hiraeth

Drowning in the shallows…

I can still taste the remnants of my past life. They pierce my skin like fine splinters. They stick to me like tiny pieces of meat between my teeth.

I savor the bits. A beautiful aftertaste.

The American Dental Association recommends flossing a minimum of once per day.

I never floss.

 

Today I learned a new word.

Hiraeth.

A Welsh word that describes an intense feeling of homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, or for a home which may have never been.

I like the ambiguity.

Hearing the rolling syllables as they’re pronounced induces a feeling the word is meant to describe. A visceral yearning that can never be scrubbed clean. Spoken in the tongue of an ancient people who no longer exist.

Except that Wales still exists.

And so does Barcelona, asshole.

Flights are like three hundred bucks.

 

 

Aaron Ragnarson

January 15, 2018

San Clemente, California

9:00 pm

Aaron goes to the local grocery store and sees a beautiful woman in the produce aisle.

There is always a beautiful woman in produce aisle.

Before he can strike up a conversation about avocados, boyfriend rushes in from left field to mark his territory (an annoyingly frequent occurrence at Aaron’s local Ralph’s).

Aaron has moved to a Couple’s Only town.

Aaron walks away vexed, feeling sorry for himself, dreaming of Spain in the frozen food section.

Fifteen minutes later, as Aaron checks out, previously mentioned boyfriend walks to the counter, visibly frustrated. Asks clerk, “Dude, do you know where the damn vegan butter is?” looking sideways as his girlfriend nips at his heels, barking about ‘non-dairy almond cheese.’

Aaron pays for his steak at the counter.

Aaron goes home.

Aaron eats his steak and watches Vikings.

Aaron smiles.