On the Loss of a Good Friend

Yesterday morning my phone rang with bad news: my friend Mark passed away over the weekend.

I knew someday I would get this call.  I haven't spoken with Mark directly for many years, and the recent news I heard of him was rarely positive.  Back in the days at OSU, we all partied pretty hard.  Mark never stopped.  In recent years he accelerated.

Mark had been a roommate, a co-worker, and a good friend; I'd go so far as to call him a brother.  Not having been there to witness his indulgences in the latter years of his life, I spent the afternoon inundated with memories of the times we shared.

Like the time he was eating Chinese food, and he gave me a bite.  I had never eaten Chinese food before.  "Rick, you like hot stuff, don't you?" he asked.  Of course I did.  "Try this."

He gave me the pepper from his General Tso's chicken.  The little peppers that you aren't supposed to eat.  The infernal little buggers that make food hot by just being in the same room.  Not knowing any of this, I popped the pepper in my mouth and bit down.  It was like chewing rope.  I munched harder.  If he could eat one, I could eat one.  Seeds flowed through my mouth, and apparently they were holding blowtorches.  The sound of a steam whistle filled the room as smoke billowed from my ears.  I ran to the trash can and spit the pepper out, knowing it could cause all the garbage to spontaneously combust but not caring.  I didn't curse at Mark or anything, because it hurt too much to breath.  Good times.

I'm not the world's fastest learner, so it should not come as a surprise to you that several years later there was a near-repeat occurrence.  I happened on Mark enjoying Asian cuisine again - this time sushi - and he offered me a bite.  Of wasabi.  "You'll like it, it's like guacamole," he assured me, and even used a tortilla chip to scoop up a generous portion. I don't think I ever ate off his plate again after that.

We went on a road trip once.  We were going to meet some of Mark's old friends in North Carolina to go camping.  We had no real time line and no real agenda, though.  Mark came home from work the day before we were going to leave.  "Do you want to go see the H.O.R.D.E festival?"

"Where is it?"

"Cumberland, Maryland.  We have to leave right now if you want to go."

Ahh, those were the days when you could just pack up and take off for a week on a whim.  We drove through the night and kicked off our road trip with some amazing music.  There are many stories I could tell from that trip, but two stand out in my mind, and the rest are probably incriminating...

At one point we were driving around Virgina rather aimlessly.  We were somewhere outside of Richmond when we both ran out of cigarettes.  Miles of highway passed beneath us as we searched for an exit so we could buy more.  We were both engulfed in hardcore nicotine withdrawal when we saw something up ahead.  A giant pillar, a hundred feet high.  Too small to be a building.  As we closed in on it we could read the black letters against the red and white background: MARLBORO.

Yes, it was their manufacturing plant.  This fit in perfectly with our agenda-less travel plans.  We stopped and took the free tour.  And at the end of the tour, we each got a free pack of cigarettes.  In times of sadness and loss it is important to remember that sometimes fate smiles on us all.  Just hold on and keep heading down the road.

(NOTE: That plant makes enough cigarettes in 2 1/2 minutes to reach from Richmond, VA to San Francisco, CA if they were laid end to end.  That's an impressive amount of cancer.  It's even more impressive that I actually remember that fact.  Also worth noting, I quit smoking many years ago, the day after my bachelor party.  No patches, pills, or special gum.  I used the only thing that really works: will-power.)

Later, on the way home, we were driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway.  Mark was behind the wheel.  A light rain was falling.  We were both tired; neither of us spoke.  I saw something in the road ahead, lying in the middle of our lane.  As we got closer, I could see that it was a puppy, perhaps a beagle.  Its eyes were open, and I looked right into them as Mark drove over the dog's lifeless body, careful not to hit it.

Several minutes passed in silence.  I turned to Mark.  "Are you still thinking about that puppy?"

He nodded.  Several more minutes passed in silence, both of us contemplating life, death, and how cute puppies can be.  And regardless of circumstances brought that puppy to its end - lying in the road, in the rain - it looked peaceful.

Mark, wherever you are, I hope you also found peace.

And I'm still thinking about that puppy, too.

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Carpe-ment Diem

Carpe diem means "seize the day."  (NOTE: thanks, Dead Poet's Society!).  Carpe diem represents the winner in you, the fighting spirit that propels you through tough times and keeps great opportunities from slipping away.  Seize the day!

Did I mention you can pay a price for seizing the day?  A bill, so to speak.  It's your carpe-ment diem.

Unlike other bills that exact their tolls in the form of cold hard cash, the price you pay for seizing the day is oftentimes more physical in nature.  It's your proverbial pound of flesh.  Especially if you are almost 40 years old.  Oh, you guessed it, there's a story behind this one...

Last weekend we had my son's birthday party at a gymnastics training facility.  They opened the gym for fifteen children ages five to eight.  And their parents.

Some parents took advantage of the fact that they were not required to stay.  I, being the father of the birthday boy, did not have the luxury of leaving.  I was stuck there, surrounded by the temptation of the trampolines, tumbling mats, and foam pits.  Everything was padded, it seemed.  You'd have to be a fool to get hurt there.

What was I saying?

Oh yes.  The high bar (aka horizontal bar) next to the foam pit.  You know what it is - a horizontal bar that male gymnasts hold on to and spin and do flips and all sorts of cool stuff.  Stuff I can't do.

What was I saying?

Oh yes.  I swung out high over the foam pit, mentally preparing myself to let go of the bar and flip backward (a gainer).  I had plenty of momentum.  Just one more swing and...okay, maybe another one and...now one more and I'll be ready to...next time I'll...screw it, I'm not really gonna do that.  I let go and just jumped into the pit feet first (which was loads of fun, don't get me wrong, but it was too smart to satisfy me long-term).

Most people would recognize their limits right there. I am not most people.  I can do a gainer off a diving board, so I chose instead to attempt a gainer into the foam pit from a straight run.  I did it.  I also did a flip over the vault.  Landed it nicely.  In the foam pit, of course.  So I did a few more.  They got a little better each time.  (NOTE: This is the kind of success that improperly inflates your ego.)

I went back to the high bar and decided that it might be easier to do an inward flip.  I jumped up and grabbed the bar, the foam pit to my back.  I started swinging, the momentum taking me higher each time, visualizing how I would let go when my feet reached their peak behind me, using the upward momentum to carry them over my head as I tucked and executed a perfect inward flip!

Not.

I chickened out and just let go again.  As I swam through the foam blocks to the edge I noticed a peculiar sensation on my hands.  It quickly developed into a deep, burning pain.  I looked down and saw that the callus under the ring finger of each hand had opened up like the lid on a sardine can.  Apparently gymnasts use a protective guard or something.  They are sissies and cheaters.

My hands burned for a week.  I had to cut the flaps of skin off.  The open wounds made many menial tasks a murderous malady. (NOTE: thanks, Thesaurus!)

Which can only leave us to ponder one more thing:
Did I learn my lesson?

Yes, I did.  And I can't wait to learn it again.

Fate or Free Will?

Do you believe in fate, or free will? Is it possible to live a life governed by both?

Imagine this scenario. A reincarnating soul, preparing to begin its next life, has a clarity of thought and vision our limited senses cannot fathom. The soul is able to choose the course its life will take, like the expert marksman who knows where his bullet will hit before he squeezes the trigger.

When the soul pulls the trigger, it begins a life it chose for itself. But once it is born, the trajectory cannot be altered. Fate, chosen of one's own free will.

I like this thought. It gives a sense of ownership over one's past and future without having to write off tragedy to the incomprehensible mind of a deity.

Why, then, would anyone choose to suffer in life? Well, if the choice to suffer is made by a soul between stages of reincarnation, a soul who knows that each life is temporary, a soul that has lived many lives and is ready for a new experience, then suffering starts to make more sense. It is not a lesson taught by God, it is a lesson taught by ourselves.

To me, God is bigger than a single life. God is the universe in its entirety, "all that is seen and unseen." There is nothing that is not part of God; indeed, "nothing" itself is also part of God.

So if you look at yourself, you are made up entirely of God. You are 100% God, as am I. The earth, the sun, the distant quasar...everything has equal divinity: 100%.