I spoke with a friend the other night.

Though we didn’t explicitly acknowledge it, our discussion revolved around one question: “How can I live my life to its fullest?”

My perspective, he noted, is conservative. Which is true. I am very much of the opinion that everything falls into its proper place—the best of all possible places—when you orient yourself towards God, both literally and metaphorically. In secular terms, this can be thought of as orienting oneself towards the future and delaying gratification as long as possible, or until God blesses you with it.1

He thought, in short, that such an orientation risked missing out on certain irreplaceable experiences incumbent to youth. In other words, he theorized my orientation may lead me to a state of regret when I got older, which would lead to legitimate consequences, since I’d be forgoing a lot of fun I can only have when I am young.

It’s a valid point. (Although, to share my perspective, I don’t totally feel like I’m missing out on anything right now . . . I feel instead like I’m simply in a quieter period of my journey. Indeed, what these things I am “forgoing” are is not entirely clear to me; if anything, I would argue that my abstinence from certain things has only made way for greater things to eventually grow. Nevertheless, I digress.)

What preceded this thesis and conclusion was a hypothetical: he thought a man would be less likely to cheat on his wife in the future if he indulged—perhaps not inordinately, like some young’uns do nowadays, but “enough”—in more sexual experiences in his youth. He thought an excessive-to-an-unnecessary-degree amount of self-denial would lead to something like a lack of self-awareness or an excess of unfulfilled want, which would lead to something like relationship dissatisfaction in the future, since it is possible someone could mistakenly commit themselves to someone they might not physically vibe with, or not “know what they want” and discover after the fact that they’ve “made a mistake.” By necessity, this means he thought desire was something like a pressure chamber that could or ought to be relieved intermittently so as to prevent overflow. With which I disagreed.

Nevertheless, this point is also generally valid, or at least understandable.

I’m reminded of something someone said to me once. This man was—and still is, I presume—a Muslim (if I remember correctly). He’s older than me. At the time, I was in my early twenties, and he was in his early thirties. He was single and lived in an apartment downtown Charleston.

I don’t remember the original topic of conversation, but at some point, he said, “I wish I slept with more women when I was younger.” It really got me thinking and worrying, considering I wasn’t sleeping with a lot of women.

This, by the way, is not a shot at Muslims, as there are plenty of Christians who are likely of the same perspective. He was simply being honest. And I’m not even saying that it’s a bad thing. It has just entered into my mind as I’m writing this, and is something I want to take note of.

On the contrary, I’m reminded of my neighbor, who I mentioned in a recent post, and shared with me that quote . . .

This man, my neighbor—who now has a family and house of his own—conveyed to me an emptiness in hedonism, and a desolation, or desperation, to an undisciplined life. I don’t know if he is religious, though I suspect he’s not an atheist.

He’d lived downtown Chicago, and he said he’d done the fun stuff that every naive young person pedestalizes, and he said there was nothing to it, and that he wished he could be in my shoes once more so he could work harder and make more money and build more freedom. I suppose I never asked if he regretted “sleeping around,” but I’m also not sure he ever did.

It seems he loves his wife and his children—though they are very young, and that does seem to be a lot—but from what I gathered, he does not wish he spent more time partying when he was my age. He did not seem nearly as stressed about the craziness of raising young children as about the work life he had to manage while raising children. That’s not to say he comes across as stressed in general, just that it seemed a stressor to him.

I’ve had my own experiences with hedonism. The more I engage in it, the less I want. Which is partly because, for whatever reason, I just don’t enjoy that crap, but also because I can feel my relationship with God growing stronger. It may also be because I feel I’m in a “building” stage of life right now, and believe the proper pleasures will come in due time if I keep doing what I’m doing.

I told my friend this. I explained to him that I no longer craved these things as much, and instead yearned for depth—which I am in the process of cultivating, and am happier for it. I also told him that I wished I had chosen celibacy when I was younger. I acknowledged, to his point, that I might not have wished I had been celibate all my life if I had actually been celibate, because I might have felt like I was, in fact, missing out on something.

It seems every person colors their past according to the condition of their present.

We spoke of the Parable of the Prodigal Son. We acknowledged its paradoxical nature and its apparent centrality to Christian doctrine. We noted that it was necessary for the son to stray from his father (and by extension, for a child of God—a human being—to stray from the Father) in order for him to appreciate and love his father, and to love him truly, purely. We noted, too, that there was a wisdom to the Prodigal Son’s folly, because he lived honestly, and as a consequence, managed to suffer and experience the pains of living away from the father, which made way for true love and loyalty. Meaning that he might have always been second-guessing himself had he stuck around and not ventured out into the world to waste away.

We spoke of the fact that it is bad to sin, but that it is impossible not to sin. Meaning that a Christian must sin. We acknowledged that this was confusing, particularly because an Apologist would never recommend a pupil deliberately walk the path of the Prodigal Son, despite the fact that the Prodigal Son’s return was not just accepted but celebrated. We concurred it was a hard philosophy for an anchored, hierarchical organization—the Church—to sell.

We spoke of the problem with hyper-literalist interpretations of the Bible. We agreed that Creationism had been disproved by science, and wondered, perhaps, what other stories and maxims could have been interpreted too literally. I wonder, often, how Christ-like a life any person could live without knowing Jesus’ name. I wonder, too, which denomination is the right denomination.

My friend explained to me that my approach to life seemed to be something like orienting myself towards “a picture frame” and letting it be painted or filled in by God (i.e., the frame, or the ultimate structure), whereas his approach seemed more along the lines of painting on the canvas himself, and worrying about the frame later, or not at all.

He acknowledged something like a FOMO in his life . . . He explained that he felt for a while now like he had been waiting for something to happen—similar to the way a Christian waits for God to bless him or her, rather than hunting down and grabbing hold of the blessings—and had grown impatient in a way. He said, if I remember correctly, that he thought it was time he went out into the world to make fun experiences happen, because he felt they would never come around if he kept waiting. I’m not sure if I acknowledged it in the conversation, but this, too, is valid, because God will often not do things for you; He will instead (if you ask) give you what you need to do what you need to do. But it is up to you to do it.

Nevertheless, I inquired, “Why do you want these things? What are these things? What do you think they’ll bring into your life? Why do you think—supposing you believe in God—He would be withholding them from you, or you from them? Could you not be in a different season right now? Could it not be the case you’re being shaped for something greater?”

He explained he thought, in a way, that how much fun someone was having with their life could be a metric for measuring whether they’re living well, or correctly.

I explained to him that I have opened myself up to the fact that the Bible is completely true—though its truths may not be readily obvious—and that just because something the Bible, or God, asks of me is hard doesn’t mean I should disregard it and “do what is right in my own eyes.” And that I still believed, regardless, my worldly life would eventually be better for doing so.

I explained that I, for instance, was getting better at loving what God wants for me, but that there were still some things—like waiting until marriage—that I struggled with. I told him that if I were to meet a woman right now that I genuinely liked and could see myself having a long-term relationship with, I’d have a hard time maintaining celibacy. I told him that I thought it was for this reason that God had been keeping me away from women. (LOL, sure buddy.)

I also realized, in hindsight, after reading ’s “The Best Apologetic Is You,” that I might have an easier time genuinely wanting to wait until marriage if I dove deeper into my faith—meaning that this inconsistency in my desires might indicate a lack of input towards my spiritual life.

One thing I know is that being a Christian is hard. One thing I am also certain of, however, is that Christian doctrine minimizes long-term suffering and promotes long-term flourishing, and that a morally relative life is only fun as long as the fun lasts. This is a faith-based claim, I admit. Because it does often seem in many ways that those who disregard God, or set Him aside, are doing incredibly well in life—and have a lot of once-in-a-lifetime fun—compared to others, and to myself.

Still, I have no doubt that doing what Christians ought to do is by and large the best possible strategy for a life well-lived. Although I must admit that I think there are some things Christians get wrong; I understand why some people believe hyper-religious people live boring lives and prefer, then, to stay away from such radicalism.

Two things come to mind at this moment.

The first is that I’m starting to realize a good life isn’t exactly about having fun all the time. That though it seems nice in theory—or on social media—a life of constant craziness is simply not feasible, nor nearly as fun as influencers and frat bros make it out to be.

What I want for my life is far more along the lines of a divinely bestowed mission, which makes way for the most awesome of all possible adventures. I’ve noticed that the more I lean into my faith, the more everything in my life seems to make sense, seems to feel like unified, chronological steps in what may prove to be the most awesome adventure.

The second is that I’ve noticed that the more “religious” I am, the happier I am. And the more religious I am, the more religious I want to be—meaning, in a way, that you won’t want to “be religious” until you “try being religious.”2

It could simply be that abstinence in any dimension makes pleasure more pleasurable, because you need less of it to be satisfied . . . But there’s something special about pleasure that comes in its due order. There’s something about pleasure when it’s divinely bestowed, rather than when you go out into the world to grab hold of it yourself as fast as you can.

Until next time,

RB

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I’ve spent a lot of time over the years wondering what “problems I could solve” for my readership.

Solving other people’s problems, any new internet writer these days is told, is how you make your work valuable and how you subsequently build a readership and eventually “generate revenue.” Generally, your “product” can fall into one of three categories: entertain, inform, or inspire. Meaning that people will read your writing—and perhaps eventually give you some money—to be entertained, informed, or inspired.

I’ve not yet sorted out which category my work falls into, although I have realized my two categories on Substack are philosophy and faith/spirituality (I’d rather they called it “theology”), with maybe bits of humor and culture as well.

Nevertheless, the biggest problem I’ve encountered while trying to “solve people’s problems” is that people’s problems, in my eyes, are quite simple—because I’ve realized that a good life is a simple life—and that there aren’t, in consequence, many secrets I could offer, other than to de-complexify. I see people’s problems through my own lens, and the biggest problem I’ve experienced in my 20s has been money. What’s most painful to me, in other words, is not having money. Making more money, then, is by and large the most momentous lever I could pull for monumental change in my life—and I suspect it’s the same for many others.

But I am no money expert, and while I enjoy talking about stocks and interest rates and all that crap, I am not nearly as emotionally invested in finance as I am in other topics. Not to mention, I’ve been able to witness—now that I’ve got over 150 posts—that the work that resonates most with my readers is far more emotional and existential, maybe even painful, and it’s all the most personal. When I write to solve people’s problems, nobody wants to read, because they simply don’t care about it, at least from me, and it generally comes out a lot more boring, mostly because I don’t enjoy writing that sort of stuff. Which makes sense, because I am not a subject-matter expert in most anything technical. When I write honestly—more in the vein of “true literature”—and enjoy myself, however, people vibe with my work.

I guess this doesn’t mean that there aren’t other problems I could help people solve, because there are things that I’ve worked out in my own life that others have yet to work out in theirs . . . It may not be obvious because I don’t see the world through the eyes of others, but there could be some things that are now second nature to me that many people struggle with. Still, in order to write well, I must enjoy my work.

An axiom of solving other people’s problems is to “write with the audience in mind.” This is, in a way, supposed to be a function of selflessness, which, in the social media sphere, is a medium for social capital, which they say will lead to more readers and more paid subscribers. But I have found something completely counterintuitive or contradictory about this advice.

On the surface, or logically, I suppose it is the case that if you are writing with the audience in mind so that you can get them to subscribe because you think you’re being “selfless” by trying to solve their problems, then you are actually writing quite selfishly. It’s like, if you give with the expectation of return, then you are not actually giving.

If, instead, you fall in love with the process and pour your heart onto the page with no expectation of anything in return, then your intentions are pure. And so, when you dig below the surface, the question becomes: What can I give? What do I have to offer? Or, in other words, at what am I most expert?

This is not an easy product to sell to new writers, which must be why it is not the advice sold by those who make money “writing on the internet about writing on the internet.” It is not quantifiable and not repeatable. Meaning that it is not “productizable.”

Nevertheless, the answer to these questions for any new writer is nothing more than themself, their own perspective. The problem then is, in this impatient world, that it takes time for your perspective to become valuable. It takes time to accrue experiences and subsequent lessons to share with the world. It takes time to become a writer people are not only willing to read but to pay money to read.

And of course, this isn’t to say that I’ve been writing selflessly all these years, because I really haven’t. Hence, perhaps, my inability to generate a lot of paid subs. Although it may also be the case that there is simply no such thing as selfless writing . . .

There is, however, such a thing as honest writing. Honest writing is writing that you believe in. Honest writing is the willingness to put on the page the thing you most want to put on the page, no matter what people may think of you for doing so. And I reckon that is what could make it “selfless.” Because you are opening yourself and your spirit to other people’s opinions in an effort to connect with readers. In an effort, perhaps, to show them they’re not alone, and that there is a path forward.

Herein lies the noted contradiction in today’s internet writing advice. You cannot write with the audience in mind, because that necessarily undermines its honesty. Of course, you might want to edit with the audience in mind. But even that, I have found, is a little risky.

It’s all narrative, you see. Life is a story, and if your job is to get through yours, then your job as a writer is to help others get through theirs by sharing your own—or, in the case of fiction, sharing how a personal character gets through theirs. Indeed, all fiction writing is driven by the author’s own experiences. The characters and the book itself are a sort of reconstruction of real-life experiences, emotions, and problems.

Think J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. Think John Steinbeck’s East of Eden, or Grapes of Wrath. Think Twain’s Adventures of Tom Sawyer, or Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. When you read about these writers, you see that their work, though fictitious, is completely honest, very much a configuration of their own experiences. How could they have written anything else? How could Twain have written a story about the Salinas Valley? How could Steinbeck have written about a British school? How could Rowling have written about the Mississippi River?

This is what it means to be honest. This is how you create relatable experiences. You write what you know. You share yourself with the world. You solve other people’s problems with narrative.

The problem you’re left with is this: how can I make money from my art? This is a question, obviously, that remains above my pay grade. Nevertheless, what I reckon you must wonder is, am I a businessperson or an artist? The answer nowadays, it seems, is that you are a bit of both, and that you’ve got to figure out exactly where you want to lie on the spectrum. You’ve got to figure out what sort of days you want to have.

Because, at the end of the day, that is the goal: to build a life you love, and to look forward to your days. Which, in a way, is solving your own problems, thereby solving your audience’s problems. The last thing you want to do, if you’re really in it for the long haul, is to create a life you loathe.

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I have changed the most since I was a boy in my desire for socialization.

When I was younger, I felt I didn’t need much of it. I preferred reading, and writing, and fishing, and soccer, and Legos, and drawing. I enjoyed being with people, of course, but I did not enjoy big groups and crowds and all the egotistical bullshit incumbent to groupthink.

I wanted to be with friends, and I liked my friends, but I didn’t exactly prioritize them. At least consciously.

Indeed, a large part of this change is awareness. Whereas when I was a boy, I enjoyed relationships but didn’t know it, I’m well aware these days of my love for others.

I thought before that I could be content alone, entirely, with no friends or humans to talk to and interact with, out in the wild on my own, fishing and hunting for sustenance. I thought that would be the life. Now, however, I am planning on moving to a city—the furthest I could possibly be from anything natural—where there are lots and lots of people. And I’m certain I’ll love it. I’m certain it will be an exciting adventure.

I admit that a lot of this has to do with women: being single has certainly catalyzed my desire to move to a more social place. I have no idea how a girlfriend will warp my worldview—meaning that I’m not sure I’d be as driven to move to a city if I weren’t single. But I also think, at least right now, that I need the buzz of strangers. If only as inspiration for my writing.

What’s interesting about this is that, if I were being honest with myself, I’m a little scared to have a woman in my life. Because I have this feeling it really would change me in ways I’m not totally prepared to change. Perhaps that’s why I’m still single.

There’s an element of mystery to singleness, and there’s something I find very adventurous and exciting about riding solo through my youth. I don’t mean that in a fantastical sort of way, as I don’t see women casually at all right now. I mean it, instead, in a hero’s journey kind of way. Somewhere within me is this belief that I’ll be less free with a woman in my life—or that there will less of the unknown. I want a girlfriend eventually, maybe even tomorrow, but I also don’t. Because I really do enjoy my life, and I really do enjoy this perception of freedom, of adventure. I’m certain I am at least partly deluded, because I know that there is a freedom made possible only through commitment.

Nevertheless: people. This is what has become most apparent in my life of late. I really do love people. This fact became especially clear after I lost my father. The very practical value of relationships made itself obvious in an instant—my worldview was shaken and shattered and reshaped within half an hour. My priorities radically reordered themselves.

What’s more, I’ve realized—after an excessive amount of journaling—that a very significant portion of my actions and desires and goals are driven by other people. And that what excites me is being around other people. Why this is, I’m not totally sure. Maybe I’m scared of being alone. Maybe I recognize in every individual an entire world to explore.

When I was a boy, I wanted to be around fish, because fish excited me. There was a mystery to the water, and to what lurked below its surface. There is still is—although I’m a little less interested in pond fishing nowadays . . .

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I didn’t realize all along how much people excited me. Maybe this is because I took them for granted, since they were always around.

Indeed, my parents forged a very strong network, and being in school, obviously, made additional way for more socialization than I needed. Perhaps all I’m saying here, then, is that now that I’m out of school and not naturally—on account of my status as an adult—with other people all the time, the scales have tipped.

Yes, I know, I did write a post last week about wanting to be alone. That fact hasn’t changed. This here is more of a big-picture meditation. How did I go from being what I thought was “introverted” to someone who actually looks forward to social interaction? How is it the case that I’d rather move downtown Chicago—a concrete jungle—where friends and hot women live instead of in a hut on an island in the southeast? How is it the case that I would not enjoy a fishing trip alone as much as I would a ski trip with the homies? Is that even true?

What scares me about getting older is not knowing where I will find my love. Right now, I find my love in cafes, and in writing and reading, and at the gym, and in soccer, and in my friends and family. I find it in the mystery of not knowing where life will take me. I still believe that good and better things await: cool trips, financial successes, experiences I could never have imagined, and yes, a woman. I still feel like I’m in the before part of my story.

What will happen to me when I get to these things? What then will there be to look forward to? What will happen after the magic reveals itself? Where then will I find my love? For what then will I live?

Will I ever experience anything like the things I dream of? Or will I perpetually feel like the climax of my story is just over the horizon? I’d almost prefer that. Because I’ve heard there’s nothing at the top of a mountain. I’ve heard the climb is more exciting.

Have I not considered the possibility that these things may make way for new things, though? That what I love will change, that a new story begets an old story? That just as my love of fish subsided and my love for people grew, my desire to socialize may subside, and my love of fish return? Haven’t I always wanted to take up hunting and MMA? Won’t this be easier once I’m married off, and feel less of a need to be in the gym? Haven’t I wanted a boat to take my children fishing on? Won’t that be easier after I’ve made my money? Haven’t I wanted to finally become fully fluent in Spanish? Doesn’t fulfillment make way for more fulfillment?

Older folks don’t seem to be much bothered. They seem, instead, to be quite happy. Of course, if their children aren’t doing as well, then they seem to suffer, but otherwise, this problem does not seem to plague them. They get through the story of their youth, and they keep charging forward, onto the next.

And what about Jesus? Perhaps if I make it over this hump, this climax I speak of, I’ll be able to set my ego aside and finally humble myself and build a more genuine relationship with God. Perhaps we’re always moving towards deeper and deeper things. Perhaps older age and all the things that come with it are purification mechanisms. Perhaps the goal is to want nothing at all in this world, and just a relationship with God.

But isn’t that a sad thing? To not have foolish, worldly things to look forward to? To not want anything this world has to offer? Surely, God didn’t make us to not want things, right? Is it sad to be content with leaving this world? Isn’t it more sad, though, to have regrets? To wish you’d have done certain things before it was too late? But won’t you see, also, that when you truly love God, these things won’t matter? Or that they’ll fall into their proper order?

Will time not tell?

Until next time,

RB

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It is interesting, and perhaps telling, that the mind is prone to pessimism if granted too long a leash. An overthinker has never thought themself into a condition of relentless positivity.

All hyper-positive people I know are action-oriented. I notice in myself the stark difference between the state of my mind when I spend excessive time mulling over a thought and when I simply do and make progress on whatever I need or want to make progress on.

The pessimists would say their action-taking counterparts’ positivity is a product of ignorance, but I beg to differ.

I’m drawn to a fact I’ve noted in several recent posts: that practically all positive emotion we experience is in relation to a goal, in moving closer to that goal. Of course, some goals are better than others, in that some gratify our impulses, while others fulfill us in the long term.

To be fair, this is a generalization, because there is something to be said for love, and adventure, and novelty, and play. But you get the point, nonetheless.

The mind seems painfully aware that excessive thinking gets us nowhere, contrary to action. Overthinking leads us to pessimism, then, mostly as a consequence of entropy: the world is always driving us toward disorder, meaning that when we are not acting against it, we are edging closer to chaos. The effect—the frustration and subsequent hopelessness and pessimism—is compounded by the fact that we feel like we’re doing something when we think. Because thinking can be very, very hard.

There is also something to be said about where thoughts tend to lead when granted reign over our consciousness. Sometimes, I’ll grant, they lead us to think the world of ourselves or simply to a state of bliss—if we intentionally think positive thoughts—in which we are grateful for our blessings. But if control is not regained shortly thereafter, we are destined to spiral back down into oblivion. Why is this?

Perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps my observation here reflects nothing more than my own deep-seated pessimism.

Could it be? Or maybe pessimism is intricately woven into man’s subconscious?

Nestled in the parts of our mind we have not yet shed light upon are things we’d all rather not acknowledge, which may be the very reason they’ve remained subconscious. Indeed, venturing into the depths is no fun or frictionless journey; it is very much an inevitably contentious trek . . .

What I seem to be saying here is that there is a utility to thought, but that it is just as much a dangerous venture with truly consequential risks, with things actually at stake.

I am not saying that all thought is bad. I’m saying that untempered thought is potentially dangerous, especially when its fruits are not acted upon in the “real world.” I suppose I am also saying, conversely, that a thoughtless man is prone to a similar destiny as an overthinker. That pessimism and hopelessness await on either end of the spectrum.

What do we do with this?

Of course, it depends on where you lie on the spectrum. Are you an overthinker? Or are you an impulsive, mindless beast? I am making an assumption here. Is a mindless man truly prone to destitution? Do they not say ignorance is bliss for a reason? Is a man incapable of considering the future damned to self-destruction? And if so, why just man? Why needn’t wild animals contemplate the future? Do they not, though? Do squirrels not collect nuts, and bears fatten themselves, and whales migrate south to rear their young?

But don’t they do this automatically? Isn’t there no such thing as a lazy squirrel? Who suffers the consequences of his inaction come winter? I’ve never seen a lazy squirrel; I’ve seen plenty of “lazy” humans, however.

The difference between our world and theirs is complexity. The human world is simply complicated. There is a lot going on, a lot of things to take into account, and a lot of things to learn, and to prioritize.

For us, it’s not just shelter, food, and sex . . . Of course, it is in a way. But it’s also really not. We aren’t just primates living in forests, building shelters with the materials at our immediate disposal, finding all our food within a few square miles. Instead, we live in a society that already has the infrastructure, and the food, and anything imaginable . . . We must be far more calculated, and we must temper our impulses.

So yes, a thoughtless man, in this world, is prone to self-destruction.

But how did we, above all species, get here in the first place? What makes man different? This is a question to which I do not have the answer. At best, I can point you to God.

I write all this today because I’ve noticed a pessimism taking root in the world. And I’ve noticed that it is mostly those who spend too much time inside, too much time on the internet, too much time alone, who think the world has become this terrible place. On paper, in reality, the world is as good as it’s ever been. Maybe not for all people, but for many. If you are American, you are a part of the many. This isn’t to “minimize people’s suffering,” but to put things in perspective.

How could it be that in a world as great as ours, with the opportunities and the amenities and the safety, we’ve made a generation of people who fear the future? Who think the world is a terrible place?

Our perception of reality is clearly being distorted. It is obviously technology.

I suppose it is sad that there are so many pessimists out there. It is a sad world in which a lot of people aren’t hopeful, nor faithful, especially when that is so far from the truth. But if you take a different perspective, even this can be seen in a positive light! It’s an opportunity! All those people out there, they need their spirits uplifted! They need someone to drag them out into the real world!

Narrative drives the world. The prevailing narrative—the prevailing zeitgeist—these days is sourced mostly from people who take advantage of human psychology, people who know how to get others to look their way.

The good news is, at least for the individual, this can be changed in an instant. Any person can decide to put their phone down, and walk around outside, and rent a book from the library (or read a Substack article, lol), and renew their perspective, and take in quality information—reprogramming themselves, in a way—such that they start to see the good, rather than the bad.

We can choose to do things that enter us into situations that are not just positive themselves, but make way for positive interaction, and for hope to be restored. Tradition, in other words, never dies, and can always be reinvigorated, so long as there is at least one man or woman or child ready to shoulder the responsibility.

But what about thought? How can we get out of our heads and relieve our spirits of the weight of pessimism? I think the answer is quite simple: we become doers. We do things, even if we don’t want to do them.

Similar to how you can’t not think of an elephant, you can’t think your way out of pessimism. You must about-face and march the other way. You lean away from thinking, or overthinking, and you lean into action, which cultivates relentless positivity.

As with all things in culture, I think this cycle—of pessimism and optimism—is natural, inevitable. It ebbs, and it flows. Which is why I’m not so pessimistic about the pessimism. I see that it was destined, and I see that, should we choose, things will reverse. But as with everything, it requires one small step. One person to host a dinner party with friends, or join a pickleball league, or join their local youth church group, or, God forbid, go to the bathroom without their phone (guilty as charged).

What I mean to say is that your world—and your worldview—is in your hands, and is a product of your action, or of your thought. Even if the world is flowing one way, you can still swim the other.

Just a thought.

Until next time

RB

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It was not the case for a long time, but something has recently changed. Before, I wanted to be out of the house, socializing at night, rushing from the gym to dinner to friends; now, I prefer solitude. Whether this is good or bad or neither, I’m uncertain.

I still enjoy socializing, as far as I can tell. I still want to be around others intermittently. I still value my relationships, and I would not be happy if I only saw people outside of work once or twice a month. It just seems that the spot at which I feel balanced, between time spent socializing and time spent alone, has shifted.

I want to live more slowly now. I don’t want to rush around as much. I’ve grown weary of nighttime video games with the boys, and yearn for good books. Moreover, I wish not to be so driven by the clock anymore, as if it’s nipping at my heels each second. I want instead to move through my days unrushed, unworried, unconcerned with a to-do list. I want to end my days at peace, studying a great mind, rather than at war, killing bad guys.

What gets me going is the idea of an early morning—feeling fully rested, having gone to bed early enough to wake up before seven without the aid of an alarm—with enough time to get ready, then heading to the cafe while it’s still dark, and reading and writing until I feel compelled to grab a bite to eat. I want an early afternoon with bits of productivity here and there, followed by a late-afternoon gym session, after which I head home to chef up my favorite pasta recipe, pray, read, and fall asleep.

This would be a good day.

I’m starting to realize that I do stress to myself. And that we all do it to ourselves. It is not something that happens to you. It is very much a consequence of inaction, or of incorrect action. There is plenty of time in a day, contrary to popular opinion. You just have to use it the right way.

Part of the reason I’m starting to draw within is a simple reflection of the times. It is getting colder, and the days are getting shorter. I’ve let myself rush through summer underslept and hyper-socialized—to the degree a young man can be hyper-socialized in the suburbs—and I’m ready to take some time for myself.

These seasons ebb and flow, like nature’s. I’m certain there will come a time in the near future that the spot at which I feel balanced shifts back the other way.

Right now, though, I’ve reached a breaking point. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but in a sort of painful way. The pain isn’t negative; it’s awakening. For so long a time, I’ve been overlooking the little things, things I need to account for, and I’ve finally been struck: I can’t continue like this. I can’t keep treating each second of my day like it’s a commodity. Time is a gift, and gifts are meant to be savored.

I’ve been biting off more than I can chew, and chewing fast, acting like I’ve got time for things I don’t. It’s not that I don’t have the time; it’s that in order to integrate these things into my day, I must speed through it like a madman. And I don’t want to be a madman.

What’s funny about all this is that I think it was catalyzed by Minecraft. Yes, I know, I am 27 years old, but please hear me.

My buddies and I recently got into the habit of playing video games at night. Not every night, but certainly too many nights. To fit these sessions in, I often have to expedite my night routine, so that I’m done with dinner before I socialize. Meaning that when I leave the gym at six, I’ve got to hurry to be ready, especially if I’ve not got leftovers.

We got together one night last weekend, and when I arrived, it was decided we would play Minecraft. I hadn’t played since I was a boy, so I consented.

We were plopped into this “world.” It was infinite, rife with everything you could imagine—wolves, trees, grass, mountains, caves, donkeys, birds, fish, monsters, etc.—save for an objective, which disturbed me. Because I don’t like aimlessness.

So, I inquired. “What are we supposed to do?” In other words, “What’s the goal here?” My compatriots responded with something along the lines of, “Why, my boy! Whatever you want!”

Oh. Oh, no.

Nevertheless, I endeared, and gave it a try.

They said I needed to collect materials. So I did. I dug dirt, I fought predators, I chopped down trees. Yes, with my bare hands. Like a real man. Except that, well, I was a fake man.

These trees, though . . . there was something about them. Something about the act of chopping down a fake tree . . . My mind was not present for the first. It started asking questions as I hacked at the second. By the third, it was screaming. This is the stupidest shit I could possibly be doing!

Why I hadn’t ever thought video games were stupid, I know not. Something about staring at a screen as I chopped away at pixelated wood with a pixelated hand disturbed me in a way I’d never been disturbed before.

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I have encountered yet another conundrum, maybe even a paradox:

I like going to the cafe on the mornings I can (i.e., when I don’t have work), and I feel good the nights before because I know I’ll have the whole first half of the day to myself to write and read and follow my curiosity wherever it takes me.

Conversely, I tend not to be all that ecstatic on nights before work, or in the hours leading up to any given obligation . . . In other words, I don’t much like to have to do things, for many reasons, including but not limited to the process of getting ready by a particular time, the commute, having to be somewhere for a certain period of time, the nature of what I’ll be doing, et cetera, et cetera. Call it, in sum, the pressure of it all.

The thing is, though, that I often find myself happy after having engaged in whatever commitment I previously did not want to engage in, and a little more stressed—or not totally peaceful—after having spent time at the cafe.

Why is this?

One of the reasons is money. I don’t currently make much of anything from writing, even though I [stubbornly] see it as a means to my long-term financial goals. So when I leave the cafe after working for however many hours, having not made a dime, I am naturally a little more stressed . . . But when I go into work, for example, and spend the day doing God-knows-what, and eventually leave, I feel better because I made money. I did what I had to do.

Another reason is something like novelty or socialization. When I go to the cafe—though I often enjoy writing and reading and discovering new things and all that jazz—the entire session is rather predictable: I arrive, I work, I leave. I don’t always meet new people, I don’t always have new experiences, and frankly, the time flies. When I attend to a commitment like work, on the other hand—especially being a substitute teacher and coach—I often have a variety of interactions and experiences I would not otherwise have had, and I tend to leave feeling a little more fulfilled, since I accomplished/experienced something in “the real world.” Not to mention, there is something inherently healthy about doing/finishing something you did not want to do.

Finally, I often find that when I attend to some commitment I previously would rather have avoided, I end up, to my surprise, enjoying the experience. Sometimes this is because of a social interaction, sometimes this is because I actually enjoyed the work itself, sometimes this is because of the setting, etc.

The question I’ve found myself asking recently is: How can I integrate these real-world things from which I reap fulfillment into a lifestyle that does not demand I engage in an excessive number of obligations I’d rather avoid? Is that even possible? Is that a “good” thing to want?

As is the case with me always, I am getting ahead of myself, contemplating a situation which does not yet apply. The fact is, right now I have no choice but to, for example, go into a job I’d rather not have to commute to. A job from which I clearly benefit.

Nevertheless, I can’t help but engage in these impractical thought exercises.

One thing I’m certain of is that I would be much more fulfilled, obviously, if I were making money from my writing—or even if I simply had a remote job (which is in the cards right now!)—because I’d feel I was moving forward, making meaningful progress while I was at my computer.

The real question is, would I be content in life—feeling like I’m “living it up,” doing things in the real world—if I worked fully remote? Would I, with that extra bit of freedom, somehow be able to integrate novelty and socialization into my life, even though I’d be working from my computer all day?

Moreover, am I conflating the sense of progress I feel from making money with novelty? Meaning, would I be just as fulfilled working remotely as I would—but more so, since I’d maintain a greater degree of freedom—working as, for instance, a teacher, since I’d be making money regardless?

It’s any college student’s dream to work remotely, but the fact is, I’ve realized and heard, that life can get a little mundane. Of course, you work more or less in the same place every day, just like you would with a regular job. It’s just that your coworker is now your dog, or a barista.

Despite this, every person I speak to prefers a remote lifestyle. Especially, it seems, once they have a family . . .

If I had a girlfriend, then, would remote work be the more obvious choice?

What experiences would I be forgoing in the name of comfort? Is it comfort? Or is it an intelligent lifestyle decision? Would it not be best when I’m young to pick up a job—one I won’t always want to attend to—that gets me out into the real world every day, and puts me in uncomfortable situations, and forces me to grow and accumulate stories to tell my grandkids? Can’t I do that either way—whether I work remote or in-person?

There’s no way to know, of course, until I give it a try myself. And my spider-senses are telling me I’ll be just fine—even that a remote situation could grant me the freedom to engage in things I’ve been wanting to make more time for: church groups, travel, nights with friends, recreational sports communities, etc.

I suppose the place I live would make a significant difference. Being at home in the suburbs like I am now, where there are not necessarily as many extracurricular opportunities for someone in their 20s, may be contributing to my doubt. If I lived in a city, around a younger crowd, and could work from my apartment one day and a cafe another and a coworking space the next and a historical library after that, I might really, really enjoy myself, and I might actually build up quite a social network.

As I said, though: time will tell. There will be no way to know until I give it a try.

Why this all matters to me so much, why I invest so much curiosity into the matter of remote work, is both personal and existential. What sort of lifestyle am I after? What sort of world would one in which the majority worked from their computers be? Would it be a better world, or a worse world? Better yet, would I be happier as an employee or as a business owner? Which approach to youth is most conducive to a life well-lived?

Ought I do whatever makes me the most money, no matter what? Or are there other elements to consider? Am I overthinking this? Should I just try out this job opportunity before me and see where life goes?

Obviously, that’s what I ought to do. All this thought, frankly, is wasteful. I mean, it’s interesting, but it’s impractical. There is in other words not much for me to do with its fruits. All I can do is put one foot in front of the other.

Such is life; such is the nature of humanity. As I have discovered working as a substitute teacher, things you could never have imagined open themselves up to you only when you take the leap and dive into something uncomfortable. Though hard times await, unimaginable good is always on the horizon too.

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This comes to mind right now because I was at a wedding several nights ago, and the lady serving us was attractive, and the best I could muster was an extra-polite thank you as I handed her my used plate.

Now, I don’t have a problem with women. In fact, I am mostly fine with women. I have female friends, and I get along well in conversation. My problem is more with the approach. In that, I simply don’t do it.

I see plenty of pretty women in my days, women I would gladly take out for a coffee. But the most I ever do is look. If they are my coworker, I just smile and wave, and they reciprocate. Sometimes.

When I’ve known a woman is interested [in the past], I’ve had less of a problem. It’s easy for me to strike up a chat.

My problem is when I don’t know, when I don’t have at least some sort of evidence they might want to speak to me. Certainly it could be the case that they’re simply not interested, but that’s highly unlikely. Just look at me (and my dog).

Kidding. But also not really.

I know, or would like to think, that at least some of these women find me attractive, or at least not ugly enough that they’d consider a date, but it’s also hard for me to discern the difference between regular, accidental eye contact and tension-driven eye contact.

So I’ve been told, a man is supposed to be able to distinguish between the two—to be able to “pick up on” the apparent clues the female gender leaves for us in their wake. But I, evidently, am incapable.

Of course, part of the problem is that I’m a bit of a sissy when it comes to the approach, but at the same time, how the hell am I supposed to know? Or maybe, am I supposed to not know?

From what I’ve heard, women used to leave clear, and sometimes literal, signs denoting interest; a man at one point in human history [must have] had a slightly clearer idea that whichever woman they were attracted to also found them attractive. The most obvious of these signs that comes to mind is the handkerchief . . . A woman would drop a handkerchief so that whichever chivalrous man they were indicating could pick it up and return it to their possession . . . and BAM, just like that, the boundary has been broken, a conversation struck up. (To be fair, I have no evidence this ever actually happened; it is just hearsay.)

Nowadays, though, there are none of these signs, at least none I’ve seen.

Again, maybe they’re just not diggin’ me. But it’s got to be something more, I think, because from the looks of it, a good number of men seem to be experiencing this problem as well. Are women just too picky now? Or are men just, for one reason or another, incapable of picking up on the signs (or just spending too much time in their parents' basement)? And if so, then where’s the damn handkerchief? Is it the eyes? Is it some abstract, indiscernible body language? Is there any clear and indisputable signal? How about a little eyebrow movement? Or maybe a wink?

While there are certainly plenty of bold and audacious frat bros out there willing to approach no matter the circumstances, the fact is that most men aren’t like that. And really, I think it is even more the case that most women don’t actually want a long-term relationship with an audacious man. Mostly because audacious and presumptuous men tend to be more promiscuous. And contrary to popular red-pill culture these days, I don’t think a promiscuous man is any different than a promiscuous woman, in that he is far less likely to be capable of marital commitment. And yes, I do think marriage is ultimately what’s best—in contrast to some strange fetishistic form of polygamy.

Men—true, masculine, Godly men—believe in marriage and prefer long-term, monogamous commitment. Meaning that they are generally not pickup-artist types and do not have a long, practiced history of approaching women. They are not always the most masterful when it comes to charm, at least at first. They are more intentional and maybe selective (sometimes, yes, to a fault) and, indeed, often awkward or shy.

I’m not sure women understand this. Women want tall, and handsome, and bold. Women want a man with money, a man with experience. Women don’t want a boy. Which, of course, is fair.

At the same time, though, women fail to understand that these [audacious] sorts of men, though not always, tend (in short) to engage in hookup culture. Which isn’t damning in itself, but is an indicator that they may struggle in the future with everything a marriage demands. And may also indicate an oft-overlooked shallowness.

What I’m saying, you might be able to see, is not that a good woman can’t expect a good man to approach, but that . . . well, I don’t know what I’m saying.

Am I saying, or sheepishly asking, women to drop more handkerchiefs? Certainly, ladies, you can’t expect a man to discern your interest by eye contact alone. Just because you look at him once or twice doesn’t mean—in our eyes—you’re interested. Because it could just as likely mean you think he’s ugly, or funny-looking, or that you’ve noticed in him one of the thousands of potential icks.

In a man’s eyes—a man who, God forbid, may not be outrageously confident—there is almost no definitive reason to assume eye contact alone indicates interest.

I’m reminded of a meme I saw recently:

What this means, for those not acquainted with Spider-Man, is that a sect of men believe they are being overlooked. Or better yet, that there are good men out there—hero-types, so to speak—that women don’t “notice” because they do not possess all of the markers women tend to look for in their selective process.

I must admit, to be honest, it seems in general that women—no, not all, but some—prefer traits (height, looks, style, how much gel a man puts in his hair, whether or not he wears cowboy boots despite the fact that he works an office job, etc.) that have no indication whatsoever of whether or not a man would be a quality long-term partner.

And while you could certainly say that the converse is true—that a good number of men prefer traits that have no indication whether or not a woman would make a good long-term partner (and, indeed, often prefer traits she might not make a good long-term partner)—my spider-senses are telling me there’s a difference.

I’m drawn right now to a statistic: young men are joining the church, while young women are leaving the church. I think at the moment the number or proportion of young men and women who attend church is roughly the same, but the point is that one gender’s numbers are trending upwards while the other’s are trending downwards. The same is true of politics: more young men are trending conservative, while more young women are trending liberal.

Marriage—typically being both a religious and conservative (since marriage is a tradition) institution—is naturally, then, increasingly on the minds of young men and decreasingly on the minds of young women. Again, the actual numbers are probably close to 50-50 at the moment, but what matters more here is the direction.

What’s happening?

To be honest, I don’t blame either of the sexes for the dating market disaster. If anything, it can mostly be chalked up to the 21st-century cultural circumstances into which we were born. Any generation before us would be damned to the same dilemma had they been born in our shoes.

That said, what I think might explain just about all of it is inflation.

I read an article a bit ago titled “The Big Sort,” by , who explains, in short, that because things are becoming more expensive, it is becoming proportionately more difficult to have a family:

In a world where marriage is prohibitively expensive, especially in terms of social capital, young people are increasingly faced with three options. They can forfeit marriage altogether, try to earn at “escape velocity” to make it into the reproductively stable upper class, or opt out of the competition for financial capital altogether and cultivate social capital instead by joining a conservative religious group.

In other words, if you want to have a family nowadays, you must either (granted, this is a generalization—there is very much a spectrum, but either end is becoming more pronounced) achieve some degree of disproportionate financial success (which would make marriage a sort of capstone to your life, meaning that you’d get married after you had the resources to do so and start a family) or you must enter into a religious community/lifestyle of sorts in which marriage comes first and social capital (combined with a degree of financial capital as well) plays far more significant a role in raising your family (think, grandparents, cousins, neighbors, etc.).

This perfectly explains why men are becoming more religious and more conservative: because it is more difficult to earn enough to support a family on a single income, young men are essentially banking on cultivating “social capital” to start a family. Of course, this is in many ways implicit, or subliminal. Meaning that men wouldn’t exactly be able to explain this outwardly, consciously.

What it does not explain, however, is why women are leaving the church and becoming more liberal.

Whether you like it or not, I think part of it is this simple fact: women want to date a man who is at least of equivalent socio-economic status. Meaning that—if men are increasingly joining the church because they are struggling to make enough money to support a family—there are naturally fewer “viable” mates for women to find in the church. Of course, if we are to adopt this perspective, we must assume that the church, in a way, is a facilitative mechanism for dating. Which is, for 20-somethings, basically somewhat true. (Yes, I understand it’s more than that—that a relationship with God comes before anything else. But for the sake of the argument, please momentarily accept the premise.)

At the same time, though, when did it become standard for women to take interest in a man only after his “success”? Only after he’d cultivated enough financial capital to start a family? What ever happened to building a life, and getting married broke and hopelessly in love, only to succeed together in the end?

I’m not saying this sort of stuff still doesn’t happen en masse. Indeed, practically every one of my friends in a relationship started dating their boyfriend or girlfriend when they were broke or still in school.

I’m just saying it happens less. And I’m saying, frankly, that this is the essence of the Spider-Man meme. A young man has potential, but it has yet to manifest. Men want to date a woman who falls in love with and believes in them when they are in their “Peter Parker” stage. Women, however, seem to only want to date him after he makes the front page of the newspaper.

To be childishly honest, it seems that men are painfully aware of this, while women aren’t. I’m making yet another generalization, and perhaps an insulting one, I know. But I’m just being honest, sharing my perspective.

And I think this may partly explain why men are increasingly joining the church, too. Meaning that they want a woman who believes in love, and in them, and is willing to commit to him before she knows he’s Spider-Man. Men know that the best place to find these sorts of women is at the church, where women believe in God and, by extension, in something like divine Providence, which may guide a man or a woman to the one with whom they are “destined” to marry.

I’m not saying there aren’t tons of women out there who share this perspective, and I’m not saying there aren’t tons of men out there, also, who don’t. I’m just noting the trends.

Social media, obviously, is not innocent here, either. It has made a generation of young people who compare their life and their options to not just the “best of the best” but to a distorted version of the best of the best. A reality that does not exist. Delusion.

Why does this seem to have affected women so much more, though? The reason for this is simple: it is women getting all the messages and likes on dating apps, while the majority of men’s inboxes remain empty.

And the reason for this is just as simple: because women are ultimately, in nature and by their nature, the selectors. Isn’t it obvious? Women get to choose. Women get to say yes or no.

What’s happened with social media and the dating apps is that men will “like” or “open themselves to” far more women than women will to men. The caveat, however, is that men are willing to open themselves to women they would not commit. Meaning that men are far more willing to sleep with women they would not marry. Meaning that social media and dating apps distort women’s perception of reality regarding their long-term options. They are made to think they have far more options than they actually do.

All of this nonsense, you might be able to see, is a consequence of a promiscuous world, in which “sleeping around” is normalized and even praised. Both men and women have lost touch with the idea of “preserving themselves,” because they’ve been convinced that doing so is oppressive, and that it’s better they follow their feelings.

It also explains where the handkerchiefs have gone. Instead of approaching in person, men have started approaching online. To anyone older than a millennial, this means that men now send “direct messages,” or “DMs,” to women they find attractive, and women decide whether to engage in the conversation depending on the man’s profile and perhaps the quality of his message.

(If you’ve not yet heard, most messages are “creepy.”)

The handkerchief is now on the internet. In the form of thirst traps, advertised to the general public.

Again, that’s a generalization, and this one is hyperbolic and slightly sarcastic. But you get the point.

As is the case with all my work, I may simply be projecting here.

Haters might say that because I’m single, and have been for a while now, I’m lashing out and pointing fingers. I’m not sure that’s true, although perhaps it is.

To be completely honest, something about dating fascinates me. I take incredible stake in it, and in what’s happening with it in the world today. The psychology and theology of it all get my mind and my curiosity going; dating and love and family are things about which I love to converse.

Though everything I’ve noted today is relevant, the simple fact is that while things are a little more complicated nowadays, if a man and a woman do what’s right, and put God first, and live a healthy lifestyle, and sort out their finances, then they will inevitably find their “person.” It just takes time.

And this is a good thing, because time is a shaping force. Everything you experience when you’re single is intended to make you into someone ready for a marital covenant. Not to mention, you’ll have plenty of time to share your life with another person; it is perhaps best to enjoy what time you have alone now.

What you mustn’t do is jump the gun. What you mustn’t do is run away from the pain of being single. You must instead lean into it. Because eventually, if you do your due diligence, it won’t be painful anymore, and you’ll be able to date not from a state of desperation but from a state of something like opportunity, and you will find yourself with an abundance of options, or better yet, with the right option.

Until next time,

RB

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I get sad whenever I focus on being happy.

What’s interesting about this is that I don’t get unhealthy when I focus on being healthy, and I don’t become a bad friend when I focus on being a good friend, and I don’t get ugly whenever I focus on being pretty. I am, in fact, very pretty right now, with my mustache and curly hair.

But happiness! Happiness is different. Happiness runs away when you pursue it, and comes to you when you least expect it. What makes it so different?

There is, indeed, something very empty about trying to be happy. About trying to soak up everything for yourself. Of course, happiness is an emotion, or a state of mind. And to be fair, when people say they “want to be happy,” what they often mean is that they want to be fulfilled, to wake up and be excited for the day, and to share it with people they love.

Nevertheless, there remains an inconsistency, or at least a misconception. Quite literally, too, whenever I write about what composes happiness, or what I’ve got to do to become happy, I get rather sad. Or more accurately, anxious.

Why is this? What’s happening here?

I am much happier when I think about things I want to do, and who I want to become, and the sort of relationship I want to have with the people around me, and the dreams to which I still aspire, and the trips I want to take, and the games I want to win, and the sort of house in which I want to raise my children. But when I think about trying to be happy, here as I am, I spiral.

As I said, something about it feels so empty. If I were to “try” to be happy today, I think I’d walk around in a field, or a forest, and soak up the autumn scenery, and maybe treat myself to a nice lunch, and an afternoon siesta, and an evening fishing trip, followed by a cozy fire . . . I think about doing things for the sake of feeling good, or setting myself in a picturesque scene, as if that scene will solve all my problems. Frankly, though potentially delightful, such a day sounds almost wretched, as I know my head would hit the pillow near-destitute.

I’m certainly not saying these things are in themselves bad, nor that it is good to only ever work . . .

I’m reminded of my time in Charleston—living in this city I thought so highly of, and still feeling like life was a little more empty than I’d hoped it would be. I think about trying to have “cool” or “memorable” experiences . . . Driving to the beach some afternoon and sitting there, just because I thought sitting on a beach was a sort of pinnacle, what life was all about.

One thing I learned long ago is that the word fulfillment is counterintuitive. Because to become fulfilled, one mustn’t grab hold of and consume as much as they can, but instead pour as much of themselves out into the world as they can possibly manage. Isn’t that strange?

Another thing I’ve learned recently is that there is no such thing as “value” unless it is in relation to a goal. In other words, something cannot be good or bad, better or worse, unless there is direction. Everything you do moves you towards one thing and away from another thing. Whether something is good or bad only depends on which way you want to move. Similar to how sharks cannot breathe if they do not pass water through their gills, man’s spirit cannot flourish if it is stagnant. And, in fact, it may very well degenerate, because life is in many ways a treadmill: if you stand still, entropy will inevitably knock you backward.

Things not experienced in relation to a goal cannot have value. Hence why we most always fail to cement into memory things that do not affect our trajectory.

This considered, what does it mean to try to be happy? It means to attempt to experience an emotion. A fleeting emotion.

Is this good? Can this in any way be objectively, transcendentally good?

I’m doing my best here to not make this a bigger can of worms; I want to keep today’s essay short. But if what I’ve said is truly the case, what do we do with something like awe? Something like love? Better yet, how may we ever appreciate nature if we lack a practical, symbiotic relationship with it?

Never mind that for a moment. The question is, can an emotion be transcendentally good? In other words, can, or more accurately, should we orient ourselves towards something like happiness? Something that is fleeting?

Of course not! Emotion is corporeal. Fleshly. If we orient ourselves towards such a thing, we damn ourselves to imminent disorientation.

This may explain my anxiety when writing of happiness. It may also explain why I feel happier when I orient myself towards real, tangible things. Things that in some way may fit into what is transcendentally good. Family. Relationships. Health—which makes way for relationships. Even material success, which grants me the potential ability to give, or to become a father, or to, one day—God willing—help pay for my mother’s Amazon orders.

I’m joking.

You see, these corporeal, material, fleshly things—the things wise folks would tell you you don’t get to take with you into heaven—must proceed from that which is truly good. What I’m saying, if you’re not picking up what I’m putting down, is that happiness and all other fleeting things that feel good are gifts from God, and are best treated as such.

We can get them if we want them—we can circumnavigate God, and orient ourselves towards them, as so many addicts do—but we will inevitably end up disoriented, anxious, and yes, addicted. We will have lost touch with life, because we mistakenly put the cart before the horse.

To be completely honest with you, I am rather astounded by what I have just written. This is a concept I have for so long a time not managed to wrap my head around. But I feel I’ve just explained it so clearly that a child could comprehend.

What I’m still confused about, though, is this:

Will I ever be able to enjoy sitting on a beach? Or will I ever have the pleasure of walking through an autumn birch forest? And even if I do, will I be able to soak in the beauty? To be with that wonderful moment?

This is the question that plagues us! All of mankind wants to know: When will I get my cookie? Why should I not just grab it now?

And to this I say, is this not the essence of faith?

Of course, there are moments in which God has answered our prayers, and molded us into what we must be, and granted us all the resources we need. In these moments, indeed, we must seize the day.

But it is often the case, for one reason or another, that God wants us to wait. And to trust. In all likelihood, because He knows things we don’t.

From birth, we are sent on a journey. We have choices to make, things to respond or react to. There is destiny, and there is fate. In a lifetime, our relationship with places and things changes far more than the places and things themselves. A house can be a home, but one day it will be no longer, even though it may be composed mostly of the same materials.

Our relationship with these places and things changes according to what God calls us to do. It is best we don’t try to make them into something they’re not, and instead heed the call and let life take us where it will.

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Every now and then, I wonder what I would do with my mornings if I didn’t spend them all at a cafe.

It’s sometimes a scary thought exercise, because I inevitably realize that there aren’t many things I’d rather do. I proceed to wonder, this fact considered, if it’s because I’m broke and can’t totally afford to do other things (and because I see writing as a sort of long-term path forward), or if it’s because I genuinely enjoy being here . . .

If I were to take an Eeyore-like perspective, I’d say my life has become a series of destinations. House, cafe, work, gym, soccer field, house. Each day has its bit of variability (especially since I’m a substitute teacher), but for the most part, I stick to the same 5 or 6 places. In other words, I don’t do much exploring, or wandering, or adventuring.

This may be because I’m living at home and there’s not much to explore in my hometown at 27. It may also be because I’ve grown averse to wandering, to purposelessness and aimlessness . . . which is partly because I’ve been propagandized and partly because I am genuinely ambitious—meaning that I don’t like spending an excessive amount of time doing things that don’t move me towards my goal (or otherwise stimulate me into oblivion, lol).

Furthermore, it may be because I am, as noted above, broke, and don’t feel comfortable “exploring.”

As a matter of fact, I did at one point recently cultivate a bit more financial security and noticed that, as a result, I became more naturally inclined toward these childlike endeavors. Which is noteworthy.

Wherever I go in my car, I see things and places through my window that remind me of times and experiences, of dreams and friends.

For instance, I notice a field. It’s the same field I drive past every day. It’s beautiful; they started converting open areas in my town to native nature spaces. Wild things now grow, colorful flowers bloom, opossums and coyotes and raccoons and skunks all roam.

This conversion has upset some of the stranger humans God brought into this world. They don’t like nature being so close to their doorstep. But I, on the other hand, am quite pleased. I appreciate the effort to make my neighborhood into a more natural wonderland, in which there are more wild animals, and in which, frankly, I have to make sure my good boy doesn’t get mauled.

Isn’t that interesting? Of course, I don’t want Tanner to get attacked by a coyote, but I’d prefer to live in a place where that danger is present. Because it makes things feel more real, more alive. (To be fair, I’d pass on the skunks if I could.)

Forgive me; this is a tangent.

I see these fields, these places. They were a part of my childhood. Through them, I roamed, quite literally, just like these animals. But now, I just look at them. Because I have no reason to roam. Adults don’t roam.

If an adult does start to roam, everybody gets to talkin’ and worryin’ about them.

The relationship I once had with these things and places, you see, is over. At least for now. Perhaps one day, or every couple of years, I will take a walk through them and reminisce. Perhaps when I have kids of my own.

And so, indeed, I wonder. Is this truly what I want to be doing? At the cafe, every morning?

Would I not rather go fishing, or walk about in one of the forest preserves, or read a book on my back porch while the birds chirp? Why does a man play less the older he gets? Or am I truly just playing here at the cafe?

I’ve noted recently, and I’ve told my family as well, that I’m quite happy right now. I’ve even posted essays about it.

This happiness I can only attribute to the routine I’ve cultivated. Because I feel like, thanks to this routine, I’m actually moving forward. And happiness—at least for adults—is a result in large part of the perception of progress.

At the most fundamental level, our brain releases chemicals that make us feel good when it processes the fact that we’ve moved closer to a meaningful goal. Back in the day, these chemicals might have been released when we killed a large animal whose meat would feed our family through the winter. In today’s world, they are released when we make a sale at work or finish a hard workout at the gym.

I admit: there are many things I want to do that I don’t do. I want to go fishing, I want to travel the world, I want to spend time downtown Chicago with my friends, I want to meet a girl, I want to go camping, I want to learn how to dance, I want to take up a martial art. I want to walk through a field.

But I refrain. And I will for the foreseeable future. Unless God says otherwise.

Am I wrong for this? Am I living in vain? Hoping for a time that in no way is guaranteed to come? Don’t I know how short life is? How quickly it can end?

I’m starting to realize that one of my biggest problems is the fact that I have always wanted everything at once. I refused for all my youth to commit to whatever season I was in. I didn’t want to miss out on shiny things.

The problem with this, obviously, is that I struggled to make as much progress as I wanted. I struggled to get to where I dreamed of going, because I couldn’t put off the pleasure. And I was damned, in consequence, to living the same year over and over again.

The other week, I was walking Tanner when I ran into my neighbor. He is a good man with a young family and sound advice. The few times I’ve spoken with him, I’ve asked him what he would do with his life if he were in my shoes. Because he seemed willing and able to answer some questions I had.

He shared a quote with me that day, and it hit me in the head like a bowling ball:

A certain freedom, a certain degree of depth, of fulfillment, is made accessible through commitment. Worlds open themselves to you only when you go all in. You think you can have everything at once, but you can’t. When you don’t pick one target and shoot, you end up hitting nothing. Even if you grab hold of that very thing you were after, it is not and cannot be the thing you’d hoped it was.

Part of this is literal. The other part of this, though, is a matter of being—of who and what you become by taking the leap. Because so much of your world is shaped not by the world itself but by the eyes through which you look upon it. Breadth can be good, but it can also be limiting.

What would life be if we lived each day like it were our last? Certainly, it would not be the life we wanted. What would life be if we did not prepare? If we did not plan for each season and think into the future to prioritize the present?

It is true that routine is forgettable. It is a scary thing to sacrifice a year, or several, of youth in the name of progress. But, of course, the alternative reality is far more dreary. The alternative is to be a Peter Pan—to long for Neverland and remain a boy indefinitely. To think you can have what you want without relinquishing what you’ve got.

It’s a difficult thing to change. To adjust one’s beliefs. To let go of something you once were so you may be what you must. It’s difficult to accept the fact that you’ve never got it all figured out, and that you must take life day by day and roll with the punches.

It’s weird that there are seasons. It would be much easier to be the same person every day. To be a child forever. To be a son or a daughter as long as you lived. It’s weird that we all graduate from things, that what was once a pinnacle may eventually become a crutch, a mark of immaturity.

It’s strange, maybe even sad, that our entire world must always die, that things are what they are and that we get to do with them what we want when we have them, and then must let go and move on to the next thing.

It’s hard to say goodbye. Most people don’t like to say goodbye, because they don’t want to admit to themselves that they were right where they’d always dreamt of being, even though it did not feel like it.

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A compulsive, sinful part of me wants to brag about my pain. This urge has subsided the more I’ve matured, and the more pain I’ve endured.

It is difficult to write about this without virtue-signaling myself. One who knows real pain does not care to speak of it.

I’m arguing here, today, that there is a threshold one must cross, and I’m using anecdote as evidence.

I’ve come to notice, as I’m sure you have, that we live in a world of people who take pride in suffering. Or, at least, the appearance of it. It is hardly different from any world before us, truth be told. Self-pity has run rampant through the ages.

People who know real pain don’t wear it like a medal around their necks. Because they know that anyone whose opinions are worthwhile can see it in their eyes. Not that they’re after anyone’s opinions in the first place. Virtue is the same regardless of who’s looking.

In reality, many people know pain. Real pain. Far more pain than I’ve ever known. Indeed, I’ve come from very fortunate circumstances, about as fortunate as any given set of circumstances imaginable. I’m talking top 1% in the world: one of the nicest towns in the suburbs of Chicago, in perhaps the most prosperous and powerful country the world has ever known. I don’t say this to boast; I say it to demonstrate the severity of my ingratitude.

For a time, I compared myself to others too much. For a time, I felt misunderstood, cursed, ironically, by misfortune.

It is true that pain can be alienating. I’m reminded of soldiers returning from war to a world of people who know only peace. I think about what someone who has seen the worst of the worst might think about while ordering a coffee, walking around in a town of people smiling and chatting and breathing in clean air, their buildings intact, death and suffering a more private thing, relegated to hospitals and solemn homes. How could this person ever have a normal conversation? About, say, the weather? Or sports? Or how terrible any given politician is?

My pain does not come this close.

I’ve known just enough pain to be rocked out of the stupor into which I was born. Most of it entered into my life through sport; some through heartbreak and drama, and the rest through loss.

For a while, when I was younger and had not yet been stirred conscious, I felt misunderstood. I felt like nobody knew anything about me, like nobody could relate to me. Perhaps it was the case that I didn’t feel this way because of the pain I’d endured—indeed, it was minimal at that point—but because I felt different. Perhaps only because I wanted to be different. Special. Because I was selfish, proud. I did not care to understand.

This changed at one point. When was it?

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Got another podcast for you guys today. Let me know what you think in the comments.

Enjoy!

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I see a lot of young people nowadays letting their lives be guided by how they feel.

I know this is cliché, and I know there’s also a chance it’s just cyclical. But I think it’s a little more than that. I think—as do many others—that the nature of the world today has made us young’uns soft.1

Where my perspective deviates here is regarding relationships. I suppose it deviates only because most don’t make this connection, since the two may seem unrelated . . .

I’ll explain.

I’m starting to notice that a lot of young people are letting their entire social life and all of their intimate relationships be led by how they feel. Both how they feel about the people with whom they’re socializing and how they feel about socializing at any given moment.

Sometimes things are good, and other times, things are not good. When things are [inevitably] not good, young people have a habit of terminating the relationship altogether. Moreover, to the latter point, young people fail to realize how much work it takes to have healthy relationships, and get into a habit of opting to sit in front of a screen instead of going out and engaging in tedious, “superficial” socialization, which ultimately leads to the demise, the sad and slow puttering-out of whatever friend group they were once jubilantly a part of.

As I’m sure you well know, this whole feelings thing with the younger generations can be applied to almost any of life’s domains: work, ambition, cleanliness, exercise, finance, et cetera, et cetera. In general, us younger folks tend to be guided less by principle than generations previous.

To be fair, this may simply be, as I said above, a trait inherent in young people, no matter the century, since they are, for obvious reasons, less certain of what they believe and therefore must rely on a different medium to make decisions.

Nonetheless, let’s just assume for now that it’s not, that the accusations are true, despite the lack of evidence. Because the fact is that whether or not this is a recurring problem with young people or something new, it remains the case that we are making decisions based on feeling rather than something deeper and more legitimate.

Now, the problem with being guided by one’s feelings is rather obvious: for one reason or another, homo sapiens are flawed, and without some sort of transcendent guide, will inevitably create for themselves a living hell on earth. Perhaps this would not be the case if we lived in completely natural environments—in which there were no Seven-Elevens with sugary candy and hot dogs, so to speak, tempting us day in and day out—but I digress.

If one is to ever live a good life in this world, they must cultivate something along the lines of what is known as wisdom. And wisdom is guided by something called principle.

What principle can do that feelings cannot is this: principle can guide one through a storm, whereas feelings cannot. Principle is like a lighthouse—if the lighthouse, I suppose, was not something to avoid—directing ships no matter the weather. Principle can direct action despite whatever given feeling presides at the moment. Meaning that one can both maintain course in bad weather and, more generally, make progress, move toward something better in the long run.

What I believe is a rather toxic idea has arisen in pop culture: that if someone does not “suit you,” then you have every right to kick them out of your life.

You see this crap on social media a lot. The posts look something like this:

The problem is that there are, of course, bits of truth laced into the message. You don’t want people who are going to undermine your life woven into it. You don’t want to integrate negativity into your world.

You’ll notice, though, that there is to this message a sort of self-righteousness, a child-like impulsiveness, a hint of ignorance. Because if anyone ever fully bought into what a post like this is saying, they would very quickly find themselves with no more than a few people with whom they were willing to socialize.

The remedy for this is quite simple. I learned it from my father, and I only realized how true it was at his wake, during which the visitation line looped through the funeral home and, I think at one point, almost out the front door.

“You have to work hard to maintain your relationships,” he would tell me.

In other words, you must value the people you love more than you value being right. You must choose to love, and you must decide every day that your network is more important than your ego. And you must take action to reach out to people, to check in on them, to keep them in your life, even if they aren’t doing the same for you.

Why? Because it makes life rich, full, abundant in love.

This isn’t to say you should open the doors to your house and let as many people in as it can fit. Of course, you must practice discernment. You must understand that you can practically tie yourself to some people, whereas you must keep others at arm's length.

And yes, indeed, with some people, you must sever ties.

At the same time, you’ve got to treat others the way you want to be treated, and stop treating them the way they treat you. You must, in other words, be the one to take initiative, to forgive and open yourself up—at least for a time—unconditionally. You must let go of this “Well, if they don’t reach out to me, why would I reach out to them?” garbage. This is foolish. This is not wisdom.

Put a premium on your relationships. Pour everything you can into them before calling it quits, before “distancing yourself,” before deciding someone “isn’t good for you.”

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I know it’s been a while, but I’ve finally got another podcast for you guys! Please enjoy and leave any thoughts or ideas in the comments.

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I’ve mulled it over a thousand times, and I have many drafts I never posted, each taking a different angle on the matter. Only now do I feel I have a complete enough perspective to share.

I’m not sure if there is already a term for it, but if not, I’d like it to be known that I was the one who endeavored to put my finger on it.

This thing is a paradox, and I think that it is for this reason that it’s taken me so long to finally address.

What should I call it? I’ll call it . . . let’s see . . .

Jordan Peterson once said, “The only way out is through.” That is part of it. The other part has to do with becoming, and with sacrifice. Specifically, I mean to say that it is often in the pursuit of a goal that you sacrifice who are.1 Or even that you already were what you wanted to be, and you just didn’t know it . . .

The example I’ve had in mind is this:

My goal, and I reckon the goal of most Americans—considering the nature of our economy and culture—is to cultivate so much abundance that one is able to live slowly, to enjoy and be a part of the world. Every single one of us wants to be able to experience the seasons, and the different ecosystems of this great country, and the many different subcultures (by taking vacations and roadtrips and whatnot), and so on and so forth. It’s almost like we all, as a whole country, grieve something that was lost decades ago, a world that slipped away, out of reach, thanks to none other than our own decisions.

Let me share a couple of images to give you another idea of what I’m trying to illustrate.

For each picture, all I did was type, “American _________ ,” filling the blank space with whatever scene I was after:

I know many of these are AI-generated, but the point is that we have moved into a reminiscent (and, in consequence, imitative) stage of history. There was the Renaissance, and there was Romanticism, and there was Realism, and so on and so forth.

Now, we look back en masse, since we don’t much like what we see looking forward. The paintings we hang on our walls depict a world that once was, that we yearn for, that we wish we could have been a part of, save for their lack of Western medicine. The movies we watch: so few are original; so many are remakes of previous hits. Spider-Man, The Odyssey, Star Wars, Barbie, et cetera, et cetera.

(I must be careful as I write this, or else I’ll inadvertently convince myself the world is terrible, and that I ought to be sad and hopeless. Things are not so terrible that hope is dead.)

I share all this to illustrate that this paradox I am going to put a finger on manifests itself both at the granular (individual) level and the global level. The country, so to speak, wanted to become powerful, the greatest country in the world. In so doing, however, it seems to have sacrificed all it was. Our great natural wonders have been relegated to once-a-year vacations; holidays feel rushed, and what good may be gleaned from them often comes in reflection, in memory; most can no longer hunt or fish (and eat) in their own town, and must plan an entire time away from life as they know it to access what few hunting grounds and clean waterways are left. Though we are not necessarily subjected to an authoritarian government, the freedom our country wanted so many to have is now largely inaccessible, and entire trip away, not in our backyards.

Similarly, the average American wants little more than the ability to peacefully enjoy and feel immersed in Christmas, or a family camping trip, or a beautiful autumn, or a birch forest. To do so, however, one must become something they are not, at least once they are an adult. One must become so financially abundant that they transform themselves into something like a successful businessperson, rather than just a human.

Now, I am being hyperbolic here. The average person can conceivably work a regular job and still enjoy life and be perfectly happy. I’m just saying that things are now a little different for some, and very different for many (think, for example, how frequently you see your extended family, and how much more together or close-knit your community might feel if everyone you loved lived in close proximity).

I ought to note here, as well, that all of these things affect one another. It’s almost a self-fulfilling prophecy: because the country was so economically ambitious, its citizens have been forced to become hyper-ambitious (you could make a whole argument about inflation and whatnot as well), and because its citizens are thus ambitious, the country becomes even more competitive. Etc. etc.

This may be the natural cycle of life, or of civilizations: a people move to a region because that region is resource-abundant; the people glean from it what value may be gleaned, and then that region is consequently depleted, and competition increases until the whole thing folds in on itself.

But I also think something deeper is taking place. I think, in other words, that there is a metaphysical pattern at play here. I think it goes something like this:

Anybody or anything in pursuit of a goal is naive. Perhaps because they’ve yet to achieve the goal they are aiming at, and thus are unaware of the sacrifices they must make in its pursuit. What they want is the goal, but they want it as they are. They want to grasp it or achieve it, in other words, in the state they’re in. A kid has dreams, but doesn’t realize that he’s going to have to become an adult to achieve them.

This is implicit, obviously, something they’re not consciously aware of. Because they think they can have what they want—which they have been convinced, for one reason or another, is worth having—without having to change who they are. And so they take everything they have at current for granted, believing it will be around forever. (I reckon this is very indicative of youth itself.)

They pursue this thing and move closer to it, but start to feel the effects, the absence, of what they are inevitably forced to leave behind. They don’t like this, and so they doubt themselves—both because it’s uncomfortable to lose what they had and because achieving the goal is not as easy as they thought it would be—and second-guess further action. Sometimes they persist, sometimes they concede and capitulate.

At this point, they must decide: Is not achieving this thing worth the regret of not knowing what it’d be like? Or will the regret of losing what I’ll have to leave behind weigh heavier than holding that golden chalice in my hands?

There is nothing to be done about this. It is the nature of life, inseparable from what it means to be alive. This is a rule that we all must contend with, regardless of the decision we make. It is woven into the fabric of reality.

Perhaps it is helpful to be aware of, perhaps not. I simply wanted to take note of its existence. I’ll call it the Progress Paradox. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.

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There’s something thoroughly and undeniably reassuring about autumn.

I’m not sure what it is; perhaps it’s got to do with the fact that we are so often told the world is burning up, well on its way to the underground levels of eternity. Indeed, after a long, hot summer of torrential rains, tornadoes, wildfires, and incidents of flesh-eating bacteria, hints of orange and yellow—along with a series of 60-degree days—offer the soul a hopeful sigh of relief. And if you like skiing or snowboarding, too, you may even sense adventure on the horizon.

All the other seasons are controversial. I like summer, and I’m astounded by anyone who does not like summer—which offers an invigorating reprieve from the later stages of a barren winter landscape—but there are enough heat-haters out there to form a faction.

Winter . . . well, I understand why some don’t like winter. I like winter, mostly. At least until the new year. It’s a time to slow down and reflect, to turn inward and rest. I like it particularly because I was blessed as a boy, brought out west to the Rockies every year, and taught to ski.

I like the holidays, as well. At the very least, for the novelty, the break from routine they provide. After that, though—unless it’s desperately snowy—things are rather depressing, the world as we know it characterized by cold, cloudy days and brown, bland plants.

And spring! The only people who like spring are idealists and grandmothers.

But autumn: I’ve yet to meet someone who does not like autumn. I don’t know why this is, exactly. It’s nice when things cool down, of course. Everyone gets sick of summer eventually. And there’s something so promising about the colors. What is it, though?

The pumpkins, the Halloween decorations, the earlier nights, Thanksgiving—leading to Christmas—the first frost, the thought of snow. What is it about these things that drives us all so wild? Were our ancestors hopeful about it? Would not these changes have indicated imminent hardship? What if we didn’t store enough food? What if the rations went bad? What would we then do? How will we survive the winter?

Perhaps it was easier to hunt game? Or maybe it just promised less work, since nothing more could be grown, and all that was left to do was harvest and store?

Maybe it could be this: maybe it could be the fact that these colder, more challenging circumstances brought us all closer together. Maybe we all like fall because we know deep within that it forces us together, to commune, to trade, to give gifts, to help, to love, to learn. Maybe we all love autumn so much because we know that nobody is going anywhere, that all of our loved ones have no choice but to be nearby.

Indeed, there is something about summer that I don’t like, even though I do love it. Because there is something about summer that feels quite lonesome. People head out into the world, embarking on adventures without you, falling in love with strangers, potentially never to return. It feels almost like everyone is doing something except for you; it feels, if you’re doing anything other than the most awesome thing possible, you will inevitably be missing out. FOMO is the acronym.

But autumn! When things cool down, people come home, the towns swell—the lakes and oceans thus more destitute—and everything brightens, even though the days are getting shorter, and that FOMO dissipates, because you know you’re right where you ought to be, in the best of all possible places.

This could be it.

Humans tend to see things for what they are on the surface: their physical characteristics, and how these characteristics makes us feel. But when you ask any given human why they feel this way or that—why they like orange and red and yellow—they don’t know.

Why do you like the vibrant colors of autumn? “Because they are beautiful.” Why do you think they are beautiful? “Well, I don’t know, I guess. It is just all so pretty.” What characterizes “pretty?”

Could any man be expected to be able to dig into his soul and realize that these vibrant colors make him happy because they indicate a sort of security? Since all his loved ones will in a short time reconvene? And, therefore, that in these leaves, he foresees good times?

This is quite the extrapolation. What does it matter, though? Must we peer below the surface?

Surely, we can love without knowing why.

Surely, we can act on faith, and we can be right . . . And we can act on reason, on evidence, and we can be wrong . . .

Perhaps I am wrong; perhaps something about the changing colors sets off a series of chemical reactions in one’s mind that has nothing to do with proximity to loved ones . . . Or, better yet, if I am right, we must wonder: what is it about our loved ones that makes us so happy? What purpose do they serve in our lives? How could this be granularized further? What exactly is it about love that’s so biologically pleasurable? Why are we sad when someone dies? What’s so neurochemically necessary about a social life? Can this be explained with science? With biology and chemistry? Or must this be transcendent, spiritual?

Indeed, we are inclined to mythology when we lack evidence. We need narrative as much as we need air and water. Perhaps one day—as was once the case with disease and weather and galactic phenomena—we will be able to explain all these things with reason and logic.

Will we ever be able to explain God, though? Will we ever, in other words, reach an impasse? Will we discover with certainty that there are things we could never know?

Faith. That is the word.

Will we ever discover a practicality, a necessity, in faith? Is not there something to it already?

Maybe that’s why we love autumn so much: it is evidence—that which renders our faith not blind. It is an undeniable sign that the world is still spinning on its axis, that things are still working, functioning the way they’re supposed to. And that we will, in consequence, persist.

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Prelude

Before I begin, I must mention, because my mother wanted me to have it on the record, that as we were eating dinner [which she made] one night, I said with my very own words that I’ve never had better salmon than the salmon she cooks, not in any restaurant I’ve ever been to in my entire life, even all the nice seafood restaurants in Boston, Charleston, and elsewhere.

That is all.

Enjoy.

1.

Every now and again, my mother will bring to light the fact that I don’t eat her cooking.

She does this whenever I do something that upsets her, like politely taking issue with the fact that someone turned the heat on upstairs in the middle of July while I was still sleeping.

It’s funny because, despite the fact that I am (close to 50% of the time) the accuser, so to speak, I am nearly always deterred from the get-go by this method of hers, rapidly forced upon my back foot, even though I approached the situation seemingly innocent, even righteous.

When she takes note of the fact that I don’t eat her cooking, what she is doing is actually very intelligent. It’s an effective strategy. Because, you see, it is tangible. It is real. It is evidence. She needn’t say what she means to say out loud. The natural conclusion is only a logical next step, one that requires no caloric effort.

As we all know, a mother takes immense pride and fulfillment in the food she cooks for her children. The reason for this is simple: she loves her children more than life itself. For those to whom she gave birth, she would do anything. This I know only because God blessed me with the most loving mother a son could have asked for.

Nevertheless, set that aside for a moment. Because I am at war, here.

This logical next step—what she is insinuating when she notes the fact that I don’t eat her cooking—is that I am an ungrateful little brat, and that she, thank you very much, holds by default the moral high ground in the dispute at hand. And any conceivable dispute in the future.

Fret not, for we are laughing the entire time, and my brother is always waiting around the corner to chip in some little joke about how loudly I clear my throat in the morning. As I said, though, set that aside. Because this is war.

These interactions tend to go something like this:

I wake up, a little after sunrise, my back wet from perspiration, my mind feverish. I think to myself, “Good God! Is it winter already? Or maybe I’m ill??”

After untangling my limbs from the dampened sheets, I stand up, rather delirious, and breathe in. I detect an odor.

It’s not a bad odor: it is the smell of the heater. You can smell when the heater is on, you know.

I’m not ashamed to say that it’s comforting in the winter. It smells, in a good way, something like burnt lint.

When you smell this in the summer, though, it is damning. It makes you feel sick, as if you’ve spent all of June—the first of the truly sunny, outdoorsy months for a Midwesterner—in your basement, drooling over a computer screen, wasting away, eating Cheetos, your fingers sticky, your lips crusty. It feels like you’ve squandered an opportunity, and must take an ice bath in holy water and shave your head and scrub your crevices to atone for your sins.

I turn to my right and look out my window. I do this to make sure there is no snow. Sometimes, I am stunned: the light reflecting off the roof, exacerbated by my state of mind, looks a bright, fluffy white. I shake my head, like a drunkard forcing sobriety to hasten.

After another second or two of hopelessness, my search yields salvation. A leaf! It is green! A green leaf! It is summer!

But why in the bloody hell is the heat on?!?

I march to my door, crank it open, and proceed to my mother’s bedroom, the control room. My mind is racing at this point. Is the dog dead?? I hope not! He’s such a good boy! This heat! His coat! It’s too thick! Oh God, please! NOT THE DOG!!

I turn the corner. The heat is all the way up to . . . it couldn’t be! 73!! My face tenses, my teeth press together. “What in the name of frignn’ frickn’ FRICK???” I want to say it, but I don’t. It is the morning, and how I react will set the tone for the day. Surely, the world has in store for me somewhere out there more significant inconveniences upon which I will have no choice but to vent my frustrations.

The dog. I remember the dog.

I flip the air back to cool, I knock the number down back into the sixties, the sanities. I scurry downstairs: the good boy was nowhere to be found—perhaps he took shelter on the cooler leather couch. Heat rises, after all.

I prepare myself: I may need to give compressions.

But Lord! There he is, indeed, on the couch! He lifts his head! Thank God!

I hang a left. There sits the culprit, in her office. I glide forward, past the downstairs thermostat. The heat. It is on down here too.

“Are you okay?” I inquire. “What I mean to say is, have you lost your mind?”

“Well maybe if you ate my cooking I wouldn’t have to!!!”

“What in the name of—what??”

She would never admit this, of course—that is, that she is insinuating I am a bad son, an ungrateful brat, when she mentions I don’t eat her food. Instead (in a manner similar to how she suggests to the customer service rep at T-Mobile that they aren’t addressing their most loyal customer as she’d hoped they would, indeed, that she is quite surprised, and that perhaps it might make sense to switch to Verizon), she’ll say that she gets it, that she understands why I don’t eat her food, that it makes perfect sense to her, that she sees it all clearly now, because obviously I just want to live my own life, that I think I’m better than my family, and am embarrassed by them, and would be much happier out in the world on my own, since I’ll eat not just the neighbor’s food, but dog food itself before I ate my mother’s food!

And just like that, I have been rendered defenseless, set in no-man’s-land, hoping a mortar shell does not land nearby.

2.

These disputes tend to revolve around, or be catalyzed by, what are rather arbitrary matters: lights, positions of particular items in the refrigerator, clutter that gathers on what are shared tables and counters, et cetera, et cetera . . .

Sometimes I am the transgressor, sometimes I am transgressed upon. My brother is often involved, and tends, regrettably, to side with the opposition. It depends on the day. For example:

I’ll turn the lights off in any given room—because, of course, nobody is using that room—and someone (in so subtle a manner it could be a phantom) turns them back on . . . and then proceeds to drive off to the grocery store! I flip the lights off again, and when this someone returns from their little chip-trip, they wonder why it is the case that someone would ever turn all the lights off!?! and suggest I may be a vampire, and say it’s just ridiculous, and that the house is better when it’s bright, and that, in sum, I’m just too much. I retort that if they want the lights on, all they’ve got to do is burn a quarter-calorie and flip up that little white thing sticking out of the wall.

Or:

Someone will open a package of what smells like fermented waste—just after nuking it in that God-forsaken microwave—right there upon the counter I just wiped clean, spewing kernels of Jesus-knows-what all over in what is truly an explosion . . . I proceed to wipe it off again—yes, I inspect the counter from a horizontal angle, you see, because it is this yellowish-brownish-copperish granite, which makes crumbs hard to catch from the top down—and they cackle to themselves, and tell me that I have “issues,” and need to see a psychiatrist.

It’s all arbitrary stuff, as I said. Having matured enough not to let these smaller matters bother me, what I have instead grown to concern myself with is the well-being of and love I have for my remaining family members.

Nevertheless—I really don’t know why, I tell you—my mother (and brother, when he senses the opportunity) feels compelled to point out this fact of my not eating her food. I’ve tried to reason with the woman, but every time, and no matter the self-evidently unrelated nature of the dispute—I swear it could be about whether or not Anakin Skywalker himself was truly evil or just a lost soul—she’ll bring to light this transgression I commit, day in and day out, oppressor upon the oppressed, in cold blood.

3.

And so, the nature of my unnavigable circumstances considered, what I’d like to do—nay, what I must do, what I am compelled to do—is meditate on the matter, and get to the bottom of it all, before a sort of jury, i.e., my readership. Because, of course, I don’t want to be a bad son, any more than my dog wants want to vomit on my mother’s bedroom carpet. And I reckon the fact is that if the public eye can’t set this all straight, then nothing will. My essay here may be considered a sort of last-ditch effort.

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On Friday night, I was sitting around the fire with my buddies, talking about life. Deep stuff; philosophical, almost pretentious.

At one moment, I made a point: that even though life may be good right now, all three of us were destined sometime or another to the worst of all pain, intense suffering, likely several times over.

I said this, of course, carefree, fearless, near proud—as if I were exempt. As if each step I took were protected, at least for several years more. I said it as if the pain I called inevitable was for me a decent bit of time in the future, far out enough that I didn’t need to worry.

The very next day, as confident as could be, I go into my game, flying high, feeling good about myself, and I take one weird step, and something pops, and I’m in a boatload of pain, and my season is practically over.

I’m sure getting shot feels worse: I’m sure many things feel worse. But a knee injury is not pain one experiences every day, you know. It was rather intense.

My assertion—that my buddies and I were all destined to pain in the future—was proven true in less than 24 hours.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have said it. Perhaps I spoke it into existence. Indeed, it is ironic, the timing. Maybe God is keeping me humble. There’s no way to know.

Why did this happen? Why did I not just stay with the defender? Why did I rotate my body like that?

It is not good to think like this. Certainly, these thoughts always cross one’s mind when something bad happens. If only I’d taken one step different . . .

It’s important, however, that we do not buy into them.

One thing I’m starting to realize as I get older is that everything really does happen for a reason. That is, if you believe in God, or even merely “something greater.”

I mean this in the most literal way possible.

If you are humble, you may just stand a chance at understanding. If you are not humble, then you will be beaten down until you are.

From what I’ve gathered, God does things for the most transcendent reasons.

God does not give you what you ask for. God gives you things that will lead you to the things you ask for, so long as they are pure (and sometimes, He doesn’t!). When you understand this, you can reframe your perspective.

When shit hits the fan, you’ll be able to wonder—instead of being angered and upset—What did I not know, or in what way was I lacking? How am I being forced to grow as a result of this situation?

Of course, despite this refurbished perspective, you may still not be able to see the reason. This doesn’t mean there is none.

Perhaps, though, it’s not about you. Maybe this is what I’ve yet to understand. Maybe there is truly no reason. Could it be?

God has a plan, and you’re fit into it somewhere, someway. Or maybe you’re not . . . I don’t know.

People today—I, myself—like to think that God does things for them, that He has a plan for all of us to bask in glory. Worldly glory. Maybe this is true for some. I’m not sure it’s true for all, though. (Certainly, we all like to think we’re special, the chosen ones.)

If you choose to love Him and to submit yourself to His plan, I’m certain you’ll find yourself in the best of all possible circumstances. But to think it’s all about you must be prideful and shortsighted.

Why did I hurt my knee? What is God trying to teach me?

Maybe He’s not trying to teach me anything. Maybe this injury has nothing to do with my story. Or rather, God’s story. Maybe it’s just a crappy outcome and has no transcendent purpose. Maybe I’m not as big as God’s plans.

This is something I do not understand. Where to draw the line? How could I know if there’s a reason? How could I know if God’s trying to teach me something? What if I’m a fool for thinking God would take the time to do such a thing? How could I think I’m worthy of such a blessing?

I don’t mean to say that God is limited, of course. I don’t mean to say His plan could not be big enough so as to include every single individual on this small planet. I’m not saying that God doesn’t love us, nor that if we choose to love Him, He may still choose to not look favorably upon us.

I’m really just playing devil’s advocate.

I have no doubt that we mustn’t stop believing. That all of this stuff is already taken care of. I hope it is the case that if we give it our honest best effort, and if we do all that’s within our control, things will end up well. Or as well as they could.

Life is hard and painful, but if you do what you’re supposed to do, what good may be found in it will come your way, and you will find it’s well worth the sacrifice.

As we all know, through bad comes good, and vice versa. There is not one without the other. It’s a scary thing to take note of: that pain is coming your way. But it is this very pain that makes life real and worth living.

To reject this pain, then—to be mad at it, upset with the one who designed it—is to simultaneously reject pleasure, to reject love, and happiness, and hope.

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Physical synopsis

I believe I dislocated my right kneecap in my game last night. I’ve yet to see a doctor, but I dislocated my left kneecap back in the day, and this injury feels similar.

It was incredibly painful; I felt a clear pop, and then I was screaming. Originally, I thought it was my ACL or MCL—and it could still be—but after some quick on-the-field tests, our team’s trainer did not suspect either. I walked off the field just fine after the initial pain subsided, and I could bend my knee and put weight on it and even jog.

Nevertheless, it slowly swelled, though not near as much as I would have thought considering the severity of the pain.

I recall from the first injury, when I was about 14 or 15, that I could walk just fine (and jog, too . . . indeed, I think I wanted to go back on the field), but was shortly thereafter in crutches and a tight bandage, being wheelchaired around the hotel by my teammates. I believe my knee swelled up a little more than this one—which must be a good sign for me this time around, and is, I hypothesize, a result of all the soccer specific excercises I’ve been doing throughout my twenties to keep my body healthy.

As I sat on the bench, my mobility steadily decreased. After the game, I limped to my car. I could walk up and down the stairs last night; this morning, I could only do one step at a time. I iced last night multiple times, and I’ve now got a Copper something-or-other knee brace on. My mobility seems to be holding steady at about 100 degrees, which is good.

Mental synopsis

I am absolutely gutted. Tears left my eyes as I walked off the pitch last night. I knew as it happened that I would be out for some time. It’s all very upsetting, because I really do live for this. I also wondered, almost immediately, how I was going to make it into work on Monday.

I suppose these things are good, because it seems my mind is—these natural subsequent thoughts considered—programmed to always wonder, What’s next? What must I do to keep moving forward? In fact, I spent very little time upset about the fact of the injury; within a minute or two, I was thinking about what I must do to get better and back on the field. I don’t think this was the case the first time around. I don’t think my mind was as sound as it is now . . . although maybe I am just impatient, overly eager, since I know I’ve not got as much time left to play.

I’ve had many, many ups and downs in soccer. At 26 years old (going on 27), I still play, and I’m playing better now than I’ve ever played, which makes it all the more invigorating. I’ve endured multiple inuries, and I’ve worked hard to recover from all of them. This one will be no different, despite the fact that it doesn’t necessarily make sense on paper to endeavor to return, and to keep striving to be better, since I do not get paid to play.

I rejected years ago that competitive sport is over at 18 or 22. I (and evidently all of my teammates) find myself more in the Theirry Henry camp.

When asked once, “If you weren’t a professional footballer, what would you have been?” he said, “An amateur footballer.”

“You would’ve been broke . . .”

“But I’d still play football.”

Spiritual synopsis

What’s most gutting is the fact that I’m really starting to love the boys on my team, and we are now in first place in our division. I want us to keep doing well, and I want to be a part of it.

This team has never been first place in the division. Though I’m certain we will face more obstacles in the future (as any organization is destined to), the club is flying high, and the boys know it. To have to sit this season out is deeply frustrating.

It’s been wonderful to be a part of. Not many know what it’s like: they either join a team that is not playing well, and continues to not play well, or they join a team that wins, and continues to win. But to be a part of a team1 that starts more or less struggling at the bottom, and then very shortly—through a combination of hard work, passion, and essential additions—moves to the top, is a different experience.

It does not matter to any of us that we are not “professional athletes.” For this, we live.

Indeed, to every player on the field, this team is a sort of lifeline—the thing (or one of the things) that keeps us going. This sport is what we look forward to throughout the week. It is in many ways a highlight, a pinnacle. The reason for this is near inexplicable.

Of course, we love our families and our friends and our girlfriends and our dogs, but there is something about soccer that lifts all existential weight off a player’s shoulders. For those several hours on the three days that we are on the field each week, all our problems cease to exist. It’s like a drug.

While I am getting older, and while many would take this as a sign to call it, I will keep going. I may document this recovery process for younger athletes who have been forced off the field due to injury (perhaps they will read it, lol).

As I said, I’ve been here before, and I will do it again. I am not going to take unnecessary risks, but I plan on showing people it is very possible to get over life’s hurdles, and with my experience of having recovered many times from many injuries—including this exact one I suspect I have just sustained—I aim to do it in a much faster time. I don’t want to be irresponsible, I just want to show people how powerful and capable they are; that the sky is truly the limit.

Everything’s already been done before. The most impossible of obstacles have been overcome. It remains important, nonetheless, that some human beings keep doing these seemingly impossible, or pointless, or hopeless, sorts of things—that somebody can believe without needing to see—because their stories imbue the world with hope, in whatever corner they exist.

Until next time,

RB

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Certainly, the world is a bad, terrible place, in many ways, in many places, for many people. But it’s also not. It’s also a wonderful, hopeful and loving place.

Saying something like this feels almost taboo, at least on the internet. I feel I’m risking my reputation a bit, granting what few haters I have the opportunity to accuse me of ignorance, and lucky—which itself has become a sort of sin. Pessimists are always lurking, armed with a series of “facts,” waiting for an optimist to show his or her true colors.

Obviously, that’s not really true—that I’m “risking my reputation”—because nobody truly cares much what anyone says on the internet; it’s all just a bunch of noise. Nobody is actually outraged—until someone tells them to be outraged, of course—despite the fact that the headlines say they are. Indeed, most people are far more outraged by how long it takes Chipotle to make their burrito than by whatever next thing just happened hundreds, if not thousands of miles away.

Which is I think in part the point I mean to make here: a good lot of the hype is artificially manufactured; we are consuming things that make us feel the world is a bad place without having gone out into the world to experience it for ourselves.

It may be true that we need more people on the internet saying outrageous things like the thing I’ve just said above—that the world is in fact a fine place—so as, in a way, to level the playing field. But more pertinently, what we really need is people staying off the internet in general. What we really need is for people to stop consuming and absorbing all the garbage people put on the world-wide-web, because then, I reckon, the world would be a heck of a lot better place.

It’s really all just a self-fueled psy-op, you see.

I am not here to debate this point. I simply believe the world, or my world, would be a better place without, or with less of, the internet—except for the fact that I’d no longer have access to cooking video tutorials—because I don’t see many ways in which the internet has enhanced things other than in the way of efficiency.1 That’s not to say we shouldn’t care at all about bad things happening in the world, because these bad things could eventually make their way into our countries, and towns, and homes. Nor is it even to say they’re not happening, that all these things we’re being sold are fake news, so to speak.

It’s merely to say that I believe getting people off the internet and into the real world is one of the better missions one could adopt nowadays. That I believe people’s animal brains are struggling to distinguish what’s taking place far away—things that are out of their control—from what’s happening in their own living rooms, in their own neighborhoods. Because, after all, you are what you eat, what you consume.

I suppose getting people less connected with the internet and more connected with the real world necessarily requires people go on to the internet and tell people—show them—why being on the internet is bad, and why being in the real world is so good (although it also requires people have neighbors over for barbeques more frequently as well). What I mean to say is that I acknowledge the hypocrisy of writing on the internet about getting off the internet, and of me writing on the internet at all in the future.

And to be fair, I did exagerate above: the internet does have many good uses that I think, especially after having access to them, I’d find myself in a state of lack without. It’s nice, for instance, to be able to do my banking and investing online—although an entire culture died off for this to happen . . . It’s nice to be able to send emails, and texts, and make phone calls—although few now know the depth, the love, the beauty of sending and recieving letters anymore. That culture has similarly died, which I think is even more a shame.

Similarly, people don’t go outside as much anymore, and don’t know their neighbors as well, and don’t meet strangers as often, and don’t feel as part of a community as they once did—in whatever town they may live. (At the same time, they do, for those who choose!) These sorts of things have died off, as a direct result of “technological advancements,” and the world is not as good for it. Does that mean we should do away with the internet? Absolutely not. It simply means we ought to forge better ways of integrating this technology.

These advances, you see, are good in some ways, and bad in others, and an effort must be made to integrate them as best we can without ruining the things that are good about the world. Because, of course, the whole point in the first place was—the whole point of any innovation is—to make the world a better place. (For the record, I think something like Substack is doing a darn good job at this so far.)

My point made—and accounting for the fact that we face some very real generational problems, that people are actually suffering for certain reasons—what I’d like to say is that the world, life, really still is good, or has potential to be good. More specifically, what I mean to say is that the internet has become an echo-chamber for the world’s problems, and that I’ve noticed the people who spend the most time on the internet tend to be the most pessimistic and under-lived.

This may be obvious in hindsight, or from a withdrawn perspective: obviously, anyone would admit that someone who spends too much time online is prone to pessimism. The things is, though, that they refuse to acknowledge and see it in themselves. Indeed, I often refuse to acknowledge and see it in myself.

The reason for this growth of pessimism, the portion of cultural degeneration to which the internet has directly contributed, I think is quite simple:

The internet was originally created as a sort of, I don’t know . . . no, not a marketplace . . . rather, a forum. Or maybe symposium is the right word. The intention, in other words, was for this thing to be a place in which human-ness could come together and flourish. Indeed, it was not—I learned recently (I think)—ever intended to be a place of commerce.

What’s happened, however, is that money got involved, and then salespeople got involved . . . Which, I suppose, is not necessarily a bad thing in itself. (Indeed, I technically sell stuff on the internet.)

But then a bunch of stuff happened, and the internet became a place where human impulse could be and is taken advantage of. People realized that the best way to get attention—the best way to make the most money—was to use things like fear, and temptation, and envy, to their advantage, to get people to look in their direction. Ethics, truth, went out the window a long time ago, because people learned that if they were not as captivating as possible, then someone else would be, and then nobody would look at them, and what opportunity they had to make what money could be made would be lost.

The internet, you see, is now little more than a meta-land of salespeople who will do whatever they can to get you over to their stand, their store, and sell you something you think you need. Something they convinced you you need in the first place.

To be specific here, I am referring to social media, rather than the internet in general. Nevertheless, I think social media, perhaps combined now with AI, takes up the majority of user-time on the internet.

So, the question is, then, what may be done about this?

I’m not sure. I suppose I’m writing this for the individual, rather than the society. I am writing to the person who feels—or maybe knows someone who feels—like the world is a dark and scary place, and that the future is uncertain. To this person, I challenge you: spend less time on the internet. And better yet, sort your life out before taking issue with what’s happening over somewhere you’ve never been.

It’s a numbers game, really. Get your screen time down. Read a book before bed instead of watching Netflix. Have the boys over for some split-screen video games, rather than sitting in your basement alone, before that great big TV. Have the neighbors over for a fire and a beer. Grab coffee with an old friend. Take a walk with your mother. Start doing things Americans once did: grow a home garden, take up knitting, play the guitar, or board games, take a foreign language class at your community college, learn how to bake . . .

It all sucks at first, I admit. These things will not be near as stimulating as your old habits. Your mind may worry, knowing there is bad news somewhere to be taken in, news you’re missing out on. But you will notice in time that your life will deepen, and your outlook will brighten. The world will start to feel like you thought it would back in the day, before these things infiltrated our society.

The world is a good place, and yes, it is a bad place too. Pain is on the horizon for everyone, surely. There is no doubt about that. But so is life, and liberty, and happiness. At least if you want it to be.

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It’s kind of weird getting to a point in life at which everything smoothes out.

Like, a year or two or three ago, you had a bunch of problems, things you were dissatisfied with and wanted to “work on” and refine and tidy up. Your fitness wasn’t as sound as it could have been, and your room was a mess, and you weren’t making as much money as you’d have liked, and your relationships felt a bit like they were falling apart, and you wanted to get better at that thing you’d always wanted to be good at but never took the time to practice.

This disorder crept in slowly and quietly over a rather long period, born of a series of bad habits cultivated in childhood. It came to your attention all at once. It might have been somewhat overwhelming, disheartening. The pain was drastic enough to incite change; you courageously chose to attack these problems, rather than dilute reality. You forged a concrete gym routine, and you cleaned your closet—literally and metaphorically—and you read more books, and you learned how to cook, and you made a habit of calling friends and family, and you got a decent job, and so on and so forth. Every day felt like a sort of drawn-out battle, a grind. Sometimes you won, sometimes you thought you let yourself down. Often, you found yourself wondering if your efforts were worth it at all.

Eventually, however, you noticed that you actually made headway. The waters started to calm, and life grew incrementally better. You’re now no longer so stressed about things that once plagued you, and the world no longer feels so heavy and terrible. A faint brightness begins to emanate from everything you lay your eyes on . . . and you can’t help but wonder to yourself, What to do? Be happy??

Of course, new peaks thus present themselves, and along with them, new problems. Nevertheless, it’s all relative.

You felt for years like you were living life one day at a time—in the stressed kind of way, rather than the adventurous kind of way—just surviving and doing whatever you needed to do to make it to bed at night, and for the first time since you were however old, you can take your foot off the gas pedal.

Should you, though? In a certain, strange way, you don’t even want to, because you’re now so accustomed to this one way of life that you’ve grown almost fond of it, despite the fact that it may no longer be best for you. The thought of doing things differently feels a bit like you’d be betraying something that served you in suffering, and served you well: for it, you have this unique affinity, if only on account of familiarity. Or perhaps you find it exciting. Because in it, there is this sort of novelty that a stable and healthy life lacks.

Is it really a good idea? To slow down a little? Is not that thing that was hunting you still in hot pursuit, just a little further away, due to your diligence? Would it not be a bad idea, then, to give it leeway, to let it catch back up? Is it truly okay to just sit around on the porch and listen to the trees for a while, or watch that one movie you’ve been meaning to watch for the past year and a half? To be a kid again, even for just an hour? Could you, instead of going to the gym on Friday night—considering you already went every night after work that week—walk around by the river under an evening sun with your family?

Is entropy not always on its way? The competition not always at work? Should you not take advantage of these calm waters and push on even further? But, then, when will you ever have the chance to anchor off, and dive in, and wonder at all the teeming life below? To peer into the world of dreams, the world that once so benevolently nursed your innocent spirit? Indeed, are you not certain that more progress won’t lead you into the hands of a storm you could have otherwise avoided?

I’m not sure it’s ever the case that things truly smooth out, you know. The world is infinitely dynamic. Chaos always lurks. In calm waters and clear skies is stored heat, a heat that can churn everything into a destructive torrent. It’s not ever the case that you’ve got it all figured out, because, as you may well know, there’ll always be more figuring out to be done in the future.

But there are indeed times, if you’ve done everything you needed to do—your due diligence—when you’ve got nothing else to do. Some things drive us to feel like there’s always something we could do, or ought to do, especially in this world today. If you can overcome this temptation, though, you will see that sometimes the only thing left for you to do is anchor off for the night.

And since you’re anchored, it is also the case that you might as well hop in and swim around.

This is life, or adulthood, I’m starting to learn. You must work hard, as hard as you can on many days. But sometimes you must rest and live a little.

When you’re a kid, it’s not as much like this. Your parents take care of things for you, because you’ve got other things to do—and you’re not yet the captain of the ship. You’ve got to learn, and grow, and hold on to that love with which you were born. But as each day passes, the number and weight of your responsibilities grow. And no matter who you are, no matter who you think you are, these responsibilities are yours, and nobody else’s. Eventually, indeed, the helm will be yours.

It’s interesting to see this, to notice it—and you will notice it if you pay close enough attention—to recognize the universal humanity in it, because for the longest time, you thought some people were better than you, had something you didn’t have. You thought they were more than human, merely because they hired a crew to sail their yacht.

You thought certain problems could be circumvented by certain people, certain responsibilities and pains avoided altogether: you thought the rich didn’t have to brush their teeth, or the famous didn’t have to call their friends, or the good-looking didn’t have to eat their broccoli. You thought some people didn’t have to atone for their sins, weren’t held accountable for their shortcomings, didn’t have to answer to God when he wonders, “Why didn’t you do everything you could to become all you could be? Why didn’t you heed the call?”

You thought some people were above the problems most face daily, on account of something they acquired in passing. And you thought, in consequence, that you might manage to avoid a life of these problems—tending to these responsibilities—yourself.

But this is all a lie, a misconception, a perspective inevitable to the inexperienced and naive. Entropy knocks on everyone’s door, and there are some things every human, regardless of their circumstances, has no choice but to address or be addressed by.

I once heard a man I revere say he’s “never seen anyone get away with anything.” What he meant is that there exists an implicit structure of rules by which we must all play and abide if we want to keep playing. They are invisible, so to speak, but they are very, very real.

These rules cannot be broken, not by anybody, not without consequence. Neglect or shortsightedness in any capacity leads to repercussion. Judgmental people think they can avoid mistakes; spiteful people think they can avoid corruption; lazy people think they can avoid problems.

Many of life’s tragedies begin with minor, minuscule infractions, dismissed casually in the name of that most terrible and deadly sin called pride. Some think they don’t have to play by the rules, think the rules don’t apply to them, because, for whatever reason, they’ve not yet been smacked hard enough. It is often—though not always—the humble who keep these whallops at bay. Because the humble do not take details lightly, usually because they learned, one way or another, that such dismissal leads to pain that could have been prevented.

But herein lies the conundrum for the humble: they are diligent. The humble are mistakenly—pridefully, even—prone to using these calm waters, which are a gift from God, as a means of getting ahead. The humble, you see, risk squandering the essence of life because they take pride in their humility! In every great thing you see, lies potential for bad, and in every bad thing lies potential for good.

The Prodigal Son was forgiven! And not just forgiven, but celebrated! This the pridefully humble do not see, do not understand, could not relate.

Life is as terrible as it is great. The worst of the worst and the best of the best. A full life is expansive. It is to stick yourself out there in the world, vulnerable, at risk of tragedy, and remain steadfast, stubbornly enamored, courageous, and willing to faithfully keep on keeping on, despite the torrent ahead.

On calm waters we live; against storms we fight; in dim light, we prepare; under vast skies, we love. Always, we worship.

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