Author: bifocalsandbarbells

By some stroke of luck, there were 2 Adams boys at the dinner table. Danny started staying at his home last night. Dirty will live in SLO in 5 days. It seemed like a worthy moment to share that I’d been revisiting some words I’d written in the past.

Years back I’d seen a book for sale about “blah blah number of things to be happy about.” That seemed silly. I have my own things about which to be happy. So I bought a blank book and started to write my things in it.

That book and I reunited the other day. There’s lots of gems in it. And yes, nearly every one still makes me smile.

As I sat there with my college graduate mechanic and my soon to be college entering vintner, I tell Danny, “it seems like you were destined for your path. There was one in the book where I was impressed (and frightened) that you were able to jump start a 4 wheeler at like 7”

Never wanting to be out done, Dirty says “I was running loaders when I was 6 and a half.”

“The only thing you run is your mouth” quips Dan.

“I run that shit too. Shut up bitch”

Norman Rockwell himself could not have created a scene as beautiful.

I don’t expect them to meet for coffee weekly as they go on into adulting. But, I hope they’ll grow into the kind of great men that know they can really count on each other in the toughest of times. But hopefully without the salty language.

“You should go dancing.”

I freeze. My brain works hard to process what Tara just said. I’m sure that my face looked somewhere between how it looks when I  “what the fuuuu…?!” and how it looks when I’m trying to complete some very complex task with success (like answering my desk phone on my headset in less than 3 tries)

“GO…!?”

“I’m dancing HERE! Did the classic dance move of ‘overbite’ not make that clear?”

Ever seen those toddlers that can’t help but bounce to music? I’m a 48 yr old version of that toddler. I’m often having dance parties for one. At work, while making my oats, while driving. Am I good at it? No. Does it stop me? Also, no.

I am so thankful for the people who can make music. There’s a finite number of notes, beats, words, and ideas. Since the beginning of time, talented people have taken those resources and continued to churn out compositions to be appreciated by others. From Grog in the cave to Lizzo, artists have taken their abilities and created ways to influence others.

I’ve got some pretty shitty musical tastes, but that doesn’t mean that music is any less important to me. I’m also very thankful for exposure to other music.

I think “invoke” is the right work music’s power. It’s weird how the simple stimulation of the sense of hearing can have such emotional impact. I’ve recovered from many a pity party thanks to Matisyahu. Missy Elliot and Sir Mix a Lot get credit for working through countless leg days that I really wasn’t eager to start. And I won’t even start about the transformative powers of some Bill Withers or a little of Hooker’s Boom Boom Boom.

In general, country music makes me want to stab myself in the ears. There’s enough real world struggle and strife to experience without having to hear some modern, twangy Greek tragedy about how Billy’s life is coming unraveled.  Three minute diddy about loss and poor coping? No thanks.

Buuuuut,… as I thankfully learned in a class 100 years ago, when it comes to art the division isn’t good and bad. It’s what speaks to me; versus what doesn’t speak to me.

I know that how much I hate some music, is EXACTLY how people may feel about my selections.

 You can almost hear eyes rolling when I get to choose the music at Crossfit. “What’s she going to pick? Will we be subjected to coarse language? Or will it be Beiber again? Does she know she’s not 12? Or urban?”

I do. But I don’t care. That music makes me feel the way I want to feel for that task. When I need to feel another way, I’ll listen to something else. Like now. That’s the beauty of music. As for now, gotta go. Me and Cardi B got some housework to do.

Purpose is found at the intersection of “what you can do,” “what you like to do,” and “what is needed.”

I have a fake job. It’s my passion for more reasons than I can list, but it still is much more difficult to quantify than many other jobs. At the end of Daniel’s day, he knows that he fixed x number of tractors, and that his tasks resulted in yadda yadda results. In a parallel universe, someone else is able to gauge their success by knowing the number of widgets they assembled. Neither is the case in my purpose. In addition to the nebulous nature of tracking what I do, there’s the confidentiality of it all. I can’t, shouldn’t, and won’t talk about my purpose, but that doesn’t make it any less powerful.

Despite those elements that make my purpose secretive, I am still able to address why it is a purpose for me. I am lucky in that my job is needed. I am also lucky that my job requires words. I can do words (not that this sentence would indicate as such, but I can). I like to do the things required in my job. It’s needed, I can do it, and it’s what I like. Purpose.

Does this mean that I roll through situations seamlessly? Hellz to the no. If you’ve spent any time with me, you’ve certainly seen a tantrum, a moment I’ve needed to fix my face, or a moment when I’ve worked hard to appear disinterested. My hope is that those instances are the world’s way of giving me reason to check in about my commitment to purpose.

You ever take a second to look at a tiny, inconsequential portion of a painting or photograph? Just pick a teeny spot. Look only at that spot. “That’s dumb,” you say? Yes, yes it is.  “Why would I look at just a little spot? That little spot doesn’t show me the whole scene.” Yes. Any tasks of purpose are going to have spots that are less than what the big picture represents.

The resolve and discipline that makes you stop focusing on those small areas is another way to determine if you’re fulfilling purpose. When you have the bump in the road, but it only makes you want to push harder to operate, you know you’re on the right track. Being grounded in purpose helps with sustaining yourself through difficulties. (Don’t think I’m smart for that comment. I literally stole it from a meme. I AM however, smart enough to steal from memes.)

So purpose continues. Stronger.

My purposes are what they are. Yours will, and should be, different.

The world needs a lot of things. Humans are blessed with varying gifts. Thank goodness for that. if only me people existed things like “why are the highways not built?! I sent an email. I had a meeting. And then another meeting about the meeting. I don’t understand” would happen. Or we’d all starve to death because we didn’t have the widget maker or the farmers. All the talents are needed. The thing that you’re good at, that the world needs, and that pleases you to do, is no less or more important than my thing. All the things matter. All the things are needed.

So, in whatever your purpose is, go do great things.

There we were. Daniel and me, just talking about Plato. You know, Philosophy Fridays. (Okay, …it really just came up because that book I read.)I asked him if he knew about the allegory of the cave. He did not. I read some information to him about it. In doing so I said “So-Crates.” He corrected my pronunciation.

“You know I was kidding saying it that way, right?”

 “I do now.”

I had a moment of disbelief and questioned all my parenting, “Did I not make you watch ‘Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure’!?” He shrugged. “Strange things are afoot at the Circle K?!” Nothing. I told him we’d need to remedy that , then we went back to the allegory of the cave.

I’m not a philosopher so I’m sure I’ll jack up the explanation, but it’s something along the lines of this: there’s some people imprisoned. They don’t see real life, all they see are the shadows of puppets. One breaks loose. Sees actual reality. Understands he was wrong when he thought the shadows were real, and tries to get the others to leave.  But they choose to remain imprisoned, with the manufactured reality.

Plato died nearly 2,400 years ago. Sooooo,….it’s highly unlikely that the shadows he was talking about were actually social media, but Danny and I concur; it’s got the potential to be the exact same situation.

There’s expectations about how people are supposed to social media. You can brag, but not too much. If you complain or vaguebook  you’re maybe attention seeking. If you post something that hits a nerve with too many someones, you can find yourself in a weird situation even as a grown ass adult. There can be pressures to post about jobs. You can find yourself in trouble for posting too much about your job. There’s so many unspoken rules, but what it all boils down to is that your social media presence can very easily become your manufactured reality.

I’m a social media fan. I call it Friend News. I’m able to see things I wouldn’t otherwise see like coworkers babies laughing uncontrollably, or all the first days of school. I also get to keep posing young Dirty’s very excited “first day of school” song and dance, or other things that spark my interest. There’s not a need for any of us to stop. But like with all things, just please don’t mistake appearance for reality. Don’t feel pressured that you didn’t have the pinterest grade chalk sign in the first day of school or if your kids look like a-holes in their pictures. That’s real life in all it’s flaw-some glory. Enjoy it, and don’t get too caught up in making a really interesting shadow.

I m rereading a book from maybe 15 years ago. I remembered really liking it, remembered really taking the bait on the themes, and when recently there was some random thing that somebody said that made me think of the book, I wanted to see if it still rang true. I was hoping it wasn’t going to be like that time I wanted to see if Conan the Barbarian was as amazing as I thought it was in the 80’s. No disrespect Arnold and the voice of Vader, it seemed far more lame on the re-watch.

The Way of the Peaceful Warrior definitely has more cheese factor than I recall, but the messaging is still powerful to me. The lead character is looking for a mental peace. Something like happiness, but more like contentment. The book talks about how life is struggle, but that when you recognize your role in the happenings you’re freed up to find that peace of acceptance.

I think we all want to be that kind of satisfied. We look for ways to feel good about what we do. We crave a soothed soul ready to embrace whatever comes it’s way. I’d even bet that “Karen” wants to talk to the manager because she believes that flexing that angry muscle of hers will bring some balance to her world.

“Karens” don’t get their sustainable happiness that way. I don’t think any of us find it with all the short cuts that life gives us to try to get in on it. I personally blame microwaves for our need for instant gratification (funny/not funny). I’ve learned that I can make food in mere minutes, I should be able to short cut to happiness.  It’s not sold on Prime or found in substance. It’s also nobody’s responsibility but our own. When things click, you and your peeps are content together, but he/she/family/coworkers aren’t the reason for your feelings. There’s danger in thinking that he/she/coworkers/family are. This opens a shitty door of when you’re unhappy blaming others. Cool story bro, but it takes away from our personal accountability. The only thing I really can control is how I respond to things. No way do I want that power taken away by something beyond my sphere of influence.

Does this mean I’ll stop having multiple tantrums a day? Heck no! There’s also a theme in the book that talks about how it’s okay to have all the yuck that comes along with life. “Let it flow, and let it go.” I’m pretty sure the author didn’t intend that to mean that I can rage for a minute about such injustices as “why can’t I muscle up?” but that’s how I intend to modify the information to fit my life.  Confirmation bias is not a phase.  Also, “progress, not perfection” am I right?

The book is a good read. A nice reminder for me about nurturing spirits and trying to live bigger than the ourselves. +<^y�_

I’m a piss poor navigator. Ask Amber. No matter how many times I’ve been to her house, she has to navigate me out of her neighborhood. Or ask any of the poor souls who’ve asked me for directions and are probably still lost. “You’re going to want to turn where I saw that really cool dog that time…”

But despite my pitiful skills, we’ve there is a navigational beacon that works on even me. I know where Mt, Shasta is. Always. She’s forever been the “never” to my “never eat shredded wheat.” I’m aware when she needs to be in my windshield versus when she needs to be in my rear view mirror. I know how different the mountain looks from different locations. Look at it when you drop into the valley in Anderson on I-5. Look at it again when you’re headed north from Corning. It doesn’t even look like the same mountain. It’s a number of different kinds of gorgeous.

Three years ago today, with a great deal of support, I was able to climb to the very top of it. All 14,180 feet of her. 

The experience was surreal. To be told that it was a task that was in my wheelhouse, I disbelieved. The mountain that I see every day seemed far too daunting to tackle. My mountaineering education included watching Everest documentaries and seeing the annual KRCR news accounts of rescues and recoveries from the climbers of our mountain every summer. 

We decided to do it. I only told a couple people. Only so the kids would know their parents hadn’t run away and Amber so she’d also know that I hadn’t run away. From work.

I didn’t tell my mom. She’d be sure we’d die. 

Aside from Amber, I didn’t tell friends. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to accomplish it.

A guide was hired. Many around here are studly enough to climb without one. But I, like my mom, also kinda thought we would die. 

Our “training” consisted of CrossFit and a singular, 45 minute climb 7 days before the summit trip. 

There was a packing list. Of the numerous things required for the trip, the only thing I owned was sunglasses. Luckily, almost all the needed supplies could be rented.

Pulling up to the guide office was already daunting. Our climbing partners had a freakish level of fitness. They owned gear. They’d traveled from great distances to appreciate the mountain that we take for granted; Corpus Christie, Miami, DC, etc. 

We set out. We hiked roughly 100 hours (obvious exaggeration) with a 50 pound pack (I wish this was an exaggeration) to base camp at Lake Helen. Did I mention I’d NEVER carried a pack other than in school? We set up and learned how to use our ice axes to stop our selves in a slide. While we worked on that, the CHP helicopter “stopped by” for a pick up. Leg injury, if I recall accurately. “Comforting.” 

Bed time was early. We were scheduled to head out at 2 am. Before trying to drift off to slumber, I pointed out to our the small grouping of lights that I believed to be Cottonwood. “I’m pretty sure I can see the boys not using a coaster from here.”  

Sleep didn’t come easily. Throughout the night there was only the sounds of wind and the sound of rocks cascading down the mountain’s face. 

Climbing started long before sunlight. It was difficult to make sense of where I was, or how much progress was being made. Sure, the endeavor takes a degree of physicality, but mostly it was like a marathon. Just keep stepping. So of course, I complained just as much as I do in a marathon. My attention span is not wired for such activity. Nevertheless, just keep stepping. 

I can’t remember how many cliff bars I ate. But, I can remember the peace I felt at the top. They were right. I CAN do it. Hmmm! 

The sky is different. You can almost see the earth curve away. The wind is fierce. There is surprisingly large number of people on the top. It takes nothing away from each person’s victory/celebration/meditation. There are more languages than I can identify. There’s a book to sign. I didn’t. I wanted to be still and bask in the peace. And to take a picture of the Indiana Jones action figure that was carried all the way to the top. “Who was that guy in your group who was wearing the hat?” “Dad, that was my Indiana Jones doll.” In defense of my dad, who expects a 45 yr old to yard a toy to the top of a mountain. And,…it’s a pretty realistic Harrison Ford. 

The trip down had it’s own adventures. 

1) it was light… we could see how f’ing steep it was. So,…there’s that. Our rope full of climbers, at least 400 pounds of it, fell. All buck fifty guide Kenny had assured us that he’d be able to stop us all if we fell. Seeing his beaming smile poking out of his unruly beard made me wonder if he was happy he got to prove that he could, indeed, save our asses. 

2) Glacading is a fancy word for sliding at light speed on your ass down the face of a glacier. Fun for some. Sheer terror for others. I don’t need to tell you which camp I was in, you were probably able to hear me scream from the valley. 

I’ve spent a fair amount of time the last three years telling people they should climb our mountain. There are expert’s who can help you accomplish it. As it sit here and type, I can see the mountain in all it’s majesty. I am thankful that there’s such a prominent reminder of how good accomplishment can feel. 

No. No, no, no, NO! Just,…no.

I LOVED Top Gun. Loved it. I fell in love with loud jets, power, catch phrases, fake coughs while saying “bullshit,” Kenny Logins (that part’s not true). So much goodness!

“Negative Ghost Rider, the pattern is full.” “I’ll hit the brakes, he’ll fly right by.” “Goose, you big stud, take me to bed or lose me forever.” “I feel the need. The need for speed!” Timeless greatness.

I remember being in tights and legwarmers doing some sort of group fitness and how much harder I felt compelled to work when “Highway to the Danger Zone” blared over the boom box in the Evergreen Elementary multipurpose room. To this day, I “du-du-dun dun…” in my head when I see geese or ducks flying in formation.

I tracked the published coast to coast trips of Lockheed Martin’s SR-71 (flying blackbird), back in the days pre-google. I stood outside my parent’s home and stared up at the sky hoping to see it. Or maybe even hear a sonic boom.  I know there weren’t any SR-71’s in Top Gun, but that’s how much I enjoyed all that the movie gave. I even held on to a screw for many years that I believed was from a Blackbird. (I’d found it on the ground at an air show. I was young and wanted to believe. Bwah ha!)

I am that weirdo who will run outside the house this very day if I hear jets. When there’s jets at the air show, I will go there the days before just to stare at them and to feel some of their power. I squeal or shriek with joy when I hear them.

I am fairly certain my love of the nitro dragsters is the result of Top Gun. Feeling the force of those engines thump off my chest as I stand as close as legally allowed is about as close to jets as I will ever come.  

Yup. I loved that movie.

I expected a re-boot. It’s too good of a concept to not. I will watch it. In the loudest format possible. BUT,…really?! Love me some Tom Cruise too, but for fuck’s sake man! Let someone else take this one. You’ve already aged freakishly better than the rest of the cast. I’m betting you’ve got more money than you can spend in several lifetimes. Why? WHY?! If you have inside information that says that he’ll be a supporting character instead of this still being the Maverick show, please let me know. If you think I’m over-reacting,…no need to advise me. I already know, but have decided it’s a worthy tantrum (Bwah ha.)