Smile! It's Christmastime!

It’s that time of year again. It may have happened to you just this morning. It seems like only a week ago it was Halloween, Veteran’s Day, or Thanksgiving Day. And today you woke up and looked at your calendar, or saw the date in a corner of your computer or your phone and realized… It’s almost Christmas!

I have worked in retail for almost three decades (yes, I started working as a toddler). What I described above happens to me every year—sometimes it’s in early December, sometimes it’s… later December. Many years I have finished my Christmas shopping around 5 pm on Christmas Eve. A couple years, I’ve started it at about that time. So whatever manic mood, blissful ignorance, sheer panic or even terror you feel, I have felt it. And today, I offer you a little help.

I do not know how to turn back the clock or speed up the UPS truck; I offer and claim no mastery or manipulation of the rules of time and space. But I do have some ideas on something that is almost as good. I can help you feel Christmas-y during this frenzied season.

Whether I am worried about money, worried about food, worried about gifts, worried about whatever, connecting myself to Christmas helps me manage the madness, and even enjoy ninety-hour work weeks (I’ve had ‘em). This helps me feel like I’m with the ones I love, even if they are at home while I work… or even if they are hundreds of miles away (many of them are).

Here are my surefire ways to get yourself more into the Christmas mood and thinking of others, thinking of giving, thinking of living and not just surviving. I guarantee at least one or two of these will work for you!

Without further adieu, here are my Christmas Spirit Inducing Secrets… Satisfaction guaranteed.

Watch the right Christmas show or movie. There is a long list of holiday classics that fit the bill here. Elf, the Rankin Bass stuff like Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town, Charlie Brown, A Christmas Story, The Grinch, It’s a Wonderful Life, A Christmas Carol, etc. You have a favorite, you know it. Dust it off, pirate it, borrow it, do whatever you have to do to watch it now!

Everyone in my family loves some Christmas show that no one else gets. One kid loves Polar Express (ugh), another loves Arthur’s Perfect Christmas (better), and my wife loves Charlie and Lola (pretty good). And Spongebob and the Simpsons have a couple good ones too.  Guilty pleasure shows are the best—the ones that you have the most perfect link in the world to. The one that makes you think, “I am the only person on the planet watching this right now.” And it. Is. AWESOME.

My guilty pleasure is Mr. Krueger’s Christmas, a short film done in 1980 starring Jimmy Stewart (the holiday movie king) and produced by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Maybe it is because it just takes me back to my childhood, when my family hunched around a small black and white TV to watch Christmas specials. Maybe it’s because I love the message. Maybe I just love Jimmy Stewart’s enthusiastic portrayal of the title character in one of his last few starring roles… I just love it! My kids make fun of me, of it, of Jimmy, of the little girl, of Jimmy’s daydreaming, but I can barely get through it without tearing up as I remember, once again, the meaning of Christmas. Cheesy, dated, over the top, and absolutely priceless. Watch it until the end!

Watch your favorite un-Christmas movie. You know, a movie that has Christmas as the backdrop, but is not exactly about Christmas. But if you set the movie with, say Arbor Day as the setting, it wouldn’t be quite right. There’s a bunch: Gremlins, Better Off Dead, Batman Returns, Home Alone, some Harry Potter movies, and of course stuff like Die Hard. Note… these movies are not guaranteed to bring the Christmas spirit, but my favorites get me laughing every time. And when you are laughing, you’re probably not stressing.

Make your house smell good. Go to the grocery store and buy the two-dollar bag of pine cones that smell like Big Red chewing gum. It will give you a Christmas buzz every time you go in the same room as said bag of pine cones. I love me some Big Red scented pine cones.

Maybe that’s not your thing. Don’t fret, there are other things you can do to get your house smelling like Mrs. Claus’ kitchen. Go to Pinterest and find an elf’s recipe for homemade Christmas potpourri—just like grandma used to make. Or, be adventurous and start chucking nice smelling stuff into a pan of water and gently heat it til it smells like Christmas. Orange peels, cloves, cinnamon sticks, candy canes, whatever. I bet you can throw enough stuff in that pan to make your Christmas blues fly away on a Christmas-scented breeze.

If that’s not your bag either, get yourself a Christmas-y smelling candle. Come by my house, we have probably a dozen you can sample. Heck, you could probably steal one and we wouldn’t even notice. Nothing like stealing from Uncle Kevin to get you in the Christmas mood! But seriously, as much as I complain about my wife’s candle addiction, they do add an unmistakable difference to the house, especially at Christmastime.

Eat something. Better yet, make something, then eat it. Not just anything, preferably something nice and wintry. An easy favorite of mine is coconut candies with chocolate on top. They’re super easy to make, just a few ingredients (coconut, melted butter, sweetened condensed milk, powdered sugar, maybe a little vanilla) stirred up, then refrigerate and top with a blob of chocolate (melted chocolate chips for example). They only take a few minutes to make, and they are tasty… if you like coconut and chocolate and sugar. It’s one of my favorite things about Christmas—just like Mom taught me to make as a kid.

You’re thinking, right now, about something you like that is sure to put a smile on your face, and make your belly shake like a bowl full of jelly. Make it, or get someone else to make it for you, then devour it, preferably while watching Mr. Krueger’s Christmas in your Snuggie.

One more thing you can make and eat, that has the bonus of making your house smell good—bake some bread. Even if you don’t know how to do it, take a shot at it, and you’ll probably do just fine. And if you mess it up, your home is gonna smell awesome—bonus Christmas spirit. If you haven’t smelled that around your place for a while, you need to try it! My wife made bread this week and the house smelled amazing, and it just felt like Christmas.

If you are just completely pressed for time, and have no one up to the task of making you something tasty, you have my blessing to buy a store-bought treat. Might I suggest Trader Joe’s candy cane-flavored Jo-Jo’s (like Oreos with candy cane flavored crème filling), or pfeffernusse– German spice cookies. There is a 70% chance you will toss the pfeffernusse in the trash, and a 30% chance you will thank me forever if you’ve never had them before. If you like stuff like gingerbread and molasses and ginger snaps, you’ll love pfeffernusse.

So your house smells good and you’ve watched that show or two, and made and eaten plenty of Christmas-y treats, but are still feeling more like Scrooge or the Grinch than Cindy-Lou or Tiny Tim? My next suggestion will help.

Turn on the Christmas music. You probably have a list of favorite songs or albums to listen to this time of year. Here are some of my favorites, with a couple links. I bet there’s something here you’ve never listened to before, or at least not for way too long.

The classics: Elvis, Charlie Brown (by the amazing Vince Guaraldi), and my all-time favorite Christmas classic, the one Johnny Mathis did (called ‘Merry Christmas’). Johnny has a distinctive voice somewhere between Sinatra and Alvin and the Chipmunks, with amazing energy and passion poured into every song. It is perfect to sing along to. In fact, I’m singing along to it now, so forgive me for any typos.

Some fun family favorites: Barenaked Ladies, Cee-Lo, Michael Buble (yeah, I know), Band-Aid, the Carpenters (listen at your own risk), The Lower Lights, and some girl named Taylor Swift.

New age-y stuff: George Winston’s ‘December,’ Windham Hill’s ‘Winter Solstice’ series, Kurt Bestor’s ‘One Silent Night.’

Off the beaten path (and some of my favorites): Sufjan Stevens’ ‘Songs for Christmas’ (check the link above, just amazing, sprawling, by turns silly and beautiful), Patty Loveless’ ‘Blue Grass White Snow’ (awesome bluegrass-tinged, folky country Christmas songs), Brian Setzer Orchestra, Sarah McLachlan’s ‘Wintersong’ (check the link to her cover of the Gordon Lightfoot classic below), and anything by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir… just pick your favorite Christmas song and I guarantee they have sung it.

I like driving around at night with the family or a friend, listening to Christmas music and looking at the lights on all the houses we drive by. Sometimes we count how many houses have Christmas lights on our route. The other day I drove my kids to a function at the church, just a couple miles away, and we counted 39. It reminded me of doing the same thing with my family as a kid, driving home from Grandma’s on Christmas Eve, counting the lights, watching the sky for Santa and his reindeer.

If you’ve followed any of these suggestions, by now you are certainly feeling better about the holidays. I have a few more things that help me really make the most of Christmas. The next one is service.

Doing something for someone else helps us feel more like Jesus, and thus feel more in tune with why we celebrate Christmas. Even if it is simply tipping a waitress a bigger amount than she’s expecting, or giving a few dollars to a homeless man, those little acts of kindness go farther than we’ll ever know. If we can do something even bigger, we’ll feel even better.

I wrote last Christmas Eve about one of my favorite Christmases. The center of that memorable Christmas was my family taking time to do something special for some special people. That story is here if you’d like to read it: http://the-kla.blogspot.com/2014/12/the-best-christmas-ever.html

Speaking of Jesus, the final thought I have is this: read Luke Chapter Two. Even just the first half. It will only take you a couple minutes, but it is a beautiful account of the events surrounding Jesus’ birth. I can’t think of anything that better invites the spirit of Christmas than reading words written by and about Him and His prophets.

I love November and December! Though they are the two most draining, demanding, frustrating and stressful work months I have, they are also the most joy-filled months of the year, if I take a few little moments to remember all I’ve been blessed with, especially the gift of our Savior, Jesus Christ. I hope you have a wonderful holiday season, and seriously, give me a call if you need some Christmas cheer.

Merry Christmas!

 

It's Contagious!

From a movie that was strongly recommended

A couple weeks ago, I was listening to a podcast while I mowed the lawn—hopefully for the last time this year. As an aside, I just hate yardwork. People who love yardwork? They call it gardening… I call it yardwork.

Anyway, I was listening to an author discussing life hacks, personal effectiveness, reading recommendations, and so on. The content of the podcast isn’t what I want to talk about today, however. What stood out is something he mentioned at the end of the 90-minute interview. He thanked his sponsor, Vimeo—one of many places online to watch videos, short films, feature films, independent content, etc. He then made a few recommendations on what to check out on the site.

Of the two or three projects he mentioned, his most glowing recommendation was for a short film, which I think was called ‘Tomorrowland’ (not to be confused with the big Disney movie of the same name).

He talked about this short film with excitement, saying we had to watch it. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen before, it had won prestigious festival awards, it was thought provoking. I have read some good books on his recommendation, I have used tips he has shared, and I read or listen to something by this guy every week. While I don’t agree with all of his content and suggestions, there is a lot I do like. Although he didn’t go into detail on the plot of this short film, his energy really got me excited about watching it!

It had lots of this kind of stuff

So a few days later, I went to Vimeo and found it, then put on my favorite earbuds and started watching it on my phone. There was a short opening sequence, and then a hypnotic beat as electronic dance music built, ultimately pounding a rhythm. You know the sound: UHH-ts, UHH-ts, UHH-ts, UHH ts. The camera panned over a huge outdoor music festival, with lots of pretty people in tank tops and aviator shades bouncing, jumping, writhing to the music.

Everyone was clearly happy and having a great time, and I would guess there were, maybe fifty thousand of them or more. As the minutes ticked by, the music continued, as did the ecstatic bouncing. I began to wonder what else was going to happen in this film, and when my mind would be blown. Was there going to be a message about enjoying life? Living in the moment? About the tribal nature of this community? About having the freedom—financial and otherwise—to travel and experience anything, anywhere?

Five minutes ticked by, then ten. There was the occasional cut to a DJ or fan praising this festival, but ultimately, this video comprised 13 minutes and forty-eight seconds of the same stuff—pretty young ravers, well, raving—over a pulsing, hypnotic beat. But you know what? I watched every second, waiting for something intriguing to happen. Not because I enjoyed watching 50,000 people dancing, and not because I enjoyed the music—I’m really not a fan of David Guetta and the like. So, why did I endure it?

I watched it because of the energy and excitement radiated by the recommender—he had given great suggestions before, he was excited about the film, and he got me excited about the film. Enthusiasm is contagious, isn't it?

And 13 minutes, 48 seconds of this

Incidentally, upon taking another listen to that podcast, I realized the film he recommended was actually titled “World of Tomorrow.” I was watching the WRONG SHOW. Maybe lawn trimmings and fertilizer got to my head—I clearly remembered that title wrong. I kept watching it, waiting with anticipation for the things to happen that I had gotten so excited about. Obviously, they never did.

The funny thing is, in spite of watching the wrong video, it actually did prove to be thought-provoking.

Think about it—we’re all in dozens of situations each day where we can (or even must) influence others. Our attitudes are contagious; they have a real, tangible effect on others, for better or for worse. This is not a new concept, but it was fun to be reminded of it in such a silly way. It is useful to ponder the importance of attitude.

Whether we are selling to, leading, or just working alongside someone, our energy largely determines our effectiveness—perhaps even more than our aptitude. We all have people we just love to be around, don’t we—who radiate enthusiasm, who have a kind word to say, who have fun no matter what the circumstance or task at hand?

I bet you also know those people who just suck the life out of you, too—they find something to complain about, no matter how good or bad the situations they’re in actually are. Watch out—this kind of emotion is equally contagious!

World of Tomorrow, what I should have watched

The same podcaster with whom we started this conversation talks about how we are the average of the five people we spend the most time with. (He admits he is not the first to talk about this, but he goes back to the theme often). So the question of the day is—what kind of influencer are you? How do you impact the people around you? Does your attitude and energy make them better?

Am I raising the average of those people who spend time with me, by radiating enthusiasm and positivity, and assuming others have positive intent? I appreciate that 13 minutes and 48 seconds of techno beats—time seemingly wasted, it reminded me of the power of enthusiasm, and my own opportunities to improve.

I’d never have guessed what I could learn from 50,000 ravers.

Quicksand

The 80’s were a great decade, weren’t they? In a freeform, poetry-slam, stream-of-consciousness spew, I give you a bunch of reasons this was the greatest decade since, well, at least the 50’s or 60’s…

• Rubik and his Cube; He-man and his sword; Michael Knight and his talking car, KITT
• The A-team and their van; Michael and his Jacksons; The Duke Boys and their cousin Daisy, of course. (And you thought I was gonna mention their car)
• The golden ages of Star Wars, pro wrestling, and shopping malls
• John flippin’ Hughes, Phil freakin’ Hartman, and the birth of Homer Simpson
• E.T., The Gremlins, The Goonies, and Indiana Jones
• Computers went from, like filling up airplane hangars to sitting on your desktop
• Montana to Rice, The Lakers and the Celtics, Bird and Magic
• Beastie Boys, Joy Division, New Order, Bauhaus, Talking Heads, Rush, The Smiths, Run-DMC, REM, firehose, U2, and so on, and so on, and so on.
• Eight-track died, CD’s were born, and there was plenty of vinyl and cassette tape for everyone
• Prince was in his prime, and Madonna was still tolerable
• 10 speed bikes, skateboards, hair mousse; wearing neon anywhere and anytime you pleased
• Ice cream cones at Thrifty Drug: twenty-five cents plus ten cents for each extra scoop. I am personally responsible for making the ice cream lady’s forearms look like Popeye’s!

I could go on and on. I was born in 1970—so I did a lot of living, learning, and growing in the 80’s. I talk about this decade the way my parents talked about the fifties—only when I was a kid, candy bars were a quarter, not a nickel; though in both eras we all wore Converse Chuck Taylors (heck I still wear my Chucks).

The 80’s was still a pretty innocent time too, compared to today. As kids, ten or twelve years old, we’d go out hiking and biking and exploring all day, get home for dinner, then go roam the neighborhood for a couple more hours ‘til our moms would call us home, like runaway dogs. Only runaway dogs got in less trouble.

But back then, getting into trouble meant swiping an apple off a neighbor’s tree, or TP’ing a friend’s house, or having dirt clod fights. (What, you never pulled up a weed in the backyard and hucked it, mud-caked roots and all, at your buddy, yelling out ‘hand grenade?’)

Today’s trouble is, well, trouble. Kids make the news for stealing cars and planes and stuff. In the 80’s, if you got on TV it was usually because you guessed how many jelly beans were in the giant jar at Alpha-Beta, or your soccer team won the big game.

Anyway, I don’t want to get deep into the cultural, technological, or philosophical reasons for the decline of kid-hood, or whether my observations are true, statistically or scientifically speaking. But I do want to tell you about some real trouble I did get into with my brothers and friends in the early 80’s. It started with a typical adventure in the hills above our neighborhood, in Martinez, California.

We lived on a pretty typical suburban road; in fact, with a name like Center Street, you couldn’t get much more typical. We had houses and houses on each side of our home, and across the street, more houses faced ours. Behind those houses, however, there were fields and hills like you just don’t see much of anymore, at least not in the Bay Area.

We’d hike those hills, sharpening bamboo stalks into spears for protection, carrying walking sticks and homemade slings. I’m not sure what kind of trouble we were anticipating, as we saw no creature more threatening than a lizard or mouse or squirrel, but we were armed and ready for anything.

This particular summer day, our friends Aaron and Chris joined my brothers Mike, Rusty and me on a trek in the hills. As we poked around, looking for cool rocks to collect, animals to track, or trees to climb, we heard a cry for help up ahead—Aaron was in trouble! As we ran up to him, we could see he was in some muddy sludge and was stuck knee deep and, we feared, sinking fast.

TV had taught us all we needed to know about quicksand!

TV had taught us what we were dealing with – it was quicksand! Now, I haven’t bothered to research the natural properties and geological characteristics of quicksand in a scholarly manner. I don’t need to, as I have seen its occurrence in different settings, in various parts of the country. Specifically, on The Six Million Dollar Man, The Dukes of Hazzard, and Gilligan’s island. That was enough evidence for us to know we were dealing with the real thing!

Aaron had the good sense to stop wiggling and fighting it—we knew that was a recipe for disaster, and he’d be a goner for sure, sinking in further and further. And there was no bionic man around to save us; in fact, we were a good mile or more from home, or any houses for that matter. We were in the quicksand-riddled boondocks. We got close to him, but not too close—there was no sense in all of us sinking to our necks in this stuff.

Putting our collective eight to twelve-year old heads together, we grabbed our walking sticks and another nearby branch and stretched them out toward the helpless victim. We braced the sticks, pooling our strength to give Aaron something rigid to grab hold of and pull himself out. For what seemed like ages, we pulled and pulled and finally freed him from his doom.

The only casualty that day was Aaron’s right tennis shoe, and though we poked and prodded with our sticks, it was a goner. We made our way back home, Aaron enduring briars and rocks with his muddy stocking-foot. I’m sure his mom wasn’t pleased with the loss of his shoe, and may not have seen the big picture—we had rescued him from certain death! However, in the end, we were all okay, and we were sure to avoid the pit of quicksand on future adventures.

So what made me think of Aaron’s brush with doom? I’m not sure, actually. But I have tried to become increasingly aware lately of things I do that waste my time, waste my energy, or otherwise halt my progress. I’m guessing you have your own personal pools of quicksand too. What are these quicksand traps, and what tools of defense do I wield to prevent their overcoming me?

• Multitasking. If I am doing too much at once, bouncing between Outlook and OneNote and funny internet stuff, I am doomed, and sink into a pit of ineffectiveness. Before I know it, an hour or a day have gone by, with me checking lots of menial tasks off my list, but not accomplishing any work that is real or critical. To prevent it, my desktop background has a question in big, bold, type: “What is my focus today?” Believe it or not, it helps!


• Failure to prioritize. Like the muddiness of multitasking, failure to prioritize ensures activity without impact, busy-ness without progress and growth. How do I combat this? Lately, by asking myself this questions: “What is the most uncomfortable thing I need to do today?” Sometimes I have trouble seeing what is truly the most ‘important’ thing in my list of to-do’s. However, I can always easily identify the one I most dread. Getting it out of the way first makes the rest of the day go smoother—I can see things much more clearly without anxiety sapping my spirit.
  
  
• Forgetting myself. I get into periods where I fail to exercise regularly, or I pay no attention to what I eat—I am the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world in yo-yo dieting. I’ve gotten pretty good at staying engaged in the other areas of my life—studying scriptures, reading good books, praying regularly. Maybe you could throw me a rope here, and help me figure this fitness piece out?

The good news about quicksand? It’s easily beatable, if you travel in packs and watch out for it. Had Aaron encountered that pit while wandering on his own, he might still be there, or at the very least lost both of his shoes.

What are your pits of quicksand, and how do you combat them?

Kayak!

I went kayaking one time. Exactly one time. Exactly one miserable time, and it was enough. It’s kind of sad, because you know what? I bet I’d like it, had the conditions been better on this inaugural excursion. Allow me to explain…

My brother-in-law Chris is pretty much Captain Awesome. Just a great guy; he fights fires and saves lives as his day job (in South Central LA, no less), and climbs glaciers, kayaks oceans, and bikes across continents for fun in his spare time. His wife Minette is no less awesome. In fact, her awesomeness likely supersedes her husband’s, as she’s also saving lives as a nurse practitioner, and adds marathon running to her list of hobbies, on top of everything she does with Chris.

Chris and Minette offered to take me kayaking on the mighty Columbia river once, when our families were vacationing at Cannon Beach, a scenic little town on Oregon’s North Coast. I was excited—I’d never been in a kayak before and I loved the outdoors. It seemed to me that it would be like mountain biking, except on the water. In a boat. Okay, it would be nothing like mountain biking, but I wanted to do it nonetheless.

Chris and Minette had their own gear, and they tracked down a rental place for me 20 miles upriver from the beach house we were staying at. On a sunny morning in late summer, we drove their SUV to the spot we’d be starting our paddling—right next to the rental place.

We went into the shop, and I sat inside a few kayaks until I found the one that felt the best; it also happened to be the biggest one they had available. It seemed to fit me just fine—we made some adjustments to the seat and to the little things that are kind of like stationary bike pedals—you rest your feet on them for leverage while paddling.

Uncle Chris taking the boys on a test run

Feeling like the kayak was maybe just a little snug, and certainly not too tight or too small, we launched into the slowly driving current. Chris and Minette gave me some pointers, and I took to it pretty well. I did a fair amount of rowing in rowboats, rafting in rafts and canoeing in canoes as a teenage Boy Scout, and I was enjoying the gentle breeze, the peaceful solitude of the wide, rolling river, and the companionship of these great friends, whose family I’d married into eight or nine years earlier. I was feeling really good, except for maybe a little thing or two.

Before I continue, I should tell you some things that I inherited from my family. Not cool stuff like glass eyes, mansions or treasure maps, but physiological things. I’ll generously call them traits. The first I’ll mention can be imagined easily enough by hearing what my Dad’s Uncle Howard used to call my younger brother Tim when he was young: ‘hog legs.’ Yes, the Anderson boys have strong legs—we can bike, squat, leg press, and hopscotch with the best of them. But with this great power comes great responsibility—responsibility to buy pants that have ample room in the upper-to-mid thigh area.

It is not unusual for an Anderson male to buy pants four inches too big in the waist to account for our gargantuan thighs. While I never earned a cool nickname like hog-legs (which seemed like an affectionate term of endearment to Tim, I’m sure), I do have some of that going on in my legs, if you catch my drift.

Another gift we Anderson males are blessed with? Extreme rigidity—the opposite of flexibility. I never saw my dad touch his toes—or anyone else’s for that matter. One summer, as a teen I ran three miles every day, all summer long, stretching and everything, and I could still barely bend over and touch the tops of my socks. And this was the 80’s, when your sock-tops flirted with your kneecaps!

Not only can I not touch my toes, I can barely straighten my legs, especially if I am sitting down on the floor. When I sit on the ground, legs outstretched in front of me (loosely using the term ‘outstretched’), my upper body’s natural state is about a 45-degree angle to the ground. Envision freezing a video of a normal person doing a sit-up, right in the middle of sitting up. That’s me, trying to sit up straight, if my legs are parallel to the ground.

This complete lack of flexibility, combined with my Ahh-nuld-like thighs (or maybe Kevin James-like thighs, to be honest) has left me with limited options for comfortable lounging, especially if there is no furniture at hand. Criss-cross applesauce? No thanks. A picnic? Sure, if I can bring a chair. Sitting on the sandy beach? I’ll lay down or stand up, or maybe dig an elaborate contour into the sand to cushion my abnormality of a physique, but otherwise I won’t be sitting.

Perhaps I should have thought of all this when sizing my kayak. Clearly, I didn’t think of any of it.

Maybe I should have done a dry run too!

About a half an hour into our ‘trip,’ I started to feel some real discomfort. My lower back was starting to stiffen. My hamstrings felt as tight as piano wires. I tried to wriggle around a bit inside the kayak, but you literally sit down inside the foul contraption, and have some rubber prom-dress-like thing keeping you attached to it, keeping water from getting in and you from popping out. There would be no wriggling or bending of the legs, knees, lower back, or anything that wasn’t above my belly button.

The discomfort turned into pain, and eventually into panic. My peaceful sighs of nature-loving satisfaction became heavy breathless gasps, as the kayak maliciously tightened its grip on my lower body.  A half mile or so down river, a giant tanker menacingly inched toward us. The gasps turned to grunts and squawks—yes, I literally squawked, seemingly forgetting how to form words. There was an island just a hundred yards away, and I managed to blurt out, “I... need... break!”

I paddled feverishly toward the island, wanting to get out of the boat and stretch my legs. I was also nervous about the tanker approaching; surely it was going to pin me to the river bottom, sealing my watery grave. Finally, my kayak made it to the island’s sandy shore, and I lifted myself up, ready to free myself from the torture. As I did so, something completely unexpected happened.

I swung my legs out of the body of the kayak and planted my feet on the warm, welcoming sand. Standing up, for what seemed like the first time in years, I fell face first to the ground. As I attempted to get up again, I had a strange sensation. I couldn’t feel my legs! Now, I don’t mean I had little feeling, or that they felt weird, I mean I could not feel my legs.

A few more times I tried to stand up, on legs that were suddenly made of fleshy colored jello. They buckled, they wobbled and they splayed all over. I tried to walk, taking steps to steady myself, but my feet seemed to be pinned to the sand—they wouldn’t budge. Chris and Minette handed me a water bottle and told me to just lay back and rest until the feeling—or at least the blood—came back to my legs.

I laid back, propping myself up a bit on my elbows, trying to will the life back into my inanimate limbs. After several minutes, I could move my legs a bit, and then a bit more, and after maybe fifteen minutes, I could get up and walk around. I guess sitting in that position, wedged into the kayak that was just a bit too small, compressed some nerves and arteries in my legs and put them to sleep, rendering them useless. It was clear our kayak trip was going to end hours earlier than we’d expected. 

The kids with Uncle Chris and Aunt Minette

I wedged myself back into that kayak, feeling like a clown getting into a tiny circus car. I made a valiant effort, but I just couldn’t maintain that posture—I was done. Chris tied my kayak to his and paddled us toward our starting point, with me laying back, halfway out of the kayak, trying to stretch out a bit. I imagined he looked like some native American tribesman, towing behind him a giant, pale six-foot sturgeon that the whole tribe would live off of for the winter. But at least I was getting somewhere, and wasn’t confined to the floating torture chamber.

We made it back to the car, dropped off the infernal death trap, and drove back to the coast, my legs no longer tingling. All the family got a huge kick out of hearing about my brush with doom, or at the very least, with discomfort. They were in tears as we related the tale, especially the part about Chris towing me back. 

I’ve been in canoes, rafts, rowboats, and fishing boats since then, but I still have no urge to try kayaking. At least not until I can rent one that's made for a six-foot-long inflexible, pale sturgeon.

Why Do We Fall?

Me, a few years ago

I love Batman. I’ve always loved Batman. I grew up with the Batman of the campy TV show filmed in the 60’s, on which he and his sidekick Robin pranced and danced, creating terrifyingly bad puns, and fighting with super-villains in scenes that resemble choreographed ice-dancing routines… With maybe less ice… And more flamboyant costumes. Everyone loves Batman, right?

Batman has evolved through the years, through many comic series and a bunch of movies, and I’m sure today’s Batman could not sit through an episode of the old TV show without breaking something or punching someone. Today’s Batman is darker and more intense, reflecting a time far removed from the groovy, swinging decade in which he first enjoyed mass commercial popularity.

Batman Begins, the fantastic film reboot of the hero’s story, stars Christian Bale and was released 10 years ago. In it we see young Bruce Wayne (Batman’s alter ego) and the events that shaped him as a child, and drove him to create this persona that would clean up the streets of Gotham. In one scene, he falls down an old, overgrown well on his family’s estate, breaking his arm. As his father, Dr. Thomas Wayne comforts him after this experience, he asks his young son, “Bruce, why do we fall?” He then answers his own question, “So we can learn to pick ourselves up.”

Remember these guys?

It’s a great line and great story, and is certainly one of the lessons that shaped Bruce and helped him to push through the challenges that life brought him, driving the creation of a hero who brought about a lot of good. It’s one of the many reasons I love the story and character of Batman, who overcame adversity, willed himself to learn and grow, and always fought for justice, using his talents and conditioning to physically reshape a dark, crime-filled world around him that seemed utterly impossible to change.

I suppose I could end there: Batman is awesome… The end. However, I want to talk a little bit about what causes me to fall. And to figure that out, I need to dig into what is going on when I fall. So now you know I love Batman, and if you have read any other entries in my blog you know I love music. However, I don’t know that I have talked about my other big obsession as a kid, and even for a lot of the time I’ve been an adult… skateboarding.

The first big skate boom

When I was six years old I got a yellow fiberglass Makaha board with red urethane wheels. It was so cool! This would have been 1976, and I rode that thing all the time when we lived in Fresno, California. We lived just around the corner from Slater Elementary, which I attended. (An internet search shows that there is a big skatepark on that block now! Too bad we moved.) I remember riding to the school and cruising all over the playground, which had a big, sloped bank at one end. In those days, that’s what you did on a skateboard; you cruised around, up and down hills, and occasionally rode up and down any banks or slopes you could find, seeing how high you could get, or on how steep a bank you had the guts to ride.

I was unaware, or just too young to notice anyone riding any pools or doing any crazy tricks—that stuff was happening in little pockets around the country at that time, but was not on my radar at all. I was just having a blast riding around, pretending I was surfing… A great way to get some wind in your hair on those hot, muggy Fresno summer days. Somewhere there is a photo of me rolling down the driveway on that yellow board, with bright red corduroy pants and an equally bright t-shirt, with my hair bleached almost white from the sun. I wish I could find it! If nothing else to give proof to my kids, who do not believe I was cool enough to be riding a skateboard in Cali in 1976.

Anyway, at some point that board rusted to a state that made it unusable, or maybe I just got more infatuated with riding my bike on the dirt trails that were all over our neighborhood after we moved to the San Francisco Bay Area. For whatever reason, I got away from skating, and its growth dropped off across the entire country. Skateboarding was dead, and I didn’t give it much thought again until I was 13 years old.

Found this pic online. My exact board from the 70's!

In the early 80’s, skateboarding was making a comeback, and I got ‘on board’ again. (See what I did there?) This time, I bought an old Santa Cruz board that had been spray-painted blue, had Bowl Rider trucks, and big blue urethane wheels, I think with a generic name like ‘city streets.’ It was really a piece of junk, super heavy because of the old trucks and giant wheels. I bought it for $30 from my buddy Craig Phillips, who was upgrading to a new board.

That cheap old board became my new best friend! Craig showed me a couple tricks, and before long everyone in my circle was skating. I used paper route money to step up to a new board, a Zorlac Double Cut. I built little jump ramps, then bigger sloped ramps, then quarter pipes and several half pipes in the back yard, eventually culminating in a half pipe twelve feet wide, 9 feet high and almost thirty feet long. Looking back, it is a wonder no one died on that structure, built largely with old wood we had reused several times, by teenagers with no experience or know-how at all. We learned by trial and error, and whatever tips we could get from skateboard magazines, or advice from friends-of-friends.

As much fun as riding the ramps was, I really enjoyed street-skating more than anything… Riding fast in whatever environment you were in—suburban neighborhood, hospital parking lot, city streets and sidewalks—seeing ‘lines’ over, around, through and across all the obstacles you saw. It was like poetry, or maybe more like painting—taking some stretch of road that was a blank canvas or sheet of paper and doing something with it that no one had ever done, or even intended to do. It has been probably five years or so since I skated for more than a couple minutes, but I still to this day see lines all over the place—a ledge to drop off, a curb to grind, a rail to slide down, with smooth, wavy routes connecting them all.

Like any real skater, I had a couple injuries, but only one that I went to the hospital for. (I should

have been treated for a handful of other ones, but I was stubborn, or maybe stupid. Probably both). When I was maybe 15 I messed up my knee pretty badly, at the end of a long session on my backyard halfpipe. I had been trying to nail this one trick, a handplant where your body inverts as you put a hand on the ramp, and then you swing around and ride down the wall of the ramp.

I had really been beating up my body trying to learn this trick, and was pretty fatigued. I had to work that night and was running late, and I decided to take one more hurried attempt. As I rode up the wall of the ramp I grabbed the coping and straightened my arm, my body inverted. As my body swung around, my front foot slipped off the board, and I rode down the steep wall with just my right foot on the board, and that knee totally bent. My left leg was sticking out straight ahead in the direction I was heading. As I approached that second wall, my left leg jammed into the ramp, with the force of my body weight and momentum all driven into that awkwardly straightened leg, really tweaking my knee.

Big hair and short shorts

It was days before I could bend it properly, and weeks before I could skate again and walk without a limp. I don’t know what I did, and have never had my knees x-rayed, but they sure took a lot of abuse, and still give me some issues from time to time. But hey, it’s nothing I can’t power through, Batman-style! It’s worth noting this happened when my mind was distracted, when I wasn’t really fully engaged, and when I was pretty fatigued. I shouldn’t have been trying the hardest trick I had ever attempted in that mental or physical state!

Another time, I was skating Craig’s halfpipe, riding in his back yard with him and a couple friends. Craig had to go somewhere with his family, and they were cool with us skating for a while after they left. Again, it had been a long session, after a day of high school, and things were kind of winding down. It was just me and another kid, and we were just lazily taking turns on the ramp, not doing anything too taxing, or paying too much attention to what we were doing. As I attempted a trick I had done thousands—literally thousands—of times before, a simple frontside grind, I lost focus and my board hung up, and I fell down to the flat.

I had also fallen literally thousands of times before, which was no big deal, you just slide down on your knee pads. This time however, not being as engaged as I should have been, I tried to block my fall with my wrist, of course hurting it in the process. The real bummer—I had to skate home. Correction, I had to carefully walk home, gingerly carrying my board. This was before cell phones, and I was in a neighborhood where I knew no one else, and I didn’t want to just knock on a stranger’s door. So I made my way home, my parents took me to the emergency room, and I ended up learning I had fractured it. Again, a fall when I was not really fully engaged in what I was doing.

I skated until I was eighteen or so, then hung it up until I started again with my own kids when they were little—Liam and Ethan in particular really took to it, and it was a blast riding with them at the parks around Utah and Idaho. Ethan has had his own list of injuries, more serious than mine, because today skateboarding is just way faster and more intense than it was back in the 70’s and 80’s. But it was fun to explore new parks with him and Liam, and to watch each other progress.   

Thinking of those trips to the skateparks reminds me of the last time I really seriously skated with the boys. In 2010, at age 40, I went with Ethan and Liam to the park in Orem, Utah, just a short drive from our home. We liked to go pretty early in the day, because this park in particular draws a huge crowd, and in the afternoon and evening, in addition to a bunch of skaters there are little kids and scooters and bikes everywhere—it just gets chaotic. That morning, we pretty much had the park to ourselves.

Backyard fun, maybe 1984?

As we rode around, warming up, getting the flow going, I was lazily riding up and down in one of the half pipe sections. We were really just getting going, getting the blood pumping, limbering up a bit. As I rode backwards (“fakie”) down one wall of the big concrete ramp, I was more watching Ethan and Liam than paying attention to what I was doing. And of course, I hit a rock I had not seen before, right as I descended the wall. On the fast concrete, right at the base of the wall where my momentum was just building, my board came to an abrupt halt as the rock stopped the wheel. And of course, as Newton would have predicted, I kept on going, right into the ground.

Picture it, a 40 year old man coming down a concrete ramp backward (envision the side of a pool), and slamming to the ground. I instinctively pulled my arm in to my side so I could just kind of roll through it. However, there was to be no rolling… My body slapped against the ground, and the impact drove that left arm into the bottom of my ribcage. I heard a crack and felt all the air rush out of my lungs; it felt like my chest was being crushed. I promise you, I would have wailed like a baby if I could speak. Heck, I couldn’t even breathe, for what felt like five minutes. I just laid there writhing in pain, trying to make myself breathe.

Finally able to get some air in my lungs, I got up and staggered to a bench on the side of the park. It was painful to walk, breathe, sit, stand, or think—my chest ached no matter what I was doing. I sat there trying not to do anything, taking shallow breaths so my ribs wouldn’t hurt. The kids checked on me, and kept skating, as I was in no hurry to get in the car to drive anywhere. Internet searches told me the ‘crack’ I heard was likely a rib or two, and a friend who was a nurse and in college for some other ‘ology’ degree confirmed it, and let me know the doctor could prescribe painkillers but that was all you could do.

Gotta love the 80's. Me in the backyard.

I spent the next month or so painfully improving, little by little, until I felt up to taking the boys to another park in Utah. I had been feeling better, and thought I’d try to ride again. When I took a little routine spill, rolling to my back, I again had the wind completely knocked out of me, my chest on fire once more, my old injury newly aggravated. That was the last time I skated at a park—mostly because I worried I’d have a really serious injury that might affect my ability to take care of my family.

As I think of all these spills on the skateboard, and more importantly, the other falls I have taken in life, I see some consistent themes. Whether it is in my career, family, or personal life, or my relationship with God, there is a pattern…

I fall when I am too tired or worn down, attempting something I either have not prepared for properly, or when I am just not in the right state (whether physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual).

I fall when I let my guard down, and am not paying attention. Little things that normally are not a problem for me sneak up and bite me.

I fall when I am lax in my engagement, coasting, running on autopilot in an area of life because I think it’s not too critical that I pay much attention.

In short, I fall when I am not engaged, living in the moment, and seeing things clearly.

So what is the antidote? What tools for fall-prevention should we pull out of our collective Batcaves, dust off and incorporate? The answers are simple, but not always easy: Be engaged, live in the moment, and see things clearly. Here are a few things I do to get on track.

Be engaged. Do something you love. Revisit an old hobby, or take up a new one. Set a specific goal. Is there something coming up you can plan for, train for, or look ahead to? A concert, a bike ride, a charity walk, a marathon? A class you could take, a meetup, a service organization you can join? A big sporting event you can buy a ticket for now, that might be months away? A plane or train ticket for a fun trip in a month, or even a year? I find that having something to look forward to, or to plan or save up for, keeps me focused and excited, and that focus spills into other areas of my life.

Live in the moment. Volumes have been written about this one, by people way more qualified than me. However, here’s something that paradoxically helps me live in the moment… Planning those moments. More specifically, planning out my days and weeks ahead of time. How does this help me live in the moment? Connecting with what is most important to me, what responsibilities I have, and what tasks must be accomplished ensures my time is productive, and I get the stuff done that I absolutely need to. This planning mindset is equally helpful in planning my “me” time, and I do things that help me recharge and promote fulfillment. I spend time doing things mindfully, as opposed to doing mindless things to help me ‘escape.’

Check out Stephen Covey’s 7 Habits and First Things First, or even simply search the internet for Franklin Covey time management tips. Check out Alan Lakein’s rules of time management—he wrote about these ideas long before it was a trend. One of his rules is asking the question, “What is the best use of my time right now?” As a young manager, I always carried around an index card with 10 of his rules on it. Being able to leave work at work, because you are effective and productive, is an unequaled blessing that leaves you with plenty of energy to live in the moment outside of work—in the moments that really count!

See things clearly. I have a few things that help me see the world clearly, and even help me see myself more objectively; both types of enhanced vision keep me from falling. The first is daily prayer. Expressing gratitude for what I do have, and acknowledging areas where I need to grow are key for setting my day up right. This helps me work out my opportunities—and their solutions—in a mindful, inspired manner. Taking these topics to the Lord, and seeking His confirmation enhances my faith in Him and in myself. Even if you don’t believe in God, take some time to meditate and ponder and get ‘clear’ each morning. I promise you will see the world with greater clarity.

A second thing that helps me see things clearly is to study the scriptures, for at least 10 or 15 minutes each morning. Similar to praying, this sets my day up right, or more importantly it sets me up right. If you are not a Christian, study your spiritual text of choice, or even crack open the Old Testament to Proverbs, or thumb through the New Testament. You’ll find pearls of wisdom, or at the very least some things to ponder and engage your mind. If religious reading is just not for you, look to some of that stuff they made you read in high school—Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens, or poetry by Frost, Thoreau or Whitman.

Finally, I try to listen to a podcast or read something contemporary (preferably non-fiction) for at least a half hour per day. (You’ll find if you make this a habit, you’ll soon have no trouble finding a little time to read, and you’ll be able to squeeze in an hour or more easily). Just a little daily reading, studying and thinking gives me added perspective and energy as I tackle the problems of the day. It helps me avoid temptation and distraction. Also, literally every day, I find I have something fun, interesting, or thought provoking to talk about with others as a result of the clearer, broader perspective brought on by doing these little things.

I’m guessing I’ve told you nothing you didn’t already know—these are not ancient, guarded secrets. They are also not hard things to do either, but distractions come our way and get us off track, don’t they? But every little activity strengthens us, and keeps us more firmly grounded. And the more engaged we are, living in the moment and seeing things clearly, the more prepared we are to keep on our feet, ready for the next challenge life throws at us. We’ll see them coming, and they won’t trip us up as much, or pin us down as long. We’ll be real-life superheroes!

Batman’s got nothing on us.

Rush!

The Triumvirate

It's 12:45 a.m., and I'm on a plane. I've got Stan Getz playing in my ear buds, because what else do you listen to at 12:45 a.m. while sitting on a plane, trying to calm down and get a little sleep as you fly across the country?

Liam and I JUST finished rocking out for over three hours with about 15,000 other dudes, and about six of their girlfriends. Rush, the Toronto Triumvirate, the gods of prog rock, THE definition of the power trio, played tonight in Portland as the band nears the finish of its R40 tour, celebrating over 40 years playing together.

My apologies to those in the adjacent seats if I smell like I've been doing what I've been doing; I'll change and clean up a bit when I layover in Minneapolis in a few hours-- got to smell good for the week-long Microsoft Global Exchange conference in Orlando! But I digress... Where was I?

Rush was amazing! It is quite a feat to play for three hours and proverbially leave the crowd wanting more, but that's what they did-- they absolutely killed it! They sounded just as sharp as ever, really tight musicianship, with Geddy Lee's occasional vocal strain on the high notes the only sign they might be tiring after over four decades of recording and touring.

Poutine!

Before the show, Liam and I hit a hipster diner to enjoy some poutine, one of our favorite Canadian exports (besides my wife, and of course the band we were gearing up to see). French fries, gravy, and cheese curds-- just the thing to give us the energy we needed to air-drum, air-guitar, and of course slappa da bass for three hours. We were thinking of getting cruellers at Voodoo Doughnuts, but the line was too long, and we wanted to get to the show.

The gist of these shows is they work backwards, from recent to the very beginning, touching on the high points, hits, and some deeper tracks, while the stage set, lighting, lasers and pyrotechnics all follow along with the themes of the songs they played. I'll spare the details, but it was an incredibly dynamic, fast moving, multi-faceted show that kept me guessing, even though I had done way too much nerding out over set lists and online highlights from other shows in other cities on this tour.

The show took me right back to what, 1982 maybe? My buddies Chris and Aaron Brady got me hooked on Rush after letting me borrow 'Exit Stage Left,' the killer live album released by the band that year. That started me on a journey of picking up ALL of their albums, reading all I could about them, and devouring their lyrics, poring over them to get the different meanings and grasp the stories told by Neil Peart, their lyricist and phenomenal, totally unique drummer.

Rush has had an incredible career. They pushed themselves and each other, as musicians and performers. They wrote stuff they couldn't even play yet. They worked out arrangements that sounded awesome, and beyond their reach, then went into the studio and pounded and practiced away until they could play at the level they needed to get the stuff recorded. Maybe that's why every album was a leap from the last, stylistically, musically, and often lyrically. They were perfectionists, always challenging each other, themselves, and their listeners. And the results were almost always good, often great, and sometimes just magical.


Decent seats!

 I was a Dungeons and Dragons playing kid from the Bay Area suburbs, and Rush was the soundtrack of my junior high and high school years. Even as I got into other genres of music, and moved on from fantasy games to other pursuits, I never lost my love of Rush, the first band I ever really fell in love with.

To have my fifteen year old son with me tonight, actually putting this show on his bucket list and really WANTING to see Rush play has been awesome, and the best excuse I've had to go to a concert, maybe ever! He knew almost all of the songs, impressive considering 90% of them were recorded before he was born. Liam loved the show too, which made it all the more special to me.

So now it's 1:30 a.m., and I should REALLY be sleeping. But my ears are still ringing a bit, the plane cabin lights keep distracting me, and I'm reminiscing about thirty-four years of hardcore Rush obsession, and making a mental list of the few albums of theirs I either never bought or misplaced, and the stuff I haven't listened to either closely enough, often enough, or recently enough. The list is lengthening by the minute...



Obligatory concert T-shirt

Over 40 years ago, when Geddy Lee first sang the words, "It seems to me I could live my life/Much better than I think I am/Guess that's why they call me the working man," the guys were just that, an unknown working band grinding it out on the local Toronto music scene, probably not even daring to dream they could ever sell tens of millions of albums and play sold out arenas and stadiums all over the world.
As they wound down tonight's show, those were the last words Geddy sang, on what may be the last big tour they play. The success they've had couldn't happen to a better bunch of guys, who take music and musicianship very seriously, but don't take themselves too seriously at all. It was surreal, serendipitous and just a total delight. And it makes me wonder where I'll be, and what I might be singing, playing, and thinking about 40 years from now.

I wonder if I'll still be listening to Rush?