Escape to Digital Adventure

Nothing has changed on the tooth front, except that it doesn't hurt like it did. I suppose that is because the infection is gone, but the loss of support around the tooth remains. No referral yet, standard denial of a treatment plan. No phonecall with dentist yet 

I remember in this Nick Nolte film from the 90s that his character had a severe tooth ache that was a metaphor for the difficulties in his life, even possibly for the trauma he had suffered in his childhood. I thought it was a fairly good use of symbol. I only mention it now because, while my tooth has been aching, really I have been suffering from so much more, both physical and mental. I can see a similar narrative device working in my case if ever I wrote a story about myself.

These last handful of days has found me escaping into the world of digital games, specifically World of Warcraft. Five hours or more in front of a screen making "progress" and the numbers "go up." Already exalted with the High Mountain Tauren in Legion somehow. However, it is hard to say that I enjoy playing it. 

Someone said that going back to WoW is sort of like having an ex-wife with whom you share a kid; in some way or another, she's always going to be part of your life because of that kid. I've quit a few times, only to eventually come back, partly because it feels like a harmless way to occupy time without thinking too hard. I do think I  need to not think for a bit. I find I need the escape from unpleasant realities increasingly necessary. 

I have been thinking about how social media and the "algorithm" lack true commitment to the moral values of basic humanity. Social Media will set your nervous system on fire with images, memes, and "content" to disturb your amygdala all in a single pointed drive to get money, the one moral value of our modern society that seems stable, above criticism.

Anyhow, lately, social media has not been the harmless distraction that I needed from recent events, so I turned to the old standby, WoW. I made a fury warrior that I took from lvl 1 to lvl 80 in just one week. The "remix" that helped this quick rise was the same content I was playing ten years ago. I remembered all of it even as I was feeling bad about wasting time. A feeling that grew with the passing hours.

Prayers, fear, distraction, and numbness are my life these days. I hope to get back on a plan to stabilize my future, forms to fill out, contingency plans to make. I know I have to rely on a higher power to get me through all the days, months, and years to come. It's the only refuge I have, or anyone has, in these trying times. All I can think with the increasing bad news is this: "God help us all."

Bad tooth

I left the house very early this morning to get to my dentist appointment. The bone on my back right molar has receded, according to the young dentist woman, who I overheard tell another patient was back from a vacation in Mexico. 

My choices, according to her medical opinion, is to either do a root canal that is expensive and has little chance of success, or to pull the tooth. However, by pulling the tooth, I lose my third adult tooth. I don't want to lose any more teeth. I indicated I understood the options, but that I wanted to do the root canal. I noted her disappointment as this seemed to be the less convenient choice. Supposedly, I will get a referral to a specialist. 

I'm frustrated because of my lack of knowledge. It feels I am supposed to make decisions when I don't have all the options or knowledge to do so. No one told me that my bridge, when I first got it, was going to be temporary. Indeed, it seemed like a permanent solution to a problem I had those years ago. I fear that this two bad options choice is similar, with the attending worry that, had I a million dollars or more, there would be other options.

Currently, there isn't a lot of pain, but I am still getting over a cold. Life has been difficult lately, and I worry it could get more so. I hope I heal. But more, I hope I find more comfort in the future when I continue to get older. Doesn't seem likely based on age and finances.

The Coming End of Things

The cracks are beginning to show. I told my mom, a week ago, that I felt old, by which I meant that my body isn't bouncing back as easily as before. I'm more tired, more derailed by illness, less able to power through minor physical setbacks as before. It's a concerning trend for the future. No one ever gets younger. And all those old insults to one's health, previous injuries and illnesses, accumulate into a metaphorical heap as old habits solidly ossify into truly bad routines. 

I try to keep my spirit up. I can't afford to mentally berate myself all day like in the past. For one, I know better. With age comes wisdom and all that. Too many in our culture want to interpret tyranny and oppression as our personal failure. Things we believe are in our control and therefore our fault aren't really. Lack of support, lack of assistance, outright manipulation and lies shape our realities. We're too individualistic to see it, and therefore, we conclude we've "failed" when we can't or don't achieve what we could have. In reality, society failed us.

I don't have a safety net, and the good graces of life that currently support me won't last forever. I say prayers, try to change behaviors for the better, but I worry I will be lost to the troubles when the shoe drops. I let too many years go by doing nothing but cultivating fears. I lack knowledge of the future. I want to prepare for it, but it may be too late. The future will be here before I am ready. If only decency in living expenses prevailed. If only we all truly believed every single human being was worth investing time and money in. If only we all had the same chances. The homeless scare me, not because I believe them to be especially violent or deranged, but because their presence, their tents along the road, remind me that I might one day be trying to scrabble a life of dignity and rude shelter as well.

Old Home

Strange to think that the coffee shop from my younger days is still playing the old hits from the seventies. Steely Dan, Fleetwood Mac, Little River Band. While most of the coffee patrons here are the college kids of generation Z, I could close my eyes and imagine I was in a basement fern bar of 1982. These were the songs of my parents that have been rediscovered by the youth somehow. Does generation Z find a more authentic, less purely materialistic, pop music in this music of the seventies? No AI tweaks, no auto tune, no focused group constructions of taste, no drum machine. Just pure musicianship in an era that is far enough away from them to feel cool and novel, wholly unattached to their own lived experience and therefore pure in imagination. I wonder if I'll still be hearing this music of my parents twenty years from now. Seems likely.

Today, I took refuge in this coffee house to drink chai and read Steinbeck's book "Travels with Charley," a travelogue of sorts about his trip across America in 1960. I find it interesting he wrote it when he was in his middle fifties, an age close to my own. I can see a rich, educated man's point of view in this book, especially one who wants to mythologize his vision of himself and America before he is forced by death to leave it. Interesting to me, looking back on his view of 1960 sixty five years later, is the whiff of his "old man grumpiness" in his prose about the era in which he lived. No American-Vietnam War yet; no Internet bots, arguments, or controversies; no global threat of climate change like there is now. Did 1960 deserve his critique, mild or not? Maybe. I never lived it, or had his years before. He was a veteran, so maybe the insidious traumas of war and exposure to intense sufferings like poverty accumulate over time and injure the soul's natural predisposition to happiness. Somehow, though, I think every age has its disappointments, and it is better to not look with too critical an eye on the world in which we live. To repeat the famous tautology, "it is what it is." Life exists on its own terms and change inevitable. The fault lies in ourselves and not the stars after all.

In any case, this book is helping to pierce my personal and somewhat unconscious concept of perpetual youth a little bit. He saw himself as old, a senior, at fifty-six. Contemporary society wants that to still be the upper end of middle age. In my case, I still hope to reach that confidence of a settled middle aged adulthood, to finally realize the unfulfilled dreams of youth and hope. But, achievement and modest material accomplishments always seem so far off, as if I were still somehow in my late twenties. I certainly am not. I haven't had the traditional markers of success: wife, great job, house, kids. Seems impossible to get all that now. Maybe I have to accept I am actually old, a senior, and that the many opportunities of my youth are permanently gone, no matter how mentally and emotionally difficult that may be to accept. The brain is subtle and clever when it comes to self-deception.

I'm not a kid. I'm old to the world that keeps changing. I don't want to be irritated by the manifold changes of culture and time, but as a man in my fifties, like Steinbeck then, it creeps in now and again at the edges of my emotions, ready to pounce in a flash of criticism, both inward and outward. For example, I don't want to have to download an app on my phone to pay a bill, have most of my information harvested and sold at every turn by the 'rewards card' at the gas station or grocery store. And I definitely don't want to pay seventy dollars for one casual dress shirt, etc.

When I was a teenager, I heard a story about my then seventy year old grandfather who didn't want to pay more than twelve dollars for a pair of jeans. I laughed at the absurdity of his indignation, as good jeans back then were at least thirty dollars or so. Now, all these years later, he's in heaven having the last laugh at me when I balk at the eighty dollar pair on the shelf at the local store. I've become him.

For men my age, the default to all these perceived encroachments to dignity and the thousand little changes to how life is lived can be grumpiness. So, like Steinbeck and my grandpa, I feel all those same grumpy impulses. 

But, I also really hope to learn by their lived example and try to be detached instead, to acknowledge the emotion and set it aside if it is not useful to the situation. It's the better way. The world will always be bigger than myself and my petty opinions. My transient feelings, no matter how important they might seem to me, often won't actually change anything, and maybe aren't even based in reality. These grumpy impulses of irritation aren't the blaring alarms of injustice going off, but rather manifestations of a misperception of reality that I no longer completely understand or master. I'm slowly, inevitably becoming irrelevant to a world that ultimately leaves us all behind in the grave anyway. Things move on, and youth accepts these changes with the grace of not knowing any different. Insignificant as I am in this living-life process, I would much prefer to bend like the young fresh flower and not break like the tied old oak. As the modern cliche says: "Feelings aren't facts." Difficulties abound for us all, young and old alike, and they will ever continue to do so. The timeless unending universe will never be impressed by my (or any other's) twinges of grumpiness, justified or otherwise.

My goal, as far as I can see it, is to accept the passing of time with the manner of a polite guest who can't repay the incredibly generous favors already given him. May God give me the strength to do that.

What Can Be Done

I go back and forth between feeling like the future is already set to a limited degree in a negative direction with consequences for myself, and still having the hope that positive change in my personal life is still possible.

For example, I am having some night time dreams that feel like premonitions. These dreams are ones where I am grappling with the fall out of a great societal calamity, a change to the laws and social order, imperfect though they are now, but completely unworkable in the near future with personal drastic results for the vulnerable, especially within my own family. Or the dreams are of the nature of my experiencing the results of an unpreventable global war, my being called away to fight in a long-suffering intolerable mess that drags on for years until I am ultimately capable of getting reunited with the remnants of my family.

I know, especially having written them down, that these dreams could be seen as manifestations of my age old anxieties and difficult emotions surrounding my insecurities. I've literally spent years writing about them in my blog. Still, it's hard not to feel like maybe they actually portend something terrible. Logically speaking, I suppose it is possible they could even be both premonitions and irrational emotional expressions of my current state. The universe is a mysterious place. 

But, the strange things is that, at times, I allow myself some emotional space to admit, for hope's sake, that these dreams may not be premonitions at all, finding the small feeling of hope telling me that my dreams are symbolic rather than temporal. Maybe, for me, the future both in the physical world of 'here' as well as in the 'hereafter' will not be as bad as I think. Maybe my fears have created their own reality to justify their existence. 

With that said, it doesn't take a genius to see the world struggling with dark forces and negative behaviors that could result in a lot of global regret and overnight calamities arising from a few poorly timed choices and miscalculations.

I'm caught in the middle. As I said before, I feel like I am waiting for some kind of shoe to drop. I told my mom today that I had always tried to avoid failure, but maybe what I should have been doing was trying to build success, the one being passive and inert, and the second being proactive. The two are not the same. My finances being an example of passive avoidance versus active exertion.

If I make friends with God, allow myself to change belief into behavior, and acquire the practical virtues of patience, long suffering, wisdom, and restraint, maybe I will feel as if my life is turned around for the better. An old man needs hope as fish need water. The world does not need another bitter old man waiting around for an end and the elusive dropping shoe.

Not Doing So Hot

How did things come to a pass like this? I'm living life like I've gotten my diagnosis and found out it's terminal: trying to connect with my sisters, relate kindly to my parents, spending money for treats that I can't really afford, and preserving my energy for coping with the news of another horrible blow to come. Why did 'helping' become something to be hated? A media drenched society is drowning in a sea of bad news, at the mercy of a pervasive evil. 

I'm really trying to cope without losing myself in hopelessness. I realize I can't save my family, and I am not sure I have the skills to support myself alone. United we stand and divided we fall. 

Took my vulnerable sister to breakfast and paid for it. Wanted to bond in a way that went beyond work or typical family nonsense. Trying to say through memory for the future that despite our occasional disagreements and misunderstandings, we're a family. 

Thinking about doing something similar for the other sisters.

Argued with Mom briefly. Can't really say for the hundredth time that I am worried, indirectly ask for the reassurance none of us feel, or describe my fears in a way that doesn't weary our ears for the sheer routine of the complaints. 

I keep my deepest fears hidden because I know the futility of expressing them to reach a satisfying conclusion is impossible. Words are weak. In these days before the stunning blow, I try to connect. Feel the moment. Create the memory. And above all else, I pray for mercy for us all that the divine chastisements that await us in justice will not torment us overlong.

Update on the Now 2024

Still worried about the future, but not as attached to the feelings of inevitable disaster as before. For example, I still believe, with evidence I think, that the future will be incredibly difficult in the next few years. And, I hold no illusions that I will somehow be exempt from the jaws of tyranny, of cruelty, or suffering. But, I think I am resigned to whatever happens.

My reasoning is this: as it would be impossible or foolish of me to try and resist the will of God, as long as I act as righteously and as faithfully as I can, then whatever must be must be. I am not declaring defeat, of course. I am merely saying that there are only so many things that are within my ability to either influence or control. If I do my best, and continue to try in my efforts at improving myself and my circumstances, then perhaps I might be guided to where I need to be. 

It's still hard to accept sometimes that my suffering and struggle might be the inevitable consequences of living my best attempt at life, my coping with previous life choices, but I can rationally see no other alternative. It is what it is. 

Currently, I live with my parents, work at their business, and serve their life needs as they age. (Buying groceries, giving rides, taking them to doctor's visits.) This also sometimes includes tasks for my disabled sisters and their extended families. Through all of it, I try to develop into a noble soul as best I can see it. 

With the global tragedies unfolding before us in surprising ways, I can imagine a circumstance where global events reach a point of causing more sorrows than people's ability to endure. My nation, so enamored as it is of material things, is especially vulnerable to this kind of grief. I only hope to survive the difficulties, so that I live to serve as long as I can, and so that, when I face the Lord, I truthfully can say that, when I matured, I did the best I could.

Cassandra's Worries for the Future

 

It's been five years, maybe? Not sure. But, maybe that doesn't matter. What is time when everything is uncertain? It used to be that I had a plan for the future, a design on which skills I could gain, which path I could take, in order to bring myself closer to an ideal circumstance, but the only things that seem certain are difficulty and challenge. I am not looking forward to living life alone on my own terms. Right now, I do not have the financial means to support myself, and it doesn't look like I will for a long time. No retirements for me, no inheritances, no windfalls—just continued poverty as old age creeps around the edges of my life. I worry about homelessness, but I know I also make moral choices to support the people already in my life, and maybe that means they get more money and attention than I do.

I've been a little charmed (perhaps beguiled is the right word) by the overly sunny video blogs about the vanlifers, the people decades younger than me having grand outdoor adventures in vans that cost as much as a house did when my parents bought one. Like some people who imagine what they would do with lotto winnings, I sometimes imagine what it would be like to live long term in a van. Somehow, that seems more obtainable than owning a home, retiring with a significant savings, and providing a meager support for my family and friends. I have no illusions. I know this is all social media where the ugly parts are hidden, the hidden supports are concealed, and the 'facts' are only true in terms of entertainment. Still, it feels emotionally relaxing to consider this as a possibility, even if I acknowledge that, intellectually, it is a fantasy. 

Note for the net: I am still exercising my esperanto language skills with web apps. Youtube doesn't have as much videos as the used to, which is a shame. I have also started to learn clawhammer banjo. I am getting better with my rhythm hand, but I tend to play the same five or six chords in the same tuning. Should I put more effort into it? I hope I become a superlative banjo playing with the grace of God. With the same fervor, I hope that I can increase in personal virtue, wisdom, and knowledge to accept the unseen challenges of the future with the aplomb and dignity I wish. 

In a strange way, I am thinking a lot about the Harold and Maude movie from the early 70s. In a weird way, maybe I want to be a male maude, a vibrant, almost emotionally exuberant person celebrating every inch of life with the wisdom of a lived experience. I'm not a libertine like her character was, and I will not cause conflict and contention if I can help it, but I am thinking about conscious spirituality in the face of a world intent on descending into horrors and cruelty that people can't envision at the moment. 

How did Cassandra, from ancient Greece, and who was cursed to know the troubles of the future but also not to have anyone believe her or listen to her admonitions, not go insane with worry, frustration, and anger at the willful blindness that absolutely surrounded her. The answer seems to be a radical detachment from the outside world, and a powerful connection to the inside font of spirituality that directs her steps.

Reaching for Reason and Hope

Most of my posts seem to be me exploring my inner emotional life in one way or another, and that exploration, in some form or another ends up with depression. I wish I could say "most of my posts lately...", but that is not the case. It now seems to be a permanent facet of my adult emotional life. Of course I worry that is had been so long that it is more of a habit than a reality, but I am not sure that is the case.

I feel anger slipping out every once and again. When I think on something that concerns me, something that seems amiss, I worry it like a stone in my pocket, until I find myself having angry conversations with imaginary people in my head. Not the schizophrenic conversations, as in hearing voices, just the everyday scenarios people play in their heads about what should have been done or said or felt, etc.

At the root of it now, all of it, all of the depression, worry, anger and whatnot seems to be frustration with the course of my life and my feeling of helplessness over things and upcoming issues that I do not think I will be able to prevent. Imagine a ship's cabin standing on a bridge and seeing an iceberg slowly approaching—one that will definitely sink the ship. It's too late to change course, the engine room isn't responding to directions, you're just drifting to disaster, unable to stop it. That's a pretty good metaphor for much of what I think I am experiencing.

We live in interesting times where chaos and contention seems to be a rule. Everyone and everything is caught in a whirlpool of anger where they project their fears and concerns into a ball of concentrated hatred. You see it happening all around you. You know it's wrong, but you can't seem to be able to stop it. No one listens to you. They're so wrapped up in their fears that nothing breaks through the cocoon.Sometimes, I am the same way. Except that I refuse to hate anyone else except sometimes myself.

And that might probably be the root of most of my trouble. Part of my own frustrations, angers, etc. is my belief, as solid as any, that I am not worthy of acceptance or praise. I feel like I have tried my best and lost. I was naive and let opportunities fly by thinking that I had an unending series of chances. Frustrated then, I fought against what I thought were injustices or unfair circumstances, only to make choices that did actual harm instead choosing to let those imaginary harms go.

The thought I have in my best moments is essentially this: if I nurture positive, humble beliefs about myself, maybe I can forgive my own mistakes, learn to be detached from the imaginary outrages that seem so real, and be the man of virtue I wish to be. Easier said than done, of course. It seems that this is a daily battle. And one thing about my personality that is a long-standing issue is that I easily give up when I perceive I have failed, when all my negative biases about myself are confirmed, and then, feeling like I have slipped back to the beginning, have even less resolve to continue to fight against bad habits, negative thoughts, less motivation to make good choices based on reason and hope, rather than fear and anger. 

Fires Continue to Burn

The fires in the Northwest continue to burn making most of the valley smell like a campfire, or the inside of a barbecue pit. The weather apps on ones pocket phone notifies us of "smoke" as our local weather. Not "Cloudy." Not "Chance of Rain." Not "Freezing Fog." But, "Smoke." That's a new one for me.

It also happens that just as these fires pour out the ash into the atmosphere, fires that are hundreds of miles away and largely unseen except for dusty atmosphere along the horizon, I have been thinking about my own life and how it feels that something hidden in me is on fire somewhere, pouring out the haze of smoke into my thinking, clouding the normal hopes with a dusky uncertainty about whether or not I can overcome the challenges I perceive.

Therefore, I have been thinking hard about the many choices that we make, how despair is the paralysis of the spirit, and that keeping oneself healthy emotionally and mentally better equips us to face the difficulties that we encounter each day.

Another thought. Today, I was trying to think of a metaphor. For example, a man may be such an expert at building a house that there is nothing he does not know about the subject, and there is nothing he is not capable of doing in regards to houses. He may have all of the money and tools he needs to accomplish the task. Every material may be laying at his feet. There is nothing stopping him from building a house. But if he doesn't want to do it, he doesn't start. Then, imagine him standing there, a time passes.Then a day, then a week. After a time, guilt and worry about not doing something he could actually do sets in. The worry and guilt build, and the task which could have been simple, seems harder than every. Eventually, the worry and the guilt are replaced by shame as he tries to hide from himself. The job becomes a reminder of his failure. Then, that shame and failure becomes despair, and he is spiritually paralyzed by the whole affair. Maybe even lost.

Of course, one who is healthy, and not haunted by those inner weaknesses wonders why he did not just do it. It was a simple matter in the beginning after all. But, life presents us with problems and challenges before we are even clear on what those problems are.

End of History

Yesterday, I had the strong feeling like I was living at the end of history. The red sun because of the haze from the fires in California, the bizarre news stories and contentiousness on the television, the heat of the day (hotter than it has been), and all of the artificial ways we use to mitigate the heat with air conditioners, and avoid the conflicts on television with denial, gave me this odd feeling. I know every society on earth has believed themselves to be the pinnacle of history and development, and for a time, they were. The 1100's, 1762, the middle 1830, 1982 - each were the most advanced for their day, and had difficulty imagining what was the come.

And here we are, living in this science fiction reality, where the earth seems to be burning up with either fire, heat, or anger.

My realization that I cannot prevent any of this societal drifting into trauma is humbling and sobering. My life of insignificance and wasted chances make the same thought utterly laughable.

It really does feel that we're out to sea, the waves are tossing back and forth, land is out of sight, and all we can do is keep floating, sailing, fighting to remain upright as we are tossed back and forth.

A Meditation on Failure

The past three days has me trying to think deeply, often when I am in the car, about all of the ways things do not go the way we intellectually intend them to go. I really chew on some of these thoughts trying to pin the thought thread down as best I can, but the markers will only go so far until I have to retrace the thread back, repeating the thoughts again, trying to push them farther. Writing them down is better because I can follow the breadcrumbs so to speak. I still have not trained my mind enough to think solidly alone like I want (or seem to want to.)

Right now, today, considering the past three difficult days, I've been thinking about illness as a metaphor for some spiritual maladies. I know that, physically, one can come down with a minor cold or a terminal disease. Everyone, no matter how long they live, is bound to have at least one illness in their life. Yet, if they care for their physical condition, they can usually avoid the most serious illnesses and diseases. However, if a person actively seeks out unhealthy conditions, lives in mold or is always covered in dirt, eats the wrong things, and never exerts themselves, they will more easily ruin their health and maybe end their life.

It seems to me that this is a metaphor for our spiritual difficulties. Everyone, no matter how long we live, will experience a problem or a moral dilemma in their life at least once. My biggest ones so far came in my late twenties and all of my thirties. Perhaps, if one is of a mind to care for themselves spiritually, they might be able to recognize the spiritual principle at work, or discover the missing virtue and try to remedy the problem. Maybe the practice of meditation is necessary to help recognize these problems, or to reinforce the healthier thoughts. However, it also seems clear that chronic neglect of spiritual health can lead to more serious trouble, or maybe even spiritual death. How else could one describe a person who is consumed by selfishness, bad behavior, and things such as causal lying if not as a person who is gravely ill spiritually? A chronic lack of compassion or self-awareness might even lead to a permanent state of spiritual death? Is that how far this metaphor goes?

Could someone, gravely ill in this way, find remedy and recovery? It would seem that if we use life as model, then the answer could be also yes, but it also suggests the seriousness and the difficulty. Such remedies often need careful, regular, and determined treatment. Bones need to be set for casts. Surgery scheduled to remove a cancerous growth. Sometimes, it  also means a new diet. Sometimes, it means better exercise.

But then, sometimes a person afflicted by spiritually illness lacks the means to heal themselves. An unconscious, physically ill person isn't really able to eat or swallow a pill by themselves. I suppose this would mean that, in some cases, it is necessary to reach out to the spiritually ill and help them find the strength to recover, advise a course of treatment.

I often lose hope when I find that I have not lived up to the standards I have set for myself. Mom has told me in the past that I am too hard on myself. I cannot believe that. If anything, I have been lax in some of the things I know I need to do. Many times, I turn to the family trait of psychological denial. If I pretend there isn't a problem, maybe it will go away. Also, if I know that I have failed in some regard, I lose the necessary motivation to continue forward in my efforts to counter the behavior or impulse, lose the will to change. Of course, perhaps it is a sort of arrogance to assume that I can know when all is truly lost when the standards for judging are not up to me. Although I may know myself best among my fellow human beings, I am not the Divine Judge. I have to consider that thought more closely. God knows that we fail. Otherwise, why would their be a need for prayer, healing, or redemption? Why would we need to be forgiven? Ideally, we would carefully protect ourselves spiritually by heeding the Divine counsels and advice and not need to be forgiven. But then consequences are educational are they not? A loving punishment is a punishment that is meant to instruct a being on the seriousness of the error and reinforce the will not to recommit it. A cruel punishment, which God by definition would not do, would punish only to increase suffering.  

I have a hard time separating the suspicion or the feeling of being condemned from knowing that I need to persevere in my spiritual health efforts. For example, perhaps my already low-self esteem falsely tells me that there is no hope, then assuming that I can know for certain there is no hope, I lose motivation to continue, which reinforces my conviction that all is lost because I no longer try as hard. Thus, I add the early "feeling" of failure to the actual reality of failure when I let things go through lack of effort, when I do not do what I know I should or what is right. Then, knowing I have actually failed, I add that knowledge to the early feeling and feel even worse. Which in turn, leads to a sapping of motivation, which strengthens and amplifies the distress, and weakens the desire to try. It is a vicious cycle.

Can I really know that I would be damned, condemned, or beyond help? Perhaps no. Based on my reading of spiritual texts, even the most condemned on Earth still had the opportunity to repent and atone (at least to some degree) while they lived. Of some, that knowledge of opportunity to atone accompanied the knowledge that the person in question never would. However, theoretically, the chance was still there. Therefore, if I want to transform into a better person, I should not dwell on the past that cannot be change, but focus on the future for hope of change.

Other thoughts along these lines: the reality of having a human body, with its capacity of being bored, tired, angry, or having any other animal emotions, complicates the noble desire to be a good person who always acts correctly or transform into a better person. I usually frame this problem in terms of will-power. I tell myself that, in occasions where I am bored, tired, angry, etc, I need to suppress the urge, sometimes shockingly sudden and unconscious, from doing things like yelling at the blameless, or taking it out myself or on someone else. But also, even IF another person yells at me unjustly, I should resist the urge to respond in a similar unkind or unjust manner. Stopping myself from responding in equal unkindness is frighteningly difficult.

Furthermore, it is always easy to be and do good when we're happy and relatively content, but it becomes frustrating difficult when we're not.

I think that the solution, in light of some of these thoughts, might be to try to practice the habit of happiness and contentment, even in difficult circumstances. This provides the natural resiliency of spiritual health in the face of difficult problems.

If I am not entirely wrong, I think I should believe that Happiness and Contentment should not rely  on ones outward circumstances. All of humanity's best spiritual literature seems to tell us this. Happiness and Contentment are not merely passive gifts of God (although they are that). Instead, human persons should consider them as skills to practice. (If light can be both a particle and a wave, according to science, then virtues can be both a gift and a skill.) My challenge then, as a person with a cultural background that tends to see things materially and not spiritually, is to try and recognize how to practice Happiness and Contentment. I think Plato touches on a similar thought about virtue: how some are passive traits, but others are actively practiced. Justice is not justice until one performs a just act. In my life, filled as it is—as everyone's is—with an occasional angry person, minor injustice, unfair circumstance, or outward unhappiness, this challenge looms large. How, do I inoculate myself against these triggers no matter how difficult they may seem, how angry another person might be? (I think of our modern day news reporters who seem to struggle with maintaining inner composure when they ask a person in authority a question, and the authority responds with a lie, attack, or similar unkindness. I want even more than they would "spiritual unflappability.")

This is one of the things I have been thinking on the edge of my life that I suspect I must reinforce: how most of the change I want, changes based on my reading of spiritual texts, is often just a change of perspective: a constant, daily awareness of the real (spiritual) things in life. How do I always remember to carry Happiness and Contentment with me when faced with difficult problems, like where do I live in the next ten years, how do I feed myself, how to I cope with health that is not the best. Yes, there are also practical steps I need to take, and I should think about those, implement them as best I can, but above those two things, I need to have the perspective of happy person working contentedly to becoming a better person, who perseveres through trouble, no matter how bad it is. Who is not unsettled by any event, no matter how large the storm on the horizon, no matter how terrible the lightening bolts are. I know that grief chills hope and effort, even grief about one's frailties and weaknesses. But every step forward ultimately brings us closer to what we want or need. In the world of time, in which our physical lives ultimately appear so short, taking no step at all is the same as falling back.

Gardens and Airports

Spent most of the day in the car. Dad was in Florida for most of the week at a science conference for work. My mother, aging, and not as able to take care of herself as before, needed my help for most of the week. She was sad and depressed most of the time he was gone. Today was the day that he came back.

I had to be at the shop at around 9:00 am, so we could leave at 10:00 am. I ate a terrible breakfast at McDonald's consuming way more calories than I should have. I am having a difficult time figuring out how to do the basics of caring for myself in an appropriate way. I eat too much, eat the wrong things, don't sleep well, and hardly ever exercise. Now, in my forties, I am paying the price for years of bad habits. I know I need to change, but I am way less certain about what those changes are. How should I go about fixing things when I don't know which path will take me to where I want to go. Life and its demands, does not seem to provide easy answers, and our society is very dis-inclined to provide any for free.

The drive up to the airport, about a two hour drive with traffic, was pleasant enough. Mom and I spoke about history. Family history, history of the nation, and the various calamities the world is afflicted by and, like me, does not seem to know what the cause of the trouble is, or how to go about fixing it. Mom was tired. Worn out by her week without Dad. She insisted on accompanying me on the journey, when I could have very well done it by myself. Initially, she intended to have lunch along the way, but as traffic increasingly became heavier, she decided it was better to have lunch at the airport.

Finally, we made it, and I made sure that we used the terminal's short term parking. The day was bright, warm, and gradually becoming hotter. The airport terminal was cool enough though. Mom was in her grandmother's wheelchair, so I wheeled her over to the big electronic screens announcing the arrivals and departures. Dad was scheduled to arrive in less than an hour. She was hungry for lunch, and most of the restaurants weren't not suitable to her. She didn't like "Beaches," nor the Bar & Grill on the other side of the vendor area. We settled on Panda Express, cheap Chinese style fast food. I wheeled Mom through the line while she made her choices, and then, for convenience sake, I paid for everything.

We were surrounded by people everywhere. It was interesting to see the mix of people passing by, young and old, tall and short, fat, skinny, rich, poor, in every human shape and color. Mostly, I was focused on Mom. I was having the kind of quality time with Mom that I am afraid of one day not having any more. Again, always at the back of my mind, I am conscious of being on a type of life precipice, slipping towards the edge of a disaster, I do not know how I will cope with when it comes. And yet, every human life will one day have to face a challenge like this. We cannot avoid the harsh realities of life. Perhaps, if more of us were committed to exercising more compassion towards one another, the harshness of life could be lessened. Giant societal changes aimed at softening the hard blows life aims at our hearts, chilling us, wounding us to our deep hurt. Homelessness, Lovelessness, Compassionlessness, Callousness: all of the ills that afflict a human soul.

One of the things I regret about being poor, having financially ruined my own life, is my inability to make my parents life easier. They have much and would not accept too much help from me in any case. They have helped me beyond any ability I could have ever have to repay it. I know this. Feel this deeply. It makes these moments where Mom has been so sad and depressed this week, tired out from her knees hurting, unable to walk for very long, difficult for me to endure when I think of what could have been had I more money to alleviate some of the trouble, or make them pass a bit more smoothly.

Lunch passed pleasantly, and it was time to wait for Dad. The TSA had taken over a significant portion of the airport since I had last been there, and the waiting areas had changed. As Dad had flown on Delta, we had to wait by the Delta ticket areas, in a make-shift waiting area by the windows, under the afternoon sun. I spoke with Mom a little about the people passing by, about how nice it will be to see Dad, and wondered with her about the various facets of his trip. 

He texted her when he landed, so we moved up closer to the aisle where people were arriving from their planes. I lined Mom up in her wheelchair to a prominent corner waiting for the moment when he showed up. When he did minutes later, he was already on top of us. I did not see him pass through the doors, and only noticed him when he was feet from us. Mom and Dad hugged, and we made our way back across the airport, stopping at the restrooms first before leaving.

The traffic back was horrendous. Various bridge and freeway work had made travel through the city achingly slow. Most of our trip on the highway that skirted most of the city went along at ten miles an hour or so. There was not many moments where the speed got above that. Questioning Dad, I discovered that he had not actually had lunch on the plane like Mom had thought. Therefore, I took mom and dad through a detour to McDonalds for a hamburger. Dad also ordered a chocolate shake. I ordered an Iced Tea.

The rest of the trip home was mostly uneventful. There were various things that I had to do later that day. Deliver something to one sister, take another sister downtown to the city festival, close up the shop and turn off the water. But none of it was important enough to really remember or note.

Mom and Dad had determined to go to bed early. Dad to catch up on sleep from his jet lag, Mom to catch up sleep from her difficult sleep this past week without Dad. I left town again for an evening obligation to draw (a regular Friday habit to try and improve my life), perhaps my last drawing event for awhile. My mind was still pondering my struggles with trying to transform my life, and the impermanence of the future, and the finality of the past. The worst thing about human life, for me, for my thoughts right now, is how every mistake is firmly locked in the past. How things I did or failed to do are locked into an unchangeable past, and seem to me like streaks of india ink spilled onto a beautiful carpet. I have tried to scrub out the worst of it, but it refuses to fade or go away. I often pray to God to help me transform and become the person that I consciously want to be: to be more worthy, to be good, to be useful and help people make the world easier and better for those who struggle.I often fear that I will be locked into habits that will not change, impulses that will not fade and die away. After much thinking, I believe that the best I can do is have hope for the future, to persevere. Even if I do or did bad, I will only truly and finally fail if I give up and stop trying to make it better. Please God, help me become a true, worthy human being, and not just a physical creature afflicted by fears and failures, seeking only to satisfy my impulses and selfishness, but instead to become a spiritual being moved by heavenly-gifted virtues that serve to make the world better, to become a fragrant flower of divine attributes, lending my uniqueness, whatever that might be, to the flourishing garden of a better humanity.

The Uncertain Not-Yet

Had an existential crisis today. A minor one. The thought hit me about 8 p.m. that my life, such that it is, will not likely improve in the direction I would like it to. My finances are ruined; my social life is dead; my work is such that nothing I do can bring to it any more meaning than it has. I do know I am serving my family to a degree, that I am helping other non-family member employees to continue to have an income and provide for their own families, but I worry about the future. No one plans very hard for it in my family. Maybe there is a sort of rescue in store somewhere veiled in the mysterious mists of the uncertain not-yet, but I don't see it as very likely. I expect shock. The terrible, unfixable mistakes we blithely wander into because we were not diligent enough to work to achieve something better. Being lost is upsetting not because you do not recognize where you already are, but because you do not know how to get where you want to go.

I've also been chewing on the idea that our physical life in this 'contingent' world is so impermanent. I know this. You know this. But, as I get older, as I mull over my past mistakes, chewing on them as a dog would an old bone, I begin to see how one hundred years—the most time anyone could reasonably, honestly hope for—is so frighteningly short. How do you fix something locked in the past? Atone for the opportunities that have escaped you? But those thoughts are not as worrisome as the one that, in my present, I may be headed to a worse future without knowing how or what I can do to prevent it. I feel uneasy, trying to cope with these emotional fears.

But I am in my forties, so I know that, rather than give into the fear, I have to steel myself to accept the consequences, come what may. I have lived through terrible before. Because I am stronger than some, I know I can live through terrible again. I'd rather not have to, of course, but it's the ignorance, the not-knowing, that has me concerned that I can't avoid the consequences of ignorance and paralyzed effort.

We're, all of us living, sitting on the edge of forever, all of the time. Not quite on either side of it. As I had been hundreds of millions of years unborn in the past, I will be eons after-life in the future. One hundred years, which I will almost certainly not have quite so much, seems so shockingly short. Most of my time on the planet is a journey to something, and as the next something happens to be forever, whatever that forever is, it has to be the most important of the two existences, right?

Maybe these thoughts wouldn't be so difficult to grapple with if I could see the meaningfulness of the present more often. Perhaps there is an infinite ocean of meaningfulness in front of my face that I can not yet perceive. I hope to see more of that in my personal life, in the choices I make, the paths I take. The answer, most wise-men have said, is service to others. Maybe if I start by changing my perspective from one of self-fulfillment to service, that would a good start. But, what actual service do I follow it up with? I did not know. Still don't.

Ultimately, lonely and worried, I shut the shop down for the night, turning off the water valve, and stood by the back door in the softening light of the setting summer sun. I took a few deep breaths, and tested the lock, not trying to listen to the people still at the back doors of the other businesses along the alley. I stood on the sidewalk, looking over the tall bushes on the edge of the parking lot, up into the high clouds of a darkening blue sky. I had the urge to flee to somewhere, but did not know where. It was too late for most coffee shops, most of which, the decent ones anyway, were in other cities. Instead, I drove to the authentic Mexican Fast Food restaurant and had a 'Jamaica' tea with a couple of churros. When I get depressed, I tend to eat a lot of sugar. I rounded out the night, by driving home to do my laundry, later looking for things to distract myself with, and finding them (which only half-worked) in simple computer games and television.

I Do Not Like That Machine

Woke up with a worrying physical problem to add to the mix of the emotional mix of the emotional ones: woke up dizzy. I do not think I have insurance any longer, so I am avoiding going to the doctor to have it checked out. Mom suggested it could have something to do with blood pressure, but I seriously doubt that. I think it is either one of two things. Either it is low blood sugar due to not having had anything to eat for awhile, and going low over night. Or, it is simply that I have not had the rest I need. The sleep apnea machine (which I hate) has a heated hose. The weather has been in the 80s and 90s, so maybe, I think to myself, the extra heat from the hose is too much. Yes, dear reader, I know what you are likely thinking: that is crazy to heat a hose when you don't need it. You're either damaging yourself or your machine or both. Valid criticism. I think the reason I have not turned it off yet is because the mechanism for doing so is rather unintuitive. Which is probably another indicator of how much I dislike this machine and my need for it.

When I first got the sleep apnea machine, I weighed my heaviest. A long term lack of sleep and depression, combined with my carelessness with calories really packed the pounds on. The weight causes the problem and necessitates the machine, and perhaps a significant weight loss would mean that I could give it up. I do not want to become attached to it, to rely it on it for such a basic human function, that emotionally I have been keeping my distance, trying to interact with it as little as possible. Not rational of course, but it is what it is. Combine that approach with my first introduction with the machine a couple of years ago. The supplier of the machine, as well as the supplies for it, was not very good. The technicians were competent, but the whole store eventually began to feel like a giant cash grab. Everyone there seemed to be doing the bare minimum to qualify for the insurance payouts, for which they charged as much as possible. It was not a good feeling I had of the place. Maybe they needed to charge as much as they did, but a little research uncovered multiple issues others had with them, as well as some better alternative suppliers. Therefore, I switched. Still the emotional reluctance remains. I hate the machine. I hope to lose a lot of weight to be able to stop using it and still sleep well. We shall see.

As for this morning's dizziness, I am currently not sure what to do. Dad has told me that there is a letter from my insurance company at home for me. If it indicates that I have insurance still, and if I feel dizzy in the morning, I will make an appointment to figure out what is wrong. Aside from blood sugar or physical exhaustion, I suppose it could be something weird like pneumonia, but I dislike doctors too. Not for any serious reason for who they are or what they do, but because of the simple knowledge that I cannot afford them. Sometimes I think that, had I been born in a different western nation, my greatest expenses and debts: college and health care, would not even exist.

A Person Who Likes a Plan

Part of me, the part that sits in the shadows of worry, and feeds like a beast on dark prospects of ruined hope, is afraid that I have broken myself in a way that I cannot repair. Almost every morning when I wake up, I sense that I could have had something better, could have fit my life in a neat niche of spiritual success, but I am confronted with the sense of loss. I struggle, I think to myself, because I have wandered too far in the path of error to return. It's not a clear sense of what is wrong, just a worry that I fear is nibbling on the truth.

Here is a dream from last night I had: I am in a government building of some kind. I have a strong sense of justice, and what needs to happen. At the same time, there is a child who is intent on doing all of the wrong things. He persists in upsetting everyone around him. He's no more than nine. He enjoys spreading unhappiness to others. He does not care because he does not expect any consequences. I find him in this building, after he has upset some people, including fellow children, and I see him standing in front of a video game arcade cabinet. He is blithely playing a game, oblivious to the hurt around him. I come up behind him, intent on delivering him to justice, and grab him by the arm. Suddenly, now faced with the fear of being caught, of having to pay a price for disobedience, his manner has changed. He is fearful and in tears. I remove his protective helmet, and he is revealed to be a giant insect. He does not want to be squashed. With a voice filled with power and determination, I say calmly and firmly: "Let him feel the fear of consequences." And then, I wake up.

I do not sleep as long as I need to. I have been trying to readjust my diet so that I can lose weight. More healthier foods, less calories overall. Unfortunately, not sleeping through the night fights against weight loss. The doctors have told me that most of one's calories are lost in respiration. You literally breathe out your spent calories. When you do not sleep well, this does not happen. Your body, lacking oxygen, is out of a kind of balance. I know this is not uncommon among people my age. I can see it every time I am out and about in society. The perfect bodies without illness, weight, or ugliness exist in the young or, more often, in the media. I always wonder how they do it. If maybe the perfect vision of health is the result of unhealthiness like starvation, tempting kidney failure, or some other bodily malady.

All thoughts which bring me back to the central problem of my life during these last few years. I do not know what to do.

Every aspect of my life feeds directly back into this ignorance. For example, I know what I need to do spiritually: morning prayers, reading sacred texts, a little meditation, and talking with others. The question in that regard is not the "what," but the "how." Am I reading enough? Should I read other things more regularly. Which prayers should I say, and how should I work on my virtues?

Regarding my career and interests: it used to be that, when I was younger, I thought vainly that perhaps I would like to be a successful artist. But why? And for what reason? All of the silly things that I admired in my youth have largely been forgotten. I see other people a bit younger than me obsessed with certain movie franchises, cartoons, or TV shows, and their art, much more accomplished than what I could do, feels hollow. Did I want to draw an homage to an 80s TV show? What point would that serve? How would that help anyone?

I guess part of the whole issue of not knowing what or how to do something is my search for personal meaning.  I do not want my life to be filled with vain pursuits of my own interests, most of which can be easily focused on media creations and products. But, I do not know how else to go about life and how to cut through all of that. Retiring to a cave and begging for food is out of the question. How does one be in life and not "of" life, especially when culture, family, and the whole outside world is largely in a stage of development where only the bodily comforts and pursuits are sought after.

I am the kind of person who likes a plan, even if it turns out not to be workable. At least a plan is a position to work from, even if it takes you somewhere else. I am going to continue to think about this. I hope God will help me discover a plan that can carry me forward in that positive path to personal meaning.

Aging Disappointments

Trying right now not too feel demoralized about life's disappointments. As my body ages, gets heavier, and slowly breaks down in ways not easily fixed, I find that I am having to confront the end of my life with increasing seriousness. Of course, I do not expect it to end anytime in the next thirty years. Still, life's realities make one pensive.

The thing about aging that I haven't fully grappled with is how some problems are permanent with no easy solutions. For example, my biological father seems intent on getting caught in phone and mail scams which no amount of logic, no amount of talking, can convince him to abandon them. His dreams of wealth, which is where he has placed a good deal of self-esteem, has him trapped. Speaking with him, trying to avoid making promises to help him, which in reality are promises to help him become fully entangled in problems, is depressing. He can't understand how he is being taking advantage of rationally, and for some reason, views anyone with money as possessing a magical secret that he is being kept from, the secret of financial wealth. He is a gambler who tells me of his frequent successes at the dice tables. There is not a good way to dissuade him from the danger he leaps at surrounding himself with. How do you prevent a moth from burning up in a campfire. The light, too alluring to be ignored, seduces it to painful destruction.

A Mundane Summer

Again, I got very little sleep initially last night. Went to bed around midnight, woke up around 4:30 a.m. and couldn't fall back asleep. I surfed a lot on my phone, which may have been a poor use of my time, but what else is there to do at that time of day? I guess I could try to write or meditate or something.

I did, in fact, say my morning prayers, and then I "woke up" officially by going in the house fifteen minutes before my parents had to leave for work. I spoke with them about the day's plans, listened the news, and ended up arguing with my mom briefly, but really, I think I was trying to defend myself. She does not "do well" in the morning, and it is a challenge to talk to her amiably at this time of day. Still, I think we avoided an actual argument, which is progress for both of us.

Then, I was at the house by myself. I still didn't feel very tired. After feeding the outdoor cats, I decided to pick some cherries for dad. The cherries on the tree were ripe, the morning, while light, was still cool, so it seemed like a good idea. I know that dad had hoped to make a pie out of them this season. I figured I could try to help out.

Really, I have been grappling with trying to figure out how to make my life more meaningful. I am desperately poor, locked into certain circumstances of my own choosing/creating, and do not have much of an idea on how to change for the better. I don't really know what 'better' looks like from where I am at. It would be nice to see a step or two ahead, but I can't. I figured picking cherries would help me think about it.

Then I made breakfast, picked the stems off the cherries I picked, and sooner than later, went back to bed. I ended up sleeping until 1:30 am in the afternoon. Mom had told me that Dad had heard me snoring. That might mean, that in addition to not getting enough sleep, the sleep I did get was not restful. Perhaps the sleep mask is not working. Perhaps my difficulty in losing weight is due to not getting the rest and oxygen I need. Unfortunately, when I wrote down my meals for the day, I had to acknowledge that I went over my calorie budget again. I guess I am not yet comfortable with feeling hungry. I need to invest time in preparing meals. Spend less time on the computer.

I opted not to have a shower today in order to get to work at a decent hour. Work was light, which was sort of bad because I need to have a firmer and clearer direction concerning the work that needs doing. I can do a lot of things there that other people can't, but when I am caught up on some things, I struggle to find positive ways to keep occupied. On the plus side, before leaving for the night, I did the work dishes: cleaned the coffee mugs, wiped down the counter, put the silverware away.

I would have gone into the cafe tonight, but skipped it because tonight they were charging an eight dollar cover charge. That, plus the money I would have to spend on gas, seemed too much for me. I contemplated going to a cafe in another city, but when I finally was ready to leave work at 7:30, it would be too late to spend any kind of meaningful time there. I would have an hour at most. Instead, I bought a sandwich at Subway, and went home to eat it. By 8pm, I was in bed playing video games on my computer and watching television.

I know this all feels like a waste of time, but I am not sure how to fix it. In some ways, I feel paralyzed by my choices, and the recognition I tend to make bad ones. We'll see how I might be able to fix this in the future.

Four Hours a Night

Maybe I might have more time in the day and actually lose some weight if I could just manage to sleep more than four hours a night. Mom told me that Dad heard me snoring again. Is the sleep mask (which I hate) not working? I am using the thing in good faith.

Stumbling in the Dark

One of my secret thoughts, which is not so secret, is that I should try to write a book. I am among thousands upon thousands of people who have had a similar idea, but unlike many of those, I am largely afraid that I can't really do it. I reinforce my negative feelings regarding writing a book with negative thoughts about why I can't and why it would probably be impossible.

First, among the bad thoughts and feelings, I doubt that I am up to it. Having been an English Major, learning about the dramatic curve, remembering some of the mechanics of a novel, and having read the stories of the authors who have gone before, the worries all pile up before me and congeal into a big black ball of fear.

A fear of failure. Which, frankly, is a sticky nebulous fear that never seems to go away, and often shows up in many places in my life that has nothing to do with writing. Most of the time that fear is not entirely rational, but some places, it actually is warranted. Fear is healthy when it prevents you from injuries, emotional or otherwise. Fear, on the plus side, can be an internal safeguard against danger. However, I have also heard that some people in the health professions will develop a compulsive habit of washing their hands all of the time, beyond what is healthy or normal. Since they know all the horror stories of infections, germs, bacteria, and diseases, they wash their hands all of the time, all to avoid suffering from an illness that was very likely all too rare to begin with. I think this fear of writing is something like that. Maybe I know too much about literature in general to feel safe with the possibility of success, which then freezes my motivation to even try. Of course, the answer to "what if I fail?," is "what if I succeed?" I know that. However, emotions are not rational creatures. They take hold of your heart even while your brain is shouting at you to ignore them.

The second problem is time and regularity. Speaking in specific terms now, I personally find it hard to develop of the habit of doing what I want in a given day or week, and then moving in a direction that I feel I should. There is only so much time in one's life, and no one knows how much time is left. Perhaps everyone dies having a plan or two for the future, even if it is as mundane as having breakfast the next morning. I still struggle with developing a routine for self-care. I need to wash my clothes, cook myself healthy meals, find time for regular exercise to become fit, without slacking on the time for my job and other pressing obligations. Even now, in my middle forties, that is a challenge I have yet to overcome. My family has some demands on my time. And, when my health is not 100%, I find it hard to even do the basics.

I think to myself that what I need to do is work out a schedule on paper and then try to follow it as close as possible. Making a plan, even if you don't end up sticking to it, is a good place to start. For some reason though, I haven't made any plans. Most mornings, I wake up knowing that I need to go to work, but not knowing when or where I will have breakfast, eat lunch, or go home for the day. Will I go into to town and do some art? Is that self-indulgent? Should I have a better plan? A plan for making the world a better place, for teaching, for doing something really sacrificial? Most of my art plans, writing or otherwise, seems to be a form of narcissism. Am I trying to puff up my self-conception by trying to make my indulgences seem virtuous? Am I trying to use virtue to snare my vanity?

This is where my thoughts usually end up. I come up with a conception or a plan of action, which upon some reflection, seems vain in some way, and then I wind up not doing anything.

Is self-improvement vanity? Is working on things that I am interested in vain? Admittedly, some of my early life and earlier desires to be "good," were vain to a degree. I do not think I could help it. I was buried under some unconscious assumptions that my culture gave me as a birthright. It seems our contemporary culture encourages us to indulge our vanities, telling us that the highest virtue is self-actualization rather than service. Even if we acquire knowledge, our culture only expects it to benefit ourselves. We are oriented to self-profit, even with things that should be considered non-material, like love or the other virtues. The more "things" we accumulate to ourselves, and only ourselves, the better as far as society is concerned. Even if service is ostensibly part of a person's behavior, the real goal (in our society's view) is so a particular person/individual can feel selfless and noble, an act that is not focused on the act itself, but on the person who performs it. What is real service, real sacrifice, and real selflessness? What does it look like, and how it is performed? I wish I knew. 

In the meantime, in the middle of not really knowing for sure what to do or how to do it. I think that I should try to find regular days in the week where I can focus on one thing. For example, with my art, I have chosen Friday to come to the cafe and draw. Not that I do that, or intend to do that, every Friday. Just that Friday is the day most often chosen for that. Exercise, something that I am not currently doing, is something that I think I should find regular times for. This might be vain to a degree, but I think that, with regard to investing in my health to prolong my life and thereby be able to serve those around me, this plan has more support for that virtuous life I aim at than my art project does. Three times a week for walking seems reasonable, and walking for at least twenty minutes each time is not unreasonable either. But I have yet to commit to a plan. I have thought of doing it after work, but I am reluctant because I do not want to appear as "the fat guy" walking around the block. I guess having typed that out, it is plain that my vanity is keeping me from doing the right thing for the right reason. (I'll have to remember this.)

Now, we come to my language plans. I am already devoting a small part of each day, usually the morning to learning more words, listening to people speak it on youtube, and reading it, but maybe this is all vanity. It is not a language that many people speak, and there is a stereotype of people my age and gender speaking it. Again, most people in my society, even people who are friendly in their interactions with me, think it is sort of pointless.

Finally, the writing: I am doing it now. But, I mostly use this blog to explore my thoughts and emotions more than anything. Writing fiction, or even essays, is a different skill altogether. I may be too old to do either well.

I don't want to reach the end of my life still aiming at something that is essentially vain. It would be nice to find a meaningful work that will sustain my spirit, even if the jobs and hobbies, and other silly occupations I may find do not, or cannot, provide it. I guess that is at the heart of all of this: finding personal meaning. I do think that, more than most, due to my morning prayer, meditation, and reading habit, I have some of the tools. Now, I must figure out how to use those tools to build meaning in my own life for the benefit of others. An attitude of service and transformation seems key, but translating these esoteric ideas into a practical plan of action, into an engine of motivation, seems difficult. I am still reaching out into the darkness and trying to stumble my way into the light of understanding and knowledge. May God help me.