Twas a month or so past I treked up to Tikal. There I took hold a terrible tarantula, whom mistook my arm for a toilet. Probably trying to be polite but it was perturbing. Perhaps my skin was appealing and so pooping on my arm was pleasing. I ponder not.
Maybe the Mayan monthly calendar was marked for a might of exscramient on my clean arm. Maybe December 20th 2010 marked the mutual end of my relationship with spiders. Possibly pesky spiders pretend to be pets, patiently pining their time to poop on the unsuspecting passer by.
Terrible tarantula try not to use the arm of another poor person. Maybe make a mess on the grass. Perhaps you probably thought you were only going to pass gas. To trust a toot is a thing I hope you try not again. Promptly I plopped the primevil eight legged plodder on the ground close to the pyramid before the tarantula tried ploting to poop again.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the poem “Christmas Bells,” which is used in the song above, while he was grieving the fact that his nation was at war. He was lonely on Christmas because his son had left to fight in the Civil War. Loneliness around Christmas time is a pain that mocks the song, peace on earth and good will to men. Christmas would have been extremely difficult for me if I hadn’t been able to see my dad open his Tim Tebow jersey or my mom unwrap her new cook wear. It’s nice to think about peace on earth and good will to men, but my selfish desire was to be home. Unfortunately I didn’t make it home. I decided to stay in Guatemala so I could go to Hawaii this summer with my family, but it meant my first Christmas away from my family. But Christmas Eve, as the old familiar carols played, it was very difficult. Mostly because those carols were in spanish, but also because they made me think of home.
Every year of my life, as far as I know, I’ve spent every Christmas Eve helping my dad out at church. If you define the word help by fighting with Katie, my older sister, in front of 1,000 people, or dropping the lighter as I tried to light the Christ candle, setting the sanctuary carpet on fire. But this year I celebrated Christmas Eve Spanish style, with the sermon and carols in Spanish. I know all of the Christmas carols by heart, but it was dang near impossible to sing in English while everyone else was singing in Spanish. I forced myself to try to sing with them, but wild and sweet the words repeated with more of a fra, ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, ra! (At least I wasn’t being forced to eat Chinese food like Ralphie) Yet as I heard the bells on Christmas Eve I thought how, as the night had come, there were fireworks to be lit. The blasts were strong and the colors bright. Then peeled the bombs more loud and clear. It was midnight and the birth of Christ had come.
As weird as it may seem, I woke up on Christmas morning with the lyrics I’ll be home for Christmas if only in my dreams in my head. Maybe in my dreams I had been able to make it home for Christmas. Instead I woke up in my bed in Guatemala. At 7:30 am on Christmas morning, I’ve never been one to sleep in on Christmas day, a cold fog still weighed itself over Xela. It made it seem a little like a white Christmas. It was cold so I hopped back in bed and waited for my parents to Skype me.
8 came and went and as great of an invention as Skype is, it still takes two to tango. Fortunately gmail has a nifty little call function that allows me to make free calls to the states. I called up my dad on his cellphone. He answered with a sound of shock in his voice and immediately hopped on Skype. I was able to be home for Christmas via modern technology. I enjoyed watching Emmy, my sister, open up my gift for her. While we were shopping in Antigua, she eyed a coffee bag purse. I knew she wanted to buy it for herself so I had to convince her it was hideous. It wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Try convincing a fashionista something they think is cool is fopa. Ha! What do I really know about style. But she listened to me and was pleasantly surprised when she unwrapped her gift. It was very special. It’s beautiful how something as simple as giving a gift can bring to mind peace on earth.
I was blessed to Skype with my family and spend the day with friends that I have made down here. If everyone can spend Christmas being reminded they are loved, the wrong shall fail and the right prevail and we’ll all be home for Christmas.
Thanksgiving is a time for turkeys and families or since my Grandpa used to call me a turkey maybe it’s just a time for turkeys. For the first time in two years, I was able to spend my Thanksgiving with a turkey . . . I mean family member. Emmy, my little sister, traveled down to visit me and my students (I think she spent more time with them than she did with me).
Having family visiting me was a delectable, no wait that’s just how good the Thanksgiving feast was at my school. Emmy and I went zip lining, hiked up La Muela (my favorite hike), and went to Antigua so we could summit a volcano and spend an exorbitant amount of time shopping. Emmy is a shopaholic and I just wanted to spend time with her, so I obliged. We weaved in and out of the artisan market as if we were skilled lab rats sniffing out the cheese. Emmy filled her entire second suitcase with gifts, and not all of them were for herself!
Before I list all of the gifts that Emmy bought, let’s back up to our time in Xela. Emmy stayed with the Figeuroa’s. They have a beautiful house and Dani, my student who’s just a year younger than Emmy, graciously shared her room. The Figeuroa’s have been great to me over the last two years, so it was nice for Emmy to meet them. Upon her arrival they invited us over for dinner. I’d forgotten to tell them Emmy doesn’t eat meat, I guess I’m the turkey, but she ate it anyway. Later that night I baked a pizza and we played games. It was a real blessing to have Emmy here and for her to have a beautiful place to stay.
While staying in Xela was nice, it couldn’t top our trip down to the coast where we zip lined. Zip lining with Emmy was amazing. Two years ago when she came down with my parents, the only thing she’d wanted to do was zip line, but the course we’d picked left us both unsatisfied. So, I made sure we tried it again. Emmy and Dani started off the day terrified for their lives. I had to reassure Dani several times that she wasn’t going to die. Dani’s a turkey because she assured me she was going to die while we hiked up to the top of the mountain before we zipped down. I think she thought the hike was going to kill her. However, by the end of the trip they were so excited that the girls were trying to spit on cars as they cruised over the top of the highway.
Taking Emmy up La Muela was a blast, literally. La Muela used to be an active volcano and what is left now is everything the blast left behind. When she’d visited before, her hip wasn’t strong enough to do the hike. I guess that’s what happens when you dislocated it twice. Dislocated hips sure are turkeys. Yet this time Emmy made it up to the top like a champ. The view at the summit of La Muela is beautiful. You can see all of mountainous Xela. Sharom, another one of my students who hiked with us, kept saying, “I can see my house!!” She also said stuff like, “I can’t make it. I’m done. No, really, I’m done.” What a turkey. Fortunately she made it all the way up to the top. Even though she said she’d never do the hike again, I’m pretty sure she’s proud of herself. Seeing my little sister in one of my favorite places in Guatemala was a real blessing.
I think Emmy enjoyed the hike almost as much as she enjoyed playing turkey tag with my kindergarten class. All of the little kids were hamming it up, or should I say turkeying it up while Emmy was around. They love to show off how cute they are to new people. And you can’t get much cuter than the kindergarten class.
When Emmy and I finally made it to Antigua I was ready for some brother and sister bonding time. She was ready to shop. She also wanted to see lava so I took her up Pacaya, the evil volcano that delayed my fight home last May. The hike was easy, but the guide decided to take us to where the lava wasn’t flowing. What a turkey! We did get to roast marsh mellows but, it wasn’t over flowing lava. I guess nothing is perfect. Even though we didn’t get to see lava, my time with Emmy was perfect. I’m glad my turkey season was graced by my turkey of a little sister.
Who would you want to see at the finish line after a long race? I’m a runner and I’ve learned that just like in life sometimes the unexpected can happen while running. A running friend of mine told me that she loves running because she constantly sees connections between running and life. She believes it’s much more fun to run with a partner than alone and like life, it can leave you feeling empty but invigorated at the same time. Let me take this a step further, if running a race is like living, then the finish line is like heaven. Somehow I don’t think I’m the first one to think up this analogy, but run with me on this anyway.
For the last two months, I’ve been training for the Xela half-marathon. 13.1 miles of pure fun (I can’t say hell, this is a family blog.) I have now trained for 3.5, half marathons and ran two. I love training because it helps me set a goal and I run each day knowing it will push me closer the finish line. Yet, training is hard and this year was no exception. Fortunately the knee problems I’d been having lessened and most of my long runs went well. The only major set back during training occurred when my training partner, Yasi, came down with tonsillitis the week before the race and had to back out, which disappointed her and forced me to run alone.
Running alone can be fun. I raced alone last year and finished with a rather respectable time. But, like life, running is more fun to with other people. For example, try to play a game of monopoly by yourself, it’s no fun; trust me. And who really wants to spend life playing solitaire?
Back to running. Two weeks before the race, Yasi and I went out on the Day of the Dead, November 1st for those of you not up on all of the many Spanish holidays, and ran 11 miles. We started out around 8 in the morning, a great feat in itself for a day off, when I would’ve liked to sleep in. Unfortunately, both life and running require early wake up calls. It was worth it. We jogged out of sleepy Xela, to around 8,000 plus feet in elevation, making it back for 11 miles in around two hours. We passed small painted churches and cemeteries alive with guests paying their respects to the dead. Many of whom were littering the air with kites as if they were sending messages skyward to their dead relatives. As I pressed on, I wondered if the dead were up in heaven partying like they’d just finished a long and tiring race. (side note, if you haven’t got to a cemetery on the Day of the Dead you really should.) The next week I ran 12 miles in one hour and fourty-five minutes. I knew I was ready for my race.
So, early on the unseasonably warm morning of the 14th of November, I jogged down the colorful streets of Xela to the European style arches on Independence Street, which were serving as the starting line. Runners were jogging up and down the streets. Bouncing up and down to loosen their limbs. It was like a river of Salmon all swimming up stream in their bright bright yellow half-marathon shirts. As I waded down stream through the crowd of runners, which seamed to be much larger than last year, I still managed to find my friend Maria Marta. Maria and I had run a 10 k together a month earlier and, with an unspoken agreement, we set off together at the starting gun. She matched my pace for the first 10 kilometers, passing people when I passed them. Weaving in and out through the packed streets. Every time I wanted to slow down, she would either be right there pushing me on. It’s hard to slack off when you have someone running right by your side.
I ran all the way until the 14th kilometer. Maria had finally fallen behind. Around 12 kilometers in, we’d reached the Cuesta Blanca, the big hill on the race (it’s so big cars struggle up it’s slope), and she was gone, somewhere behind me. My heart was pounding out of my ears and my mind wouldn’t push my body any harder. I had no one to keep me going, except my iPod. AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long blasted me onwards toward the next water station. And then my iPod died. I no longer had any desire to go on. But I knew I had to press forward or it would be hours until I finished. I had trained so hard. I couldn’t let it go to waste. I walked in the heat. Ran in the shade. Pushing my self toward the finish line. Encouraged by my students who had come to watch. Each heavy footfall on the pavement brought me nearer to the end. From the Minerva Temple I could see Heaven, the finish line, and I knew I’d made it. Euphoria set in when I realized I’d completed the race. My time wasn’t what I had hoped for, but that’s life right? We don’t always get what we want, but we wind up at the end anyway.
Just like life, the best part of the race was when I had someone to run with. Finishing the race all by myself was hard. I’d like to say I didn’t finish as well last year because my iPod died, but I really think it was because I didn’t have anyone to push me at the end. I walked into the finishing tent alone and received my medal and Powerade. Yet, as I looked up from the finishing line, I saw people I knew. There was a girl I had gone on a date with, but hadn’t called back because she was crazy. Awkward! There were my housemates Mike and Denise, a few people from work, and several of my students. I felt very encouraged to see them cheering me on at the finish. It made the hard run worth it. And I think life and heaven will be like that. We will finish the race and see people we thought we’d never see again and it will make all of the hardships we went through worth it.
I was in the 7th grade when you bounded into my life. You were a Christmas gift to my older sister. She’d been begging for a dog, but she never loved you the way I have. It’s not her fault. She didn’t know that she wasn’t a dog person at that point. But I do know she loved the way you cocked your head when you were listening to something. She needed your love and she loved you the best she could, but when she left for college she gave you to me. She’s always given me good gifts and you were the best gift she’s ever given to me. And from that point on you’ve always been my dog. Right by my side, at least until the television turned off and then you bolted for bed.
When you were little you would jump up on top of the fence post next to the house and wait for us to come home. I wish you could be there waiting for when I fly back in June.
I am going to miss our hikes up into the crisp mountains behind our house in Edwards. The way you would sprint ahead and then sprint back to check up on me. The dirt kicked off your feet like a small tornado. Yet, you always had time to sit and wait with me and let me pet you. I will not be able to hike up through the aspen’s on East Lake Creek Trail with out thinking of you. I think maybe, you loved that hike more than I did. You used to go crazy when we would mention the word hike. After your leg injury, which I am still sorry about, I loved how you would try your hardest to jump into the back of the Pathfinder and then yelp when we would help you make it up the rest of the way. You still wanted to do things on your own.
I am going to miss how you would nudge my elbow in the mornings so I would pet you while I ate breakfast. Let’s face it, you could never be petted enough. I love how you loved to be loved. You would lick a guy to death just to say I love you in your own little way.
You were always a puppy at heart. Even when you lost all the hair on your tale and didn’t have any energy, you still loved to jump on command. And after we started giving you medications for your thyroid and your hair grew back, it was as if you grew 5 years younger in a week. I think you became addicted to the cheese we gave you the medicine in. Why else would you jump for medicine? Even this summer when we went up to the flat tops people asked me if you were a puppy. And you smiled and wagged your tale. Your beauty has lasted beyond your sicknesses and your weird behavior. Even when you ate some of my clothes and I caught you red mouthed, you were still cute.
I am going to miss how you greeted me with that warm smile of yours every time you saw me. And how big that smile was when I drove all the way up to Wyoming to pick you up. You jumped when you saw me. I jumped too. Stasia, I wouldn’t drive 16 hours in one day for many other reasons. Even after you woke me up at 5am on New Years Day having pooped all over my room. You were sheepish and I was mad, but I cleaned it up and I forgave you. Then you did it again the very next morning at the very same time. You couldn’t ever figure out how to bark just to let me know you needed to go. Yet, I love you still. You have been my dog and my friend. You may have kept me up and night with your snores, strange dreams, and worse smells, but I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.
I know that I haven’t been around much over the past few years. My job has taken me out of the country. And it is hard living so far away from the ones I love. I have missed my fair share of family events, weddings and birthdays. But not being there to say goodbye and seeing you go is by far the hardest. Living down here in Guatemala has had it’s fair share of rewards. I have a special bond with my students. I hope they know I love them, but it is still very hard to live and work down here when you are sick back home and I am missing you.
Have you ever listened to Tiao Cruz’s song Dynomite and thought, “I need to live that way?”
“I throw my hands up in the air sometimes Saying ay-oh, gotta let go. I wanna celebrate and live my life Saying ay-oh, baby let’s go. Cause we gon rock this club We gon’ go all night We gon’ light it up Like it’s dynamite. Cause I told you once Now I told you twice We gon light it up Like it’s dynamite“
Over the last few weeks, I’ve learned a few lessons from my students and the songs that they’ve given to me. Songs with words like party, caraba, fiesta forever. Dance like it’s your last night. When I blast those songs, I have to fight the urge to throw my hands up in the air and let go, to have fun, and not worry about what others think of me. You might think that a guy who’s known for fist pump dancing wouldn’t ever have reservations but, I feel like I need to let go of expectations others have for me. Their love is my drug. Life’s too short to hold onto the worriers about what others think. It’s only going to break, break, break your heart.
Os Guinness, one of my favorite Christian authors, believes we are all living in front of an audience. He Says, “Only madmen, geniuses, and supreme egotists do things purley for themselves. It is easy to buck a crowd, not too difficult to march to a different drummer. But it is truly difficult-perhaps impossible-to march only to your own drumbeat. Most of us, whether we are aware of it or not, do things with an eye to the approval of some audience or other. The question is not whether we have an audience, but which audience do we have?” He wants to know if we are living for others or for Christ.
Guinness made this statement clear when he said, “A life lived listening to the decisive call of God is a life lived before one audience that trumps all others-the Audience of One.”
I think, if I am living for Christ, then I take the song Dynomite and learn to let a few things go. What if I just threw my hands up in the air and lived my life? What would I not have time for? Seriously, I gotta feelin that life is a lot like my student’s dance parties. Life’s just one big performance, but who is in my audience? Am I making sure that God’s opinion of me is the only one that really matters?
My students could dance until they died. They love to throw dance parties. The weekend of October 10th they got their fill. Ashley and Alisa, in seventh grade, celebrated with a huge combined 13th birthday bash at Club Tennis, a local hot spot for birthday parties. The dance floor was decked out with lights and fog machines. There were kids from all over the city, rockin from side to side, side, side to side, just dancing, having fun. The next day Sharom, Ale, and Luispe celebrated their 16th birthdays, and of course they rocked it with a dance party too. At the sweet 16 party, just like all other parties, the kids formed a circle. Everyone on the outside of the circle kind of rocked back and forth in a semicircular line dance. Typically, someone does something unique, but for the most part it’s a mosh of silly dances and then randomly someone is shoved into the middle, to shake it like a Polaroid picture. And no matter what those moves are, everyone on the outside cheers. It’s interesting to be in the audience and then suddenly be on stage.
Two years ago I saw Sharom steal the show while she was dancing on stage for her Spanish Flamenco dance recital. She really knows how to dance. And then once last year at lunch she taught a few of the girls how to use the Castanuelas, hand clappers, and so if anyone wanted to know how to dance, she’d be the person to consult. But she is also very good at just having fun at these parties. Therefore, I was shocked when she was forced into the middle of the dance floor and she threw down my fist pump move like a pro. And then she asked me to join her. Of course I obliged.
The problem with posting a dance video on Youtube is that it could go viral. Now all of my students have seen it, and I’ve become a mild dancing celebrity. Just the other day Emlio, a kindergartner, came up to me and started doing my moves. Never thought that would happen. I can’t go to a party without being asked to show off my moves. I guess the club can’t handle me right now. And so I stepped out into the middle, pumped my fists into the air, grabbed my leg and gyrated around and around. I must’ve looked a fool. But on the dance floor, in the middle of everyone, with the music blasting, I didn’t have time to worry about that.
I’m willing to act foolish on the dance floor because I know only God’s opinion of me matters, but I feel like he is asking me to transfer this to my every day life. Life’s a serious matter and with God as my only audience member he is requiring that I live a certain way. In Xela I live surrounded by wealth and poverty. As a member of the middle class, I feel like I need to be doing more for the poor. The other day I was at Wendy’s and a little kid came in asking for my small change, so that he could eat. I didn’t have any, and before I realized that I should have just gone up and bought him food, he’d vanished.
If I’m living for Christ, then I’m taking the serious things in this world and placing them ahead of the frivolous things. I must let go of my self doubt, whether my students like me or not. Or if I am in good enough shape to consider myself fit. Or what my co-workers think of me when I do go make a fool of myself on the dance floor. If I’m living for Christ I am throwing my hands up in the air and worshiping him with all I do.
Following Christ looks foolish sometimes. It might even look a little like my dance moves, very silly, but I believe once I start moving to the beat, I’m really caught up in the rhythm that God wants me to be in. I know he is challenging me to let go of what other people think. To perform my life as if he is the only one watching. He will cheer even louder than my students do when I try to dance, if I step out and serve him without any reservations. He wants me to throw my hands up in the air and move, move, move.
It’s time for the fair again! Or at least it was a couple of weeks ago. Millions of Guatemalans, or at least thousands, risked the mud caked roads to come to Xela for the fair. Going to the fair is one of my favorite fall activities down here in Guatemala. Okay, we don’t have a real fall, but it has been raining so much I feel a bit crazy. I love the fair because of all the colors, dangerous rides, and suspect food.
A trip to the fair could give you a bad case of the squirts, or just kill you. The video of the ride I posted above is called the Tagada. I have tried to describe it in my past blogs about the fair, but words can’t describe craziness. The video below shows the classic Guatemalan Ferris Wheel. I would like you all to know that it is powered by a foot generated tractor, and if you lean to far forward while on the ride you could fall out! I know you just can’t understand how insane this fair is by reading my words. Only pictures and videos can help. So I hope you all enjoy.
Have you ever had an idea? Not just any normal idea. Here, let me give you an example of a normal idea. A normal idea would be something like the idea you had when you hopped out of bed, looked at yourself in the mirror and realized it’d been a week or two since you had shaved or showered and it was time to groom yourself. People have those types of ideas all of the time. I had that very idea not too long ago. But I’m not talking about those types of ideas. I’m talking about something more abnormal. I had an abnormal idea a while ago. I wanted to make a dance video for my little sister. It was the day of her prom night, and when I woke up that morning, I knew she needed some of my show stopping moves I’ve created down here in Guatemala. What would her night be like with out the fist pump, the front fight flare, the hand foot shuffle, or the nameless wonder? I didn’t want to find out so, I picked out my song, the Black Eyed Peas’ I Gotta Feeling, and threw down some of my best dance moves. I knew her night was going to be a once in a life time memory making event. She would no longer be the new kid, but the girl with the amazing dance moves.
Normal is boring. That’s why I stepped forward and said, “what,” to normal. This video was a whimsical, crazy, abnormal, but not boring, idea. An idea no sane or normal person would have allowed to go further than his or her brain. But, because of this idea my little sister knows how to dance. I could have locked myself in my room that day and done something else, like shower and shave. That wouldn’t have created a memory. Sometimes following a hair brained idea is the best thing to do. Like, if I hadn’t decided to share this video, none of my readers would know how to dance or laugh; sharing’s a good thing. But, even more so this dance video is an example of not living with fear. My moves might not be the shit, but at least I put them down. At least I have a fun memory with my little sister. And it just took a couple of steps and then I was doing something new.
The Catholic Church in Antigua was built at the height of colonial power. From the outside it looks grand. It was first constructed in the 1500’s and then rebuilt in the mid 1600’s. However it was completely destroyed when a volcano erupted just outside of Antigua in the 1700’s. If you visit the beautifully rebuilt city, you will see the front edifice of a grand old cathedral. It’s the focal point of Antigua’s central park; its steeples still scraping the sky. For a few cents you can tour the insides of the old church. As I walked into the ruins, the first thought that popped into my head was, I hope the people of the church, God’s church, aren’t in shambles on the inside like this old cathedral.
God calls the people who believe in him his church and as a community of believes we are the body of Christ. A body doesn’t function well if it’s insides are all messed up. I know this from experience. Over the last year and a half I have been sick numerous times and it sure is difficult to work when you have a fungus growing on the inside. The wrecked inside of the church was a beautiful sight. The roof had collapsed ages ago and all the old pillars lay in piles. It was like walking through a building that had been bombed. While the ruins were a beautiful sight, I hope that no one ever walks into a functioning church and thinks, “wow this looks like a fall out zone.”
While these pictures show the Cathedral’s beauty, I’m sure this wasn’t how the building’s architect envisioned it looking 400 years after it was built. And as beautiful as the people of the church may look at times I’m sure God envisions more for us each day.
The other week I had my creative writing class read through a chapter from Anne Lamott’s book called Bird by Bird. The chapter, Shitty First Drafts, details the importance of just writing, even if it is bad at first. My goal was to help my students understand that it is okay to mess up with their writing, and with their lives, because you can always go back and edit. And while you cannot change your past, Christ’s forgiveness acts as the editor’s pen for our lives.
Anne Lamott’s believes that writers need not try for perfection because it only leads to failure. First drafts are meant to be bad. The first time we do something it might not be that great, and in her words even a little “shitty,” it’s okay, because at least we are getting words down on the page. And when we type those words onto the page, it shows we are trying and when we try we grow as writers.
Anne Lamott believes, and so do I, that this principle is true in life as well. Our attempts at life can sometimes be considered grand failures. When I was young I loved to draw, but no one would consider my drawings art, well maybe Picasso fans. I expected too much. I didn’t allow for correction. When I was a little older, I stopped drawing because I was afraid of the results.
But if we live in fear we cease to live. If we are too afraid to dream grand dreams, then we live empty lives. And an empty life is meaningless. Donald Miller, another one of my favorite authors, believes that a meaningful life is like a good story. He says, “A character who wants something and overcomes conflict to get it is the basic structure of a good story.” So, I have set out a new goal before me. I am not going to live my life with fear. Conflict and strife will happen and when I overcome that antagonism, I will have lived an element of a good story. But first I cannot be afraid to struggle.
I was telling this to my spanish teacher during one of my lessons. The rain was pounding on the roof of the little coffee shop we’d met at and she was telling me how she is scared of walking in the rain. And how she always is afraid for me when I walk at night. (Now a quick side note here, this was all in Spanish.) The Spanish word for fear is miedo. Not to be confused with the Spanish word for shit, which is mierda. So as she was saying how she was afraid of walking in the rain, I decided to say I don’t live my life with fear. But I said, “Yo no vivo con mierda.”
Shocked, my Spanish teacher told me to be quiet. Clueless, I repeated mierda a couple of times thinking I was correctly saying the word for fear. But the look on her face told me this was not so. Instantly I realized what I had said, and busted up laughing. I’d said, I don’t live my life with shit. Which, might be true, because most of the time I am too scared to mess up. Yet, I mess up with my Spanish all of the time. And when I do, I learn. I now know the difference between miedo and mierda.
What am I getting at here? I believe I need to start living my life con mierda. I need to be more willing to mess up. Like Anne Lamott says, just get the words on paper. Just say the wrong thing. ‘Cause with the grace of God, I can set out each new day with a blank page. I must go out and capture my dreams. It may be messy at first, but as I go along, my shitty first drafts of a life will turn into pretty damn good stories. And a meaningful life is filled with good stories. And good stories have mess ups along the way.
Adventure With Brendan 