Category Archives: personal growth

dads, faith, fathers, forgiveness, God, life, life lessons, love, personal growth, philosophy, your last day

Trials and Tribulations

There is little to no doubt that letting go is healthy in certain situations. It is also a fact, beyond argument, that often circumstances make release the toughest of choices. All of the “I wishes” clog the mechanism that allows the grieving deed of the broken heart to be done. Maybe it’s not that we need to ‘let go’, perhaps we must realize we never possessed a grip in the first place. The illusion of a hold and hence the ability to release said fiction is all a part of the story.

The perfectly and uniquely imperfect gene does not discriminate. It is an affliction we are all born with. There are many days when I revel in the gifts that my individuality bestows upon me and times when I play the sad song of “if only”, over and over; A fruitless pursuit rooted in an unchangeable past and human condition. Alas, our Hearts do not always beat to the rhythm of a rational drummer. Driven by Love the daydreams will arise of their own accord. All we can do is smile and try to focus on the good times.

The past is gone, the mistakes have been made. There is no Time Machine available and, frankly, no time to waist. So, we must try to put things into the hands of a Higher Power and Live today. Playing the what if game only with the wishful Dreams of the future. Today we must take the hot rod to the car wash, check the combustible parts, change the tires and fluids and give the wheel to Someone else.

I will always remember and never stop Loving, but I will Live today.

Will

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faith, fathers, Fathers, forgiveness, God, life, life lessons, love, personal growth, philosophy, Uncategorized, your last day

The In Between



The In Between

We perched above the Pacific, gigantic waves crashing below. Sitting, looking, listening…, imagining. One of the few times in a very long while that my mind was empty. The thought drifted in so honestly, it took me a long moment to realize it wasn’t physically possible. “I should call Dad”. Sitting here in Llano, Texas so far removed from that setting, there is certainly water flowing.

The drops are partially the result of phone calls that can’t be answered and salty from those that simply won’t be. As Dad would say, “Ain’t that a helluva thing”?

I often think about Mom and Dad and the decisions they made. Right or wrong, for we are All a faulty lot, they made the best ones they knew how. Though comparison is the devil’s work and a fool’s punishment, I can’t help but draw them. Daily, I ruminate on my record, going so far as to flog myself for actions that were inevitable.

There isn’t a one of us that can alter the past, or who we are. Quite the contrary. We must strive to be our true selves, not denying inner for the outer everyone expects. I’ve witnessed the destructive and combustible results of that behavior. Still, we are human. Therefore, we long.

Each day I search deeper, Praying for answers that may never come. I try to Rise rather than fall. Then I sleep. Though I wake from Dreams, sometimes in my slumber those phone calls are answered from both sides of Tomorrow.

Hear the Waves Crash and Listen to what the Silence says in between.

I remain ever Hopeful.

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faith, fathers, forgiveness, life, life lessons, love, personal growth, philosophy, your last day

Graffiti

Handwritten sentiments and putting pen to paper are art forms that seem to be disappearing from the landscape of our lives. I so miss receiving letters from loved ones and, fondly, treasure boxes of old notes from friends that go back many moons. I’ve even saved a few letters I wrote, never delivered for one reason, or another. Though my handwriting has taken a turn towards the cellar (maybe it was never very good in the first place), I still write letters and record many thoughts the old fashioned way.

There is something about the act itself that is meaningful to me. Maybe it is the extra time it takes, as I try to make things legible. Perhaps, it’s envisioning my mom and dad sitting at their desks, penning their own emotions. For all the reasons it could be, it is undeniably the love I have for the person on the receiving end, that makes the process special. Read or not, understood or dismissed, I feel a little bit more of my heart is in the universe, where it belongs.

Recently, as I wrote, pages stacked one atop another, the indentions left called to me. Observing the inkless marks on page two, I thought about pressing through. It is easy to dismiss the impressions we leave on others every day.

Each moment, we make marks on the world with our touch. We help another, hurt a feeling, bring a smile, share a laugh. The simplest things may be the ones that matter most.

Scribbling through our day, we rarely see the affect of our actions. The stranger, who we helped for no reason other than the right one, goes home a little lighter because you lifted them. The waiter I admonished, because my day wasn’t going so well, ends his night dejected. Seen and unseen, the residual outcomes cut both ways.

Because we are, we touch. Just remembering that, on occasion, helps. I know it is cliche, but there is certainly a fine line between pleasure and pain. That mid-court barrier just may be our next word, our next press…

The indentions we leave will be interpreted in many ways. A story may be deciphered without the ink. Some are recreated as we trace the pattern left behind. The ridges, when felt, may read like a mysterious form of brail. All in all, the mark is made and has importance, beyond the author’s intent.

However the typeset is received, remember, it will be. A friend of mine once said, “Good writing is not written, it is experienced”. In life, the same is true for words less eloquent.

Our love and it’s opposite are left through the pressure of our pencil, whip of our tongue, lift in our embrace. My unsolicited advice for the morning is three fold:

Press – Live and experience what you write. Know each moment matters to many more than just you.

Feel the indentions – Understand, there are multiple ways to embrace the grooves; Accept.

Wonder – because, isn’t that all we can really do.

The story we are living is mysteriously amazing. We contribute our individual entry every moment; Words, sentences and paragraphs that bleed through to the next page, because we are.

Press,
William

Sent from my iPhone

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dads, faith, fathers, Fathers, forgiveness, God, life, life lessons, love, personal growth, philosophy

So Many Ways


So, is there more to this than hauling the wood of our history around? More than just replaying our patterns? Whether yesterday or five thousand years ago, there has always been the need to break
our habits in the world- the need to give up what no longer works. – Mark Nepo



So Many Ways

The first time I remember falling was through the center of a jungle gym. They weren’t fancy back in those days. Just a bunch of iron bars built in a modulated square, with a similarly shaped box perch on top.

I was alone after school, long after all the other kids were gone. Waiting for a ride that was sure not to come for hours. Climbing to the top, I dreamed I was the captain of a ship far out at sea. I could feel the wind, see the Porpoises frolicking in the bow’s wake. Scanning the horizon for enemy vessels, I ordered the crew to the guns. Just then a wave hit hard. Except it wasn’t my imagination.

I was overcome by a wash of dizziness and fell straight through the middle shoot, hitting the ground hard. Malleable as my young body was and completely limp in a half conscious state, the impact inflicted no harm. Dusting myself off, even at that young age, I was aware how lucky I was that my head had not hit any of the bars on the way down. Had it connected solidly, who knows.

I haven’t thought about that moment in years, though I have fallen so many times since. Innocence long departed, the stumbles now inflict pain. To this point, my thick skull has not struck the steel squarely. I’ve suffered cuts, bruises and even deep gouges, but the giving side of impermanence has shown me mercy.

I have spent the last two days writing about my dad. Through his words and my memories, I have ridden with him at the helm of great vessels. I have felt the sting of his stumbles. I’ve asked Him for his wisdom; That born of his imperfect experience. We have walked together once more.

Years ago the two of us crouched alone on the Galveston jetty. A thirty foot high wave, we’d noticed building minutes before, steadily approaching from the ship channel. I gripped the bow of our, twelve foot, Jon boat with white knuckled fury. He held the craft with one hand and my arm in the other. I knew, if he had to let go of one it would not be me. Though he had fallen plenty, he would not fail. It was a moment as surreal as the slow motion we experience with the imminence of a car wreck.

Though the sound had to be deafening as the massive wave crashed into and over us, all I remember is silence. We were together at the bottom of that jungle gym, dusting ourselves off and preparing to climb the tower again. This time with more knowledge than the last.

Learning,
Will


Sent from my iPhone


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