Looking Forward to... Nothing?

The final Harry Potter film came out recently and apparently had a pretty incredible opening weekend. There has been quite a lot of excitement from fans.

The film series started around ten years ago. Regarding this film being the final one, a ten-year-old responded, "I am really sad because this is sad, and this means there's nothing to look forward to. Nothing."

This kid has never actually lived in a world without this film and its characters. And this kid is young enough that reliable perspective may not be well developed yet.  Still, it's sad that something like a movie series is seen as so central -- not just by this kid, but by many other people, including adults I'd expect to have a broader view of the world.

I enjoy opportunities to share movies and other experiences with others, especially when they have a significant impact in some way throughout our culture, and it is fun to have things to look forward to. At the same time, it's worth remembering that there is more to life than a movie.

Risk

This is not me, nor from yesterday.
It's on Google Maps...

Driving into town yesterday, I saw a young child on a two-wheeler with his mom (or someone who looked mom-like) running alongside.  They were on the sidewalk next to this busy street.  The boy was clearly learning to ride his bike, and naturally wobbled quite a lot.  The mom looked a little awkward jogging, probably at least in part because of footwear not designed for such a task.

I never had training wheels when I was learning to ride a bike.  I had Dad instead.  He took me to (I think) the playground of the local school.  It was a large piece of solid ground with no cars and few obstacles.  I was not entirely pleased, though, because it was a large piece of solid ground and I knew it would hurt to fall.  I questioned why he wouldn't teach me on a lawn.  That would be softer, right?  Why did he take me to a large landscape ripe for blood and bruising?

As I gained bike-riding experience that week, I began to understand my dad's reasoning a little bit.  Though it seemed riskier and more frightening, his choice was an act of wisdom and kindness.  He knew that I would be more stable on hard ground and could learn to ride much more easily.  I might be a little more likely to get hurt if I fell, but quite a lot less likely to fall in the first place.  (And I don't know whether I would have even been capable of learning on grass.)  That was an important lesson.  It still is.

I'm older now.  Life still holds challenges and hazards.  Encounters with these challenges and hazards create decision points -- in recreational activities, conversations, workplace situations, relationships, and more -- which call me to balance degree of risk with likelihood of harm.

This is me, freefalling with Phil,
a couple miles above the ground.

That's part the reason I went skydiving (tandem) last year.  It was arguably unnecessary and I physically risked far more than a few bumps and bruises.  In case that reality wasn't already abundantly clear, the liability release form described in some detail the possibilities of severe injury and even death.  Why take the risk?

I wasn't foolish about it.  I did my homework to make sure the place I went had a good safety record.  I listened attentively to the instructions given.  The fellow I was strapped to is knowledgeable and skilled.  Though willing to risk death a little bit, I certainly wasn't inviting it.  Perhaps I wasn't as entirely safe, but I was safe enough.

Ultimately I chose to jump because there is risk, too, in not doing things like that.  There is risk of trying to build in so much safety net that it becomes a crippling force and makes it impossible to sustain forward motion.  I knew I'd probably survive the experience in full health if I jumped; I was less certain that I would be fully healthy if I didn't make intentional decision to do something like that.

And really, it was just skydiving.  Most decisions aren't like that one.  Most of the challenges and hazards requiring a decision of me in the course of everyday life are more difficult.  The ones I see most?  Conversations.

It is tempting sometimes to build in a grassy cushion around conversations, creating a soft place to land in case something goes awry.  We can build cushions by not speaking truthfully, by avoiding difficult topics, by avoiding difficult relationships, by refusing to allow ourselves to be at all vulnerable.  Thing is, too much "cushion" hinders the relationships that conversations should nurture instead.  It keeps us from growing and moving forward.

Of course, like in skydiving, there is no reason to be foolish.  It is right and good to develop conversational skills.  It is appropriate to gradually trust more those who consistently show themselves to be trustworthy.  It is good to seek input from people skilled in difficult interactions.  Some conversations carry risk of relational death, and we need to be willing to take that risk, to be incompletely safe while still safe enough.

Last night as I drove past the mom running alongside the child on his bicycle, I glimpsed their faces in my rearview mirror.  The young boy looked nervous still, and the woman with him wasn't entirely comfortable, either.  At the same time, though, both faces were lit by smiles and both appeared genuinely delighted.  It seems they decided that a little reasonable risk was totally worth the freedom and joy available as a result.

That little boy and his mom are a reminder and an encouragement for me today.

"Courage is not the absence of fear,

but rather the judgment that something else

is more important than fear."

(Ambrose Redmoon)

Here and There

Daycare Dogs

Sometimes when we travel, our dog stays with his friends at a local doggie daycare. The dogs play together under the watchful leadership of people who care for them, and who correct as needed when they start playing rough or otherwise causing trouble. It's a place for dogs to be dogs. Sirius likes it there, and he is always happy to go.

Sleepy Sirius

When we pick him up from boarding, Sirius certainly doesn't resist. He runs excitedly to me, ready to climb into the car and go home. As much as he enjoys visiting his canine and human friends in doggie daycare, he's always happy to come back with us. We are his people, and this is his home.

Without much personal choice in the matter, Sirius finds himself taken to other places, beyond his usual comfortable routines. Sometimes that presents challenges, but he generally seems to trust that he'll be okay eventually, and with that trust, he engages wherever he goes. As I watch the dog, there is something about his contentment and enthusiasm that I want to keep nurturing in my own life, too.

Mountains in the Spring

I love the mountains nearby, especially in the spring.  The snow melts off as the weather warms, nurturing new life with water and sunlight.  Green vegetation reappears, enough to be seen and admired from our house miles away.  The beautiful white top remains awhile longer, a constant reminder of what has been and what is yet to come.

Twitter: Waste and Wisdom

I created a Twitter account in January 2009.  My first tweet was pretty typical, and largely pointless:

"exploring twitter"

My second was equally exciting:

"Set up to tweet from phone.

Find myself hoping I won't use it..."

There is a whole bunch of random waste on the internet, and I have sometimes contributed to the digital noise.

Blog Words (thanks to wordle.net)

Thankfully, my posts since that first day have become much more useful, perhaps because it has mostly become for me a storage-place of others' wisdom.

I am drawn to the Twitter's format which requires concise expression through its 140-character limit.  I suppose it is ironic that Twitter's Wasteland of Words reminds me that every word matters, every character counts.  Ironic or not, though, that's a pretty good reminder.

Toward Adventure

We went to Disney World two years ago while in the area for General Assembly.  Disney is built on expectations of something different, out of the ordinary, and they strive to make this true in the big things and the little ones.  They have around a gazillion employees, including many attendants for the rides.  They greet guests, help them into their seats as needed, and triple-check the safety features.  At the start of many rides, these friendly folks cheerfully sent us off with "Have a wild adventure!"  It was clearly a standard Disney phrase for their fantasy world, but it got me thinking. How much am I willing to risk for great possibility?  And is triple-checking for safety enough for me, or am I obsessively concerned with eliminating any possibility of failure or hurt even beyond that?

Hmmm.

I wanted a souvenir of the trip, and was drawn to Eeyore.  The one I loved wasn't just the usual Eeyore; it was Adventure Eeyore.  He was wonderfully soft and had great eyes, and was outfitted for a safari.  I loved the image of this good-hearted donkey that doesn't really have a lot of hope that things will turn out, but he's geared up and ready to go anyway.

We spent a couple of days there -- enjoying friends, going on rides, watching the fireworks and parades and just generally taking in the Disney experience.  Through it all, I kept thinking of Eeyore.  I saw a little of myself in this fictional character.  And he's lovable and true, but Eeyore is not all that I am, nor all that I want to be.

Of course, being Disney, Eeyore was not the only option.  A more obvious choice of for an adventure-ready character was Tigger, the energetic and brightly-colored critter who's likely to start bouncing off toward whatever captures his attention.  There was also an Adventure Pooh, the sweet bear that worries some, but usually figures that things will turn out okay, and is usually right about that.

More than any of them, I loved all of them.  I loved them together -- three friends, very different from each other in perspective and personality, encountering the same situations in different ways, and joining together to do it.  I could see some of Eeyore in me, and some of Tigger, and some of Pooh.  I could see all of them, too, in the best groups I've been part of.  The three of them together are a great team, creating a fabulous and wise mix of optimism, caution, and hope.

And that is how Adventure Eeyore, Adventure Tigger, and Adventure Pooh came to have their home -- together -- on the bookshelf behind my desk.

Sea of Faces

We went to a friend's graduation at the Maverick Center recently, arriving early to get seated and settled with plenty of time before the ceremony.  The Maverick Center is a pretty big place, and many gathered there to celebrate.  I looked around as we waited.  At first, all I could see was a crowd -- bodies moving around and arranging themselves, the mental image made kind of blurry just by the sheer number of people.

After a few minutes, though, I started to see individual people -- young adults excitedly flitting around, older folks carefully navigating potentially hazardous steps, parents guiding wide-eyed children to seats, infants resting in the arms of people who love them, generations of families finding seats together.

I'm not much a fan of crowds.  I prefer smaller groups, familiar faces, opportunities to engage in deeper conversations than "Pardon me, are these seats taken?"  But I was reminded again that a crowd is not just the sum of its parts, and it was good to be in that sea of faces celebrating collectively with people we love.

My Parents

These are my parents.

Sometimes people talk like teens are always embarrassed by their parents and don't want to be around them.  Or, at the very least, that teens don't want their peers to know that they might appreciate their parents.  And there are indeed some teens who have that kind of relationship with their parents.  But I wasn't one of those.

My parents are a team, with traits and preferences that are often more complementary than alike.  Differences like that can lead to a lot of conflict, but my parents were always intentional about negotiating such things throughout their parenting so they could be united in their decisions.  In the process, they have demonstrated respect for each other and cultivated that respect in us.  Their approach through differences also helped me (and probably them) to better see and evaluate situations, and to make good decisions.  I didn't always like their decisions, but they were always loving and always fair, which made it a whole lot easier for me to follow them.

My parents were very much a part of my life during my teen years.  I was quite involved (read: crazy busy) in sports, band, and other school-related activities.  Dad and Mom came to games, meets, concerts, parades, plays, and most other things I did.  I was often amazed by that.  Their time investment often didn't seem "practical" to me.  But they came.  And, as Mom also explained, traveling to other towns -- often an hour or so each direction -- gave them important time together.

They invested in my peers, too, intentionally getting to know my friends.  I didn't find them intrusive about it; they let me have space, and didn't sacrifice their parent roles to try to be good buddies with my peers.  My friends respected them and received their presence well.

Today is Father's Day, and I am grateful for my dad.  He is a wise and kind man with a gentle, courageous spirit.  I love, too, that he treasures my mom, and that my mom treasures him.

These are my parents, and I am blessed.