The Spirit

Whenever I think I've "caught" the Spirit in anything,

Whatever "the thing" was dies

You see, the Spirit is a being that will not be contained

It is best observed in its elusion

It is most at rest in its pursuit

It is fully seen as a flickering glimpse in the far corners of our sight

It is understood only when its mystery dances tauntingly above our intellect

It is captured only when it is just beyond our ever-reaching grasp

The Spirit is the fiery stallion that, dancing wild and free,

Will trample the cage of the mind

And set ablaze the mountainous plains of the heart and soul

The Reflection of Art

This painting, entitled "Adventurer", was created by Janet Seaman. This painting has a story. And so do I.

Janet lived very full life that will be remembered for many things. As my Grandmother-in-law, I was honored to get to know her during her last three years on earth. Janet's life was spent in the service of others as a dedicated school teacher, artist, and mother of six. From what I have been told, it was hard to catch her when she wasn't deeply involved in one of those pursuits. However, she did find time for traveling the world where she observed beautiful landscapes that may have served as the inspiration for most of her paintings.

One of her many notable accomplishments involved painting the walls of the Niles-Buchanan YMCA indoor running track with a panoramic mural. The work was a historical portrayal of the cultural and industrial milestones that took place in the region of Michigan where the YMCA is located. The project covered 1/18th of a mile with colorful landscapes that changed occupants from the Native Americans to French and British colonies to modern society. Runners making their way around the track could watch history unfold in seamless transitions across the centuries.

Before her passing in December of 2014, Janet often told the stories behind her paintings and the process involved in creating them. No matter how daunting or technically difficult the task seemed to be, it was clear that those details easily gave way to the joy and love with which she accomplished them.

My wife has written, edited, and published two books that catalogue many of Janet's works and convey the stories behind them. Every piece has its own story. Every work that was made through the creative intention of someone's mind, heart, hands, and soul has its own story.

And every human has their own story too.

There are at least two ways to appreciate any work of art, whether it is a painting, a song, or piece of literature: technically and personally. Often times, one's technical appreciation goes hand-in-hand with their personal love for a work but not always. For example: Regarding jazz music, I can appreciate the fact that there is technical mastery and skill in both the instrument playing and composition. However, I do not have a personal taste for jazz; given a choice between several styles of music I would likely not choose to listen to jazz. On the other hand, my parents personally loved the finger paintings and mysteriously shaped pottery I produced in elementary school, but there was nothing technical about those masterpieces to praise.

For Janet's work, the viewer will immediately find a broad palette of technical skill to hold their attention and awe. The depth, color, and shade that enlivens the contoured landscapes, the choice of historical or geographical content, and the time spent on the piece are a few examples.

On the personal side of things, what can this piece, as one that you have likely never seen before, do for you? As I said at the beginning, this painting has a story. But perhaps not the kind of story you may expect.

In a way, art works similarly to color. When light strikes an object, some wavelengths are absorbed by the object while others are reflected. The object obtains its distinct color according to the wavelengths that are reflected. When we are exposed to art, it can either pass right through or strike something within us that can color and lighten that which was previously invisible or unknown. This is a principle that I am certain we are all familiar with to some degree. Just think of a song you've heard or a movie you've seen that seemed to aptly put un-named emotions and memories into words.

The painting above strikes something in me that encapsulates a scenario I have repeatedly found myself in throughout life, like a recurring dream. While I have had the pleasure of being in the midst of grand mountain landscapes geographically speaking, this painting colors the figurative landscapes that I have encountered. Just like the hiker in the painting, I have found myself dwarfed by the immensity of all that surrounds me. And just as color changes based on wavelengths, my reactions and emotions to being the tiny hiker change based on the setting. At times, I am frightened to be so small in the presence of such looming mountains. At other times, I am struck with wonder at what lies ahead and the joy of being able to explore and discover. And there are those moments when both are simultaneously true.

For me, this is the story of the painting, "Adventurer", as I best understand it now: my wife and I are awaiting the arrival of our child. Once again, I am a small hiker in the presence of something greater and larger than myself. Life in all of its color is being drawn out in shimmering yet mysterious patterns as it reflects off of this new season.

I am joyful.

I am overwhelmed.

I am the adventurer.

Pogo and Jesus

Let's talk about pogo and Jesus. No, not the Pogo Stick craze that rocked the socks off of your childhood and no, I'm not talking about Jesus jumping on one either...although that image is pretty funny.

The pogo I'm talking about haunted my pre-adolescent waking life like a canker sore for a long time. A very long time. At-least-a-year long time (which, to a 12 year-old, is about 8-16% of their entire life-span).

Pogo was a "game" that was really a form of sociological torture, likely invented by an alpha-dog monarch who used it to stealthily sift his like-minded allies from the clueless peasantry. I was first introduced to pogo as a wee-lad in Boy Scouts where said sifting was enacted on a frequent basis. We met on Tuesday nights in a church hall that, for two-hours, became an independent nation in which we lowly younger Scouts were subjugated to the authoritarian elder Scouts and their bidding.

Such bidding sometimes involved keeping them entertained. Keeping them entertained sometimes involved pogo. And pogo always involved anguish and madness.

Here's why: Pogo was a "repeat-after-me" game in which the initiating player would draw in the dirt with a stick while saying the phrase, "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?" The observing player would then have to mimic their sequence. What made the game "fun" was that there was a secret action included in their sequence that the observing player would have to repeat in their performance in order to win. As far as I know, the gesture was always the same in every game. In my experience, gameplay typically went as follows:


Pogo Guy:       <ahem>
                        "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?"
                        <rhythmically chanted while drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick...hands stick to me>

Me:                  <takes the stick>
                         "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?"
                        <said in the same rhythmic speech while drawing the same patterns I observed>

Pogo Guy:       <smirking>
                         "Nope"
                         <turns to another guy>
                         <ahem>
                         "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?

Another Guy:   <ahem>
                         "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?"
                         <said while sort of mimicking the patterns, but not entirely accurate>

Pogo Guy:        "You got it dude!"

Both Guys:        <hi-fives, chest bumps, and hoots of celebration>

Me:                   <a year of wallowing in despair for want of forsaken knowledge>


Do you get the point? There was a secret society and I was not in it. And, technically speaking, that was really lame. On two accounts. One was the secret; the fact the I couldn't figure out the answer to the puzzle and it stuck in my head like a bad riddle. Second was the society; the feeling of exclusion from the in-crowd who was having a grand old time with their warm and cozy "in-the-know" status while I was shivering outside in the cold.

I wanted to solve the riddle and join the party. I meticulously studied the way they played the game, perfectly repeated every lilt in their voice as they spoke the words, and precisely reproduced the minutiae of every dot, dash, and swoop of the patterns they drew with the stick. I would always be crushed because I just "didn't get it." I begged them to tell me the secret. In one impassioned moment, I even shed tears while imploring for the answer. My pleas succeeded only in causing the pogo-knower before me to repeat the game slower and louder. Needless to say, that's not what I wanted.

The torment ended one day when my friend Ben decided to tell me the answer. I have no idea why he did or how he found out. Ben and I were the same age so he had no need to establish age-based dominance over me. Perhaps he was let in on the secret and wanted to share it with me in the same way a prisoner shares rumors of coming rescue with his inmates. We were on a campout and I suddenly found myself in conversation about the game with him. He happily told me the secret and when I heard it, it was as though a river of living water was poured into the parched mouth of my soul.

What was the secret? It was simple: To clear your throat.

That's right. The secret that kept me in bondage for all that miserable time was the little <ahem> that preceded "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?" In the arena of pogo, once you got that little cough out into the air, you've won the game.

Everything that follows, hinged on that one little gesture.

Just like Jesus.

Uh...what? 

Let me explain.

In high school, I wanted to get to know Jesus. I started reading about him, thinking about what he's like, trying to be like him, asking myself things like "what would Jesus do in this situation?" and then trying to do it. Yet I still had a hard time wrapping my mind around the concept of trying to get to know someone that I couldn't physically hang out with in the same way that I could with my friends. I could call a friend of mine on the phone, go over their house, hi-five them, hear the inflections in their voice, see what color shirt they were wearing, see their facial expressions in reaction to what they were feeling. I couldn't do the same thing with Jesus.

High school saw me changing in terms of personality, behavior, and beliefs. Yet at the same time, problems arose from a combination of confusing elements: some long-held struggles with obsessive compulsive disorder, guilt and fear over my recent understanding about sin and hell, and an apparent inability to call Jesus on the phone and talk to him directly about my worries.

Things got more confusing in college when I would find myself with people that spoke a different spiritual dialect than what I was used to. I would hear things like, "I was talking to God yesterday and he said that ____ (insert deep spiritual truth here)" or "I don't know about you, but when I ____ (insert regular spiritual practice here)." It is certainly not wrong to express one's experience this way and I'm certain that the impact those folks had on me was unintentional. But, due to the personal complications I mentioned earlier, this was the beginning of a long and difficult journey.

And this has what to do with pogo?

Alright, alright.

I felt like I was on the outside. It seemed I was perpetually on the losing side of a spiritual pogo game. Whether this was their intention or not, it seemed as though someone had just scribbled some cryptic script into the sand and chanted, "Do you know Jesus like I know Jesus?" and was now offering the stick to me. But I couldn't do it. I didn't know the secret trick. I wasn't at a point where I could confidently affirm to other people, "God told me ___" or claim to have unshakeable confidence in areas where I still had doubt. I didn't know what that meant. But I was trying. I really wanted what they had. I really wanted to talk to God, tell him how insecure I was, and have a back-and-forth dialogue serve as evidence of the fact that he cared about me and loved me. Something must be so terribly wrong with me that my time with God doesn't resemble theirs.

The more I began to feel excluded by those around me, the more I began to feel excluded by God. I started to feel like God himself was now handing me the stick, after writing the complexities of the bible and life itself into the sand, and was now expecting me to figure it out. In my mind, God became the frightening leader of a confidential club and I didn't know the secret hand-shake to be admitted. Initially, things like reading the bible, going to church, and praying were the natural result of a blossoming and relational faith. However, they were quickly becoming forced attempts to learn the trick and gain acceptance.

Eventually, this all began to change. Whereas pogo changed for me in an instant, my poisoned thoughts detoxified over time with steady doses of truth.

It's a long story and I'm sure you'll hear more about it in later posts. For now, I'll summarize:

The contrast between the God I claimed to believe in and the God that I actually believed in became increasingly obvious. Jesus said he was the one and only necessary ingredient for our sin records to be wiped out. I, however, lived as though it were up to me to clean that slate and that the single ingredient of Jesus was too simple, too elementary to apply in my case. There must be something else, like praying more, being more devoted, or helping every old lady within a 10-mile radius cross the street. Jesus blew the cover off of religious secret societies who treated God's acceptance like a trophy to be won or bought by the rich, strong, popular, and morally impeccable. He freely offered it to the poor, the weak, the nobody's, the disgraced. Yet I was living as though God was an untouchable celebrity who would never in a billion years even know who I was until I had somehow worked my way into his circle of influence.

I think Jesus came to simplify and broaden the accessibility of God to people, not to complicate and constrain it. Sure, there are spiritual complexities that are not easily clarified and there are practices like church-going and praying that are helpful. But if Jesus is only the subtle <ahem> that is quickly forgotten in the grand display of our devotion, then we're going to miss the point of it all.

And so will the watching world around us.

No games. No tricks.

Simple.

What's your story?

Please note: In case the video above does not play properly in this window, you can view it directly by clicking here.

Google Glass, in case you haven't heard of it, was a Google project that involved a set of glasses with a built-in camera and computer display that would occupy the upper-right quadrant of the wearer's field of vision. With a series of voice commands, the user could perform the same basic functions of a smartphone; send and receive calls and text messages, take pictures, record video, look up directions, navigate maps with live GPS data, hold a live video call, and translate words between languages (seems odd to call those "basic functions" doesn't it?). 

The video above is a succinct yet engaging overview of all the capabilities of the product. Through the clips composing the video, we get to experience the heart-stopping thrill of a skydive, the precision of a trapeze artist catching a fellow performer as they sail through the air, and the beauty of a horse mane that billows around the riders hands as it leaps over hurdles in a graceful gallop. Interestingly enough, we get to experience simpler moments that we are all perhaps more familiar with: playing catch with an excited dog, a father twirling his daughter by the arm, and an airline passenger rushing through an airport to catch ones flight. But the first few times you watch this video, you don't really notice the distinction between the grand and the ordinary, do you? 

Why is that? 

Part of it is the production. The music**, the cuts from sweeping, green mountain landscapes to crowded city streets lined with yellow cabs, the sound effects of laughter, plane engines, and gasps of breath all do a great job of contributing to the general message of the video. That message, the take-away for the viewer, is: life is happening everywhere to everyone and it is beautiful. A talented producer can take whatever material the camera catches and draw out the details hidden within the shot to magnify the beauty in even the most mundane of images or videos. That is why events like an epic sky-dive and a tranquil afternoon picnic in the park can coexist seamlessly in media such as the video above.

**("New Lipstick" by The Kissaway Trail in case you're interested)

But the other contributing factor to the deceptive quality of this life-collage is a deeper, existential one. Think for a moment about how you want others to perceive you and your life. What do you want them to see? Hear? Experience?

Are the scenes that arise in your mind raw, un-doctored snapshots of life as it is or was? Or are they stylized to some degree? Polished? In motion? Slow motion? Set to a soundtrack? If so, then I can assure you that you are not alone.

Just take a look at the content social media enables us to share: Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and Youtube are filled pictures and videos of everything from half-eaten burritos styled in gorgeous, sepia coloration to cliff-diving escapades shot in HD (or 3D) in first-person perspective with a sweeping orchestral soundtrack. What's happening on social media isn't new. Ever since we've had the printing press, photo albums (the physical ones that weigh 200 pounds), and home-recording, people have been sharing snapshots of their life with the world. The same principal is there; the only thing that has changed over time is the technology with which to carry it out.

So what does this mean?

People want to live meaningful lives. We want our lives to be captivating, enchanting, and breath-taking to a watching audience.

Whatever form of content we choose to share with the world, the "likes", comments, and subscribers almost seem to function as a way of validating the author. It's a way of saying, "Someone else thinks this is meaningful too." This system can be strongly encouraging and supportive, fostering life-appreciation amongst a broad community.

But the truly great thing about all of this is: Life is already meaningful whether it is on camera or not. Meaningful moments are happening everywhere, all the time, and all around you.

Donald Miller is an author I respect and he writes and speaks on God, life, and the elements of story. In general, his message is that God wants to write a story with your life. I agree. If you think about it, life is written like a story. It has a beginning, an end, conflict, resolution, themes, and a variety of dynamic characters.

Sometimes capturing a moment on camera (or a blog...) is the best way to understand part of the story. But the camera exists for the story, not the other way around.

Camera or no camera, blog or no blog, Facebook or no Facebook: what's your story?

Fear Isn't

Like a pot of boiling water with no flame beneath

Like a hiding child with no ghosts to be seen

Like free-falling within a dream

Fear is only fear

Like a knocking with no one at the door

Like the thought of drowning on a sandy shore

Like loneliness when real love is yours

Fear is only fear

Like a question when an answer is there

Like a soldier of imagined warfare

Like furrowed thoughts perceived as a glare

Fear is only fear

Like shadows seen through the mist

Like rustled leaves in the wind's hiss

Like something that does not exist

Fear is only fear

Trains and Music: "August Train" by Justin King

Please note the you'll need to be logged into Spotify to listen to the song through the player above. If you don't have an account (there is a free version), you can sign up for one by clicking here. If the player above is not working, you can find the song by clicking here. Please also use this link if you are viewing this post via an email subscription, as the player is not visible in email format. 

____________________

The song above is a great example of the kind of mellow, acoustic instrumentals you will find all throughout Justin King's album "Le Bleu". I don't know much about Justin King except that he is both a talented photographer and guitarist whose work is composed with a broad palette of technical skill and writing capability. This album has something to offer as both background music for the listeners who are busy working on other things or foreground music for the concentrated enthusiast. 

Aside from the disarming and relaxing qualities of this particular song, and others like it, one aspect that I particularly enjoy is the imagery. There are no lyrics so the title is the only direct image we are given: August Train. After that, who knows what scenes or emotions the listener will experience? Some may interpret this song as joyful while others may not. Some may picture a city subway commute while others may imagine a locomotive slowly winding through vast country hills, an angular trail of white clouds billowing from the smokestack. Some may wonder about where the train is heading or where it is coming from, whether you as the listener are a passenger on this train or an outside observer, and what the significance of August is. Whatever the case, the song is as interactive as you would like it to be. 

One interesting aspect about this song that I would like to ponder is the train. There are many common themes that show up in all sorts of songs throughout history: love, conflict, heart-break, resolution, victory, friendships, social commentary, etcetera. Within those themes the song-writers have a wealth of imagery with which to convey those themes. I find that trains have made an appearance in songs from a variety of genres and time-periods. From old-time folk songs like "The Wabash Cannonball", to the modern "Southbound Train" by Switchfoot front-man Jon Foreman the analogy continues to stand the test of time.

What is it about trains that provide such potent, long-standing vessels for conveying meaning? It was an understandable metaphor back in the early 19th and 20th centuries when trains were the primary, relatively new and exciting mode of transportation. That's not so much the case today as cars and airplanes have taken over that arena, but trains are remain a familiar reference point for songwriters and their audiences.

Why?

There are a few things we can infer: The experience of being alive implies motion. Life chugs along the rails of time at a set pace that feels slow at times and alarmingly fast at others. Trains are also driven by an exclusive group of conductors and populated by a broad group of passengers. Generally speaking, the vast majority of the audience listening to writers that employ train devices in their work has had way more experience being a train passenger as opposed to a train conductor. While passengers can freely conduct themselves within the train, they can do nothing to control its speed or direction. They feel and respond the rumblings of the train as it climbs over the tracks, watching fellow passengers arriving and departing as well as the scenery that scrolls by the window.

Is the art of living not like that? Don't we, at times, feel the sharp contrast between the few things we can control and those that we cannot when we feel the jolts of life climbing through the rocky terrain of transitions, losses, and adjustments? Don't we sometimes wish we were the conductor so that we could change the pace, the scenery, the direction of things? On the other hand, what a ride this is. What a wonder it is to be taken to places you never would have imagined. What blessings are some of those special, unexpected details of life that enter as subtly as a passenger climbing aboard and sitting next to us yet leave us indelibly changed forever.

These are observations, emotions, and reflections that come to everyone in due time. These are the questions that are shrouded in story and mystery. In other words, these are the ingredients for great songs. Think of a song that is particularly meaningful to you. What makes it meaningful? The memories it stirs? Nameless emotions that are at once so hard to describe in words yet are perfectly framed by the music? The lyrical content that seems to have been written about your own personal experience?

I think it is safe to say that all writers want to connect with their audience to some degree.

It honestly doesn't take much.

Sometimes it is as simple as turning to your fellow passenger with a song, story, conversation, or even a simple smile that says, "What a ride."

The Lessons We Keep

I met Mr. Hopkins in my senior year of high school. He was my english teacher. He worked in a small town, lived a big life, and taught me how to do the same.

I attended a small high school in the suburbs of south shore Massachusetts. I remember reading a student record of mine that gave statistics at the top of the page, in humble typewriter print, indicating my academic ranking within a graduating class of 149 students. In college, when friends from Texas told me they attended schools with multiple thousands of students (and theirs being one of several equally-sized schools in their district), they may as well have told me that they graduated from Disney World. 

Growing up in a small town without anyone from the outside telling you its a small town can weird-en and romanticize your perception of what a big town is like. I thought living in a city must be exactly like living on the set of Sesame Street; every street corner filled with colorful characters who are ready to drop whatever they are doing and burst into song, teach a math or grammar lesson, or go on a scavenger hunt for items that begin with the letter "M". I wanted to move to Boston (conveniently close to where we already lived) or Tokyo (inconveniently on the other side of the world but hopefully just as whimsical as all the anime cartoons I used to watch made it seem). I wanted to revel in big-town, city magic on a daily basis. Seeing that I was oblivious to the logistical and financial complexities of such a feat, my parents tried to reason with me. 

Needless to say, my family did not uproot itself from the familiarity of careers, neighbors, and ways of living to be transplanted into the urban unknown just so I could live on Sesame Street. I was forlorn. When my brother moved to Boston for college, it was as though a former inmate were walking into the horizon as a free man while I watched from behind the bars of my cell window. I resigned to what felt like a life-time of small town labor, riding the same old bus down the same old streets to the same old schools I had known, and where I had been known for so long. As I grew older, I would acquire a yearning to go where I had not yet been, meet people who did not yet know me, and to let the prologue to my adulthood be written on a fresh page, a full page-turn away from the chapters of childhood, before a brand new audience.

Don't get me wrong, my hometown was a great place to grow up. It was a loving, supportive community and I love going back there to visit. But the leaf of many a teenage soul often feels periods of resentment for the stabilizing stem that keeps it from flying away in the tantalizing winds of change. It wasn't until my senior year of high school, when one, long, eternal year stood between me and my freedom, that a seed would be planted that had the power to enliven whatever landscape I found myself treading in the future, big or small. 

Mr. Hopkins initially strikes the observer as an unassuming, scholarly gentleman. His bespectacled, bright-eyed countenance, complete with a button-down shirt and the occasional bow-tie betray the comedically styled, zestfully proclaimed, dramatized lessons that often characterized his classes.

"I would give my right-arm to write a line like that!" he blurted to the class after analyzing a passage from a poem written in olde-english form about a rather uneventful winter sled ride through the woods. He stood wide-eyed with his right arm turned upright, fist clenched, and left-index finger quiveringly pointing to his elbow joint, as if eagerly showing a prepping surgeon the generous length of arm he was willing to have amputated in exchange for the poetic finesse in reference.

His small teacher's podium was often quite inadequate to contain him. He gripped its sides, reeling his tall upper-frame around to look every single one of us directly in the eyes when making a philosophical point, paced to and fro well beyond its borders, arms flailing in excited exclamations over rich texts, and slapped its weary surface when bursting into laughter over a veiled, scholarly joke from a reading that sailed over the heads of his students.

Although Mr. Hopkins could put on quite a show by himself, it was impossible to remain an observer for long. This man had a way of galvanizing his students with irresistible opportunities to take leaps of faith and face one's demons. Said faith-leaping assumed many forms: class-readings in which the reader was required to use an accent, personal poetry delivered standing, not sitting, behind the ragged podium in front of everyone (tears were shed at times), and being graded on our ability to not only recite Hamlet's soliloquy from memory but to dramatically portray it with whatever acting ability we could muster. Ordinary classroom life became extraordinary.

If those examples leave you unconvinced, consider the context: a roomful of teenagers who are trying to play it cool in front of each other all the time doing things that could shatter that self-projection into billions of pieces in a single instant. He was a master of chiseling holes through the walls that so many teenagers use to conceal their authentic selves and inviting them to come out of hiding. Often in the moment, I couldn't stand the intrusion. I was a quiet, timid kid in high school. Although I am naturally introverted, my timidity was a mask I learned to wear in my early days in order to stay out of trouble with teachers for whom I had a reverent yet irrational fear. Later in life the timidity morphed into neutral, observational silence. I thought it made me seem like the smart, thoughtful, "mysterious" type of guy that you either wanted to be buddies with or wanted to leave alone because he might know kung fu.

Mr. Hopkins confused my internal programming like a computer glitch, making me uncomfortably aware of just how suffocating that mask was. No longer would I be able to get by in class by playing hide-and-don't-seek. On certain days, an otherwise routine class activity would turn into the opportunity to stand out, be unique, and lift the veil that shrouded our authentic selves. But sometimes I just wanted to stay in my seat, take notes, curl into a ball behind my walls, and tighten the straps on my mask, thank you very much.

One day I cinched those straps so tight that they burst.

It was mid-winter and I had a busy day ahead of me. I was a member of the school band and had an off-site audition later that day for a music festival. I would be dismissed early from English class. That morning I ran down the hall to Mr. Hopkins room, my snare drum strapped to my back and the tapping of my black dress shoes echoing down the hallways lined with navy blue lockers. I came into the room as my classmates were still settling into their desks and pulled Mr. Hopkins aside. He looked down at me unflinchingly, as he always did, with a gaze that seemed to pierce through veneer, mortar, and brick. I dared to make eye-contact every few words as I mumbled:

"I have an audition today...I'll have to leave early...at about 10:45."

Immediately his hand thumped on my shoulder and he spoke in the determined, hurried tones of one who was about to remove his balancing hands from a child learning to ride a bike:

"Ok, now here's what I'll want you to do: I want you to get up in a huff. I want you to get mad, tell me that you can't take it anymore, and then storm out of the room."

Somewhere in the depths of my torso someone had lit a fire and was pouring gasoline in ever-widening circles around it. Right before the smoke came billowing out of every orifice on my mortified face, I clamped down the mask, gave a crooked smile, and chuckled "Heh! OK."

With a final nod and clap on the back he dismissed me to my seat.

Although I only had 30-minutes until my dismissal, the fabric of time itself must have been in the wash because those minutes stretched, pulled, lingered, and faded into hours. The clock pounded out every one of the 1,800 second-hand ticks like a canon in slow-motion, heralding the coming of my fight-or-flight performance, inviting every one of my inner critics to take a front-row seat.

The time-warp ended at 10:44. All senses came piercing into my consciousness like shards of glass.
A multitude of voices were muttering frantically in each ear as they flew through cost-benefit analyses, risk assessments, and weighed the scales of my choices.

Should I do it or not? Will I overdo it and offend him? Will people think I'm cool? What am I supposed to do after I storm out? Do I come back and tell everyone its a joke? I sort of want to do this but I'm not used to being the kind of guy that does this sort of thing. Maybe I can just let it slide and leave. WHAT DO I DO?!

My eyeballs bounced back and forth in their sockets as they screamed for my attention. They were yelling over each other.

When a space-time anomaly leaves you with only one minute to diffuse an existential bomb strapped to your socially protective shell, you might end up snipping both wires at once in your haste to choose only one.

It was 10:45.

"MR. HOPKINS!"

It stumbled out of my mouth like an unexpected belch.

The buzz of the classroom screeched to a halt and he, hunched in conversation with a classmate, turned to me with the wide-eyes of an actor awaiting his cue. My monotone drone was discordantly accompanied by my nervous bursts of volume and meek quavers of uncertainty:

"I...HAVE TO...go"

He didn't move. I was running late now for the audition. I had to finish it. The rest of my script drifted cautiously into the air like a balloon fizzing out of helium:

"I can't take it anymore Mr. Hopkins"

Snip. 

Boom.

A shrill and questioning chuckle darted through the class. He breathed a heavy sigh, his shoulders falling, then rising as he lifted his weary head. Masterfully working the whole charade into part of an act that accommodated my faltered offering and kept the show going, he played along. Tiredly proclaiming my status as an incorrigible and out-of-control student before the class, he dismissed me to the audition with a smile.

I will never know what would have happened had I gone for the act with all my might. But I am glad for what did happen: Before I knew it I was walking down the hallway, red-faced and out of breath. The heavy wooden door closed behind me. Internally, I pulled at the straps of my mask in anguish. I tied them in knots and with every step pulled them tighter and tighter. By the time I was out of the building and on the bus, the knot had burst from the strain. The mask hung in tatters. The bus pulled out of the driveway. A refreshing breeze billowed in through the now gaping hole in my brick wall. Through it, I stared back at the classroom window on the second story as it faded into the distance.

____________________

That was not the end. It wasn't even the beginning. I had been given the chance to sink or swim before I was a student in Mr. Hopkins' class. Sometimes I sank. Sometimes I swam. There were many more opportunities to come in that class and beyond as well where those results were repeated.

But the unique thing that Mr. Hopkins did for me is that he made those opportunities so exciting. He could present you with a challenge that seemed at once so frightening and yet so within your reach that you knew you would be cheating yourself if you didn't go for it with all that you've got. He also made you know, beyond any doubt, that he was in your corner cheering you on as you made the ordinary hum-drum of life extraordinary and explored the limits of what you were capable of.

Whenever life seems to lose some color and I'm tempted to put my mask back on and fade into the background of routine, the lessons I've learned from people like Mr. Hopkins come back to haunt me.

Do something. Be you. Seize this ordinary moment and make it extraordinary.

What will happen if you don't? Nothing.

What will happen if you do? There's only one way to find out.