The Balancing Act

Recently, tightrope daredevil Nik Wallenda bridged the void between the United States and Canada by walking over Niagra Falls on a taut wire (read about it here).  Millions of people watched the televised feat, caught up in the suspense of one man battling the dark misty night over the roaring falls.  After a thirty minute walk, Wallenda was welcomed to the Canadian side by a crowd of 100,000 cheering fans, accomplishing what no man had done in 118 years.

While Wallenda’s stunt garnered the attention of so many people, every single day each of us struggles to balance, often alone, on our own tight rope stretched over a similar void - unhappiness.  Where the Niagra stunt took thirty minutes to accomplish, our own balancing act takes our entire adult life.

For the last year, I have been adjusting to my newly chosen life as a private lesson teacher.  For the past five years, as a band director, I had certain challenges to my balance - where Wallenda had the dark blinding him, the mist condensing on his rope, and the roaring current pouring over the cliffs, I was challenged by the stress of performance expectation, the day to day business of running a high school band, parents, and the time required to feel accomplished in my efforts.  Part of the reason I stepped off the band directing tight rope was to have more control over the last - my time.  In my new life, this has truly been the hardest challenge.

Band directing, or teaching in general, has a tendency breed workaholics.  Though the work day finishes, many teachers choose to stay beyond regular hours.  As a band director, I had planning meetings, rehearsals, booster meetings, after-hours school commitments, lesson planning, etc.  My associates taught sectionals, ran jazz band and percussion rehearsals, and attended weekend competitions for various band related activites.  The list goes on.  

Stepping out of this life, only having to work the hours I chose to work, I assumed my work-life would balance itself against my personal life on its own.  What I didn’t figure is that I wouldn’t know how to not work.  I worried that if I wasn’t careful, I would succumb to the same routine I experienced as a band director.

This summer, I pledged to make sure to give myself days off.  During the school year, while the hours I worked per week were less, I was working seven days a week.  It has been weird, waking in the morning and knowing I don’t have to do do anything for my job.  Instead, I am able to fill my time with ME.

Finding time for me has settled down the currents battering my own wire.  I am learning how to be “off,” and that every waking minute doesn’t have to be filled with work.  I can still be productive - building personal relationships, working around the house, pursuing individual projects, training for a triathlon - but it doesn’t have to be work.  I also give myself permission to relax, catching up on reading or TV shows I have missed.  Having time for yourself builds the balance we all strive to achieve.

We frequently chain ourselves to our situations, crying about their permanence, but every situation is mutable.  Create the right conditions to traverse the void in your life and ease the buffeting forces threatening to knock you from your happiness.  Balance is possible.

Not to take anything away from Nik Wallenda’s accomplishment, but due to ABC’s insurance concerns, had his balance abandoned him, a safety harness would have caught his falling body before it plunged into the dangerous falls.  We do not have the same luxury.  Find your own balance before life forces you to take the plunge into the unhappiness that waits the unbalanced life.

Getting Burned

Every so often we do dumb things.  Most of us commonly share the Homer Simpson experience of slapping our forehead and saying “Doh!” because of some silly, simple error.  Most often, these moments are preceded by an uncalculated, rash act.  This is what happened to me today.

If you are a relatively new reader, you might not know that I like to ride a road bike.  Lately my schedule has only allowed me weekend forays on the bike and I usually keep my rides to an hour or so.  Personally, I love the feeling of flying down the road, in and amongst nature, with the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze playing counterpoint to each other.  

My normal ride takes me out of my neighborhood, down a slightly busy street, and into Bender’s Landing, a nearby burb whose wooded half and full acre plots sport a variety of architectural styles ranging from glorified row house to neo-mid-century suburban castle, from transplanted ski lodge to Mississippi plantation.  I love looking at the eclectic mix of homes as I press myself to push my pace, streaking by man-made lakes mixed with virginal nature.  The roads are well maintained and nearly traffic free, the trees provide shade without blocking the breeze, and the options for longer rides are plentiful with just an easy right or left turn.

In my nearly three years of riding, luck rides with me - I have never been injured.  Until today.  Now, there are many ways a bike injury occurs.  Collision with another object - animate or inanimate.  A surprise wind gust throwing off your balance.  An unfortunately placed speed bump.

My injury was none of these.  Most injuries occur as a result of something unforeseen.  Mine could have very easily been prevented had I just thought out my actions.

I had just left my neighborhood and was traversing Riley-Fuzzel Rd. (soon to be the Grand Parkway).  The two lanes of traffic each way are easily escapable thanks to a wide paved shoulder.  Frequently, to a cyclists chagrin, the shoulder becomes the repository for road waste - tire bits, broken taillights, periodic trash (Don’t Mess With Texas!), and broken glass.  I usually do well to avoid to obstacles, keeping my eyes ahead, but today I rode through a pocket of broken glass.

One of the first lessons I learned while riding the bike is to keep the tires free of broken class - duh, right - so I did what you are supposed to do.  I leaned forward and, using the portion of my glove between my thumb and forefinger, pressed against the front tire, clearing the tire of debris.  Then, I reached behind me, just under the saddle, and did the same thing.

Now, those of you who ride bikes, or understand the basic laws of physics, know that when you ride a bike, the tire rotates.  When something touches a rotating object, frequently, it is influenced by the velocity of the rotation, pulling it along.  Touching a rotating bike tire is no different.  When clearing the front tire, I did what I was supposed to do - I pressed my glove against it just past the prongs, making sure my hand was pulled away from them.  On the back, because I didn’t think, I just acted, I touched behind the prongs.  In a fantastical display of the laws of physics, the tire pulled my hand along with it, cramming it into the gap between the tire and the back prong.  Of course, I was still moving (and in fact pedaling), meaning the tire kept moving in the same direction, despite my hand being in the way.  Finally, after the surprise ripped away, I yanked my hand out and continued my ride.

My glove protected most of my right hand, but I still managed to tear the skin off in a couple of places and give myself friction burns on others.  For a musician, it could have been much worse.

Make sure to think before you act.  It doesn’t matter if you are riding a bike, in the middle of an emotionally charged argument, or pursuing a like changing decision, always give consideration to the results of your actions.  I learned an important lesson today (one I am certain I have been taught before), but I know, had it been any number of other situations, the results could have been much more dire.  Take it from me: don’t get burned.

The Stained Shirt

One of my favorite shirts is a striped polo from Banana Republic the salesman practically guilted me into buying.  As I headed back to the fitting room to make sure the shirt would actually fit my odd frame (wide shoulders, narrow chest), the salesman made a witty comment about how cheap it was - $7 - and how I would be an idiot not to buy it.

My $7 shirt has been great.  It is comfortable to wear, breathes well in the Houston heat, fits me comfortably, and works well within my seasonal clothing rotation.  But, a few months back I had an unfortunate lunch incident involving guacamole, which left the mostly white surface blemished with a few greenish splotches.  

I used a Tide-to-go pen, but I think it was old, and only served to smear around the green color, expanding the blobs beyond their original borders.  I used stain removers at home before washing it, but to no avail.  I bleached it.  I used Samantha’s Mary Kay Oil Free Eye Makeup Remover (which is great at getting set in stains out, by the way), but even it was not successful.  I never dried it in the dryer, working to prevent the heat from setting the stain, but no matter what I did, it wouldn’t go away.

So, it sat on my dryer for weeks and weeks.  Finally, I got tired of it sitting there, so I washed it one more time.  Then, clenching my jaw as I did so, I tossed it into the dryer.  When I took it out, the stain was gone.  I don’t know how.  I don’t know why.  I just know it is a clean white surface again, graced only by the thin green horizontal stripes that drew my attention in the first place.

So . . . this is the point I could wax rhapsodic about the values of patience and never giving up, but I won’t.  I’ve played that song before.  I want to talk about has happened every time I have worn the shirt since.

I have gotten to the point where I don’t cringe any longer when I reach into my closet to grab my favorite shirt, certain that this time, when I remove it from the plastic hangar, the green, faded avocado tinge would have returned again, mocking me with its longevity and staying power.  But, every time I wear it, I still expect to see a hint of the stain, a faint, shadowy reminder of my clumsiness when eating.  It doesn’t matter if I catch sight of myself in the mirror, or glance down when driving, my brain constantly plans on seeing my stain.

I am glad it is gone, but I had become so used to seeing the stain sitting there upon the white fibers that my expectations became dictated by my past.  I have somehow become trained to expect the worse when I glance at my shirt.  But, I should not.  I know  my reality isn’t dictated by my past experiences, but, for some reason, I can’t bridge the gap created by that stain.  Keeping my stain free vision in mind, I know I can correct my expectations, keeping them in line with reality.  It simply takes persistence and correct mental positioning.  

Anytime I walk into my closet, reach up and grab the white sleeve, I do so with the knowledge it will be blemish free this time, freeing me from the discouragement I have experienced in the past.

Your own personal disappointments and discouragements work the same way as that stain.  Just because circumstances worked out one way in the past doesn't condemn you to repeat them in the future.  We are not Bill Murry in Groundhog Day, repeating the same day over and over.  

Now, though my brain isn't quite over the stain, whenever I don the $7 Banana Republic polo, I am reminded that every day is a new one.  I have the opportunity to experience a different reality this time.  I am not condemned to wear a stained shirt every single day.

Memorial

In the midst of this late Spring weekend, commonly regarded as the gateway to Summer, while grilling burgers and hot dogs, watching the Indy 500, and cherishing the three day weekend many of us have, keep in mind the real reason this weekend is important - Memorial Day.

Since the Civil War, people have reserved a weekend in May for the remembrance of those men and women who gave their lives in war.  The holiday grew from local and regional celebrations with varying names into a federal holiday.  By 1967, after the passage of the Uniform Holidays Bill, the day and name of the holiday solidified into what we celebrate today.

Memorial Day, for much of America, is no more than a convenient three day weekend.  Monday has become a great day for outdoor BBQs and picnics instead of a day of reflection.  We flock to movie theaters in droves instead of to cemeteries, choosing to honor living entertainment instead of dead heroes.

Many would argue that our Memorial Day behavior is further evidence of the moral bankruptcy so many pundits claim America suffers.  Sure, we lower our flags to half-staff (if we have one), we might watch a war movie on TV, but the extent of our honoring the fallen ends there.  Maybe we are bankrupt?

No.  I don’t think we are.  I think America is suffering through a different problem.  A humongous portion of the population has grown up experiencing the same problem, one which is hard to avoid in today’s geopolitical environment.

Peace.

Recently, CNN published a modified version of Fareed Zakaria’s commencement speech to Harvard, which brought this issue to my attention.  Zakaria offered some interesting statistics, which profoundly illuminates today’s peace problem.

First, we currently live in a world which experiences half as much death from war, civil war, and terrorism than in the 1990s.  Sure, news broadcasts seem to inundate the airwaves with reports of prolific death, but compared to the 1990s, the number of people dying as the result of war has dropped drastically.  From a specifically American angle, though, in the last decade we have lost slightly more than 6,000 soldiers during war actions, which is significantly more than lost during the 1990s.  But on a whole, the world has had 50% less death caused by war.

Second, if we look back further, through the past half century.  The number of related deaths drops further - 75%.  The world has definitely come a long way from the Cold War related military actions of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s.  Additionally, the population of the US born since the end of the Vietnam War accounts for almost 65% of our population.  The vast majority of us - including myself - have never experienced a conflict anywhere close to the realm of the war years.  Personally, I can not think of any person I have ever known who was a war casualty.  I wonder how many of us can anymore.

Third, if taken back to the 1930s and 1940s, the number of people killed in war drops by an astounding 99%.  The population of the US who experienced the total war of WWII is less than 10%.

Since Memorial Day is a holiday designed to honor those who gave their lives for their country, it makes sense that its roots are planted deep in the history of the Civil War.  Approximately 625,000 American soldiers lost their lives as we fought each other.  That number is more than all other other military deaths combined since.  During the 1960s, when the Uniform Holidays Bill was passed, the American population remembered well the feeling of war.

While we are currently wrapping up the last decade of limited war, the general American public has lived most of their lives insulated from the realities of war.  We don’t know how to honor the fallen because many of us have never had to.  Our lack of Memorial Day fervor stems from this reality.

Despite the circumstances, those of us with no one specific to memorialize should still pay our respects somehow.  Whether we pay our respects through the display of a flag, by visiting a cemetery, participating in a Memorial Day ceremony, or simply exercising our right to a free life, we should keep in mind the origin of the peace we enjoy and how it was paid for by the blood of so many heroes over the years.

Pounding the Rock

For those of you who don’t know, I am a San Antonio Spurs fan.  I grew up in San Antonio cheering on the hometown heroes first in HemisFair Arena, then in the Alamodome, and now in the AT&T Center.  I worship the names David Robinson, Sean Elliot, Bruce Bowen, Avery Johnson, Tony Parker, Manu Ginobli, and Tim Duncan and somewhere I even have a George Gervin autograph.  I have an affinity in my heart for every player to ever wear the Spur logo.  I have bled silver and black since I was little and even now, though I live in the midst of Rocket fan, I  proudly sport my Spurs gear.  More than just a sports team, the Spurs have long taught me about life, leading through their uncommon example in today’s sports world.

One of the most honorable and respected athletes I have ever seen was David Robinson.  Besides sporting the most amazing physical stature ever (Michelangelo would have loved for Mr. Robinson to pose for his statue of David), Mr. Robinson lead the Spurs with a pure heart and dedicated spirit.  He truly was the Admiral, not only for the pre-Duncan Spurs, but for the city, piloting the team to heights unimaginable while instilling San Antonio with a sense of pride and worth.  For as long as I live, David Robinson will always stand as a pinnacle of a value driven life.

Tim Duncan, truly the greatest Spur to ever play the game, has for years educated me on how to handle adversity.  Always known as a mild mannered player, Timmy has quietly handled the pressure of his role as team Atlas, hoisting the Spurs onto his shoulders from the first day he arrived in the city.  Known as the Big Fundamental, Duncan’s dedication to his individual foundation as an athlete has long primed him - and the Spurs - for success.  It is not a coincidence that, since the Spurs’ drafted him first in 1997, the franchise regular season winning percentage has been 70%.

Beyond being an amazing athlete, Duncan has long been the face of calm on the court.  His quiet ways haven’t earned him a national following like some other showy sports superstars, but it has definitely earned a place of respect among his peers, sports pundits, and San Antonio fans.  Every time he steps on the court, Tim teaches a clinic on the value of peace in the face of adversity.

I have long understood the value of Greg Popovich, but until yesterday’s Game Three playoff win against the Clippers, I never truly understood where exactly I should place him in my Spur’s pantheon.  Pop’s argues he is just the luckiest coach in the history of sports, but as most Pop devotees would argue, that is simply not the case.  Game Three was a tribute to the reason Pop has been just as key to the Spurs’ success as his players.  Back in the 1990s, Pop placed a quote in the Spurs’ locker room.  The quote, taken from immigration reformer Jacob Riis, has been the impetus for Spurs’ play sense

When nothing seems to help, I go look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it, but all that had gone before.

Though the Spurs were down 33-11 at the end of the first quarter against a freshly reinvigorated Clippers team, they never gave up.  Instead, they pounded the rock.  Through Pop’s teaching, they knew their consistent efforts lead to results.  And so, they pounded.  And pounded.  And pounded.  By the end of the third quarter, the rock had split and the Spurs controlled the game the rest of the way, winning their seventeenth straight game.

Popovich’s dedication to his method, his willingness to reinvent their basketball style to fit their needs (and frankly just to keep it exciting), and most importantly, to teach a philosophy of life centered on perseverance through belief in your own efforts, places him high in my pantheon.  His lessons on how to accomplish translate to any effort: individual or team, personal or corporate, small or large.  

While the Spurs organization doesn’t seek to establish itself as a life coach or to hit the road on a tour of motivational speeches, they certainly could.  I am who I am partially due to the Spurs and what they have shown consistently since I was young.  And though I don’t live there anymore, you can bet that I will always hold the San Antonio Spurs organization in the highest regards where ever I live.

Tribute

What can any of us say about our Mom’s that probably hasn’t been written on a hallmark card, been acted out in a sappy, tear-jerking film, or sung in a song?  Not much, right?  Odds are, the card, the film, and the lyrics probably do a much better job than most of us could ever do.  Something we should always keep in mind, though, Hallmark, Hollywood, and Nashville can never live up to the one tribute only we have to give - ourselves.

Everyday, as we interact with other people, as we work our jobs, raise our families, and build our lives, we offer tribute to our Mom.  While we will have many teachers in our lives, our Mothers are one of the most influential we will ever have.  From the very moment of conception, our Mom begins to teach us life lessons, behaviors, and the very components that will make up our lives.  Some lessons will be immense, some will be tiny.

Even if you never knew your Mother, or do not have a relationship with your Mom, she still offers lessons, if you are willing to learn.  Some Mom’s might teach how to forgive, if only by being the worse mother imaginable.  Others might teach unconditional love, because the only way to love them would be to abandon all conditions on which love would rest.  Find the lesson your Mom offers and be thankful that she has placed her fingerprint upon your life.

My parents instilled in me an appreciation for the written word when I was very young, and my Mom helped to fan the flames of my young hunger for reading.  I would not be sitting here writing today without my Mom’s influence.  In fact, from the age of eleven on, I could strongly argue the fuel for the projection of my life came from my Mom allowing me to read my first Stephen King novel.  From that point on, the written word filled my life.  I couldn’t get enough books.  Days went by where I only read, ate, and slept.  I would still spend many of my days the same way if Samantha would let me.

While not alone, our Mom helped to design us.  She offered half of the blueprints for our internal circuitry, made as many adjustments as possible to our programming, and then sent us out into the world to be the best product possible.  If it sounds like software engineering, that is because, in many ways, raising a child is like the world’s greatest design product.  Could you imagine attempting to build the world’s most complicated computer from scratch without any experience, limited manuals, and an unlimited supply of contradictory advice and armchair quarterbacks?  

Everyday you live, shine as a tribute to the women who added you to the face of the earth.  Follow her lessons, even if she taught them unwillingly or unknowingly.  Be the best product she could have created.  No card, movie, or song could ever compete with that.

The French Connection

The Eiffel Tower from the Trocadero.

In the spirit of TAKS and STARR standardized testing this past week, I took some time off from teaching lessons.  Instead, Samantha and I took advantage of our free time by jumping on an airplane and flying to France to visit my youngest brother Joey.  This was our first time in France, and I do have to admit, I was readily anticipating encountering stereotype after stereotype.  I was pleasantly surprised - the French did not live up to my negative expectations.

As timid Americans, we emerged from our United flight weary and excited, unsure in how well our limited French skills would help but eager to try.  With the help of a very polite airport employee (speaking clear English), we were able to locate the trans-terminal train and find our way to the Gare Charles du Gaul (the train station at the airport).  After fighting with the electronic ticket machine for a little while (it helps to read ALL the directions), we had our tickets in hand and were ready for the four hour train ride to Nantes where we would meet my two brothers.

Waiting to catch our train connection in Le MAns.

Our train ride was our first experience with an unexpected French characteristic - silent trains.  Whether on a cross-country train, a regional commuter train, a local tram, or the Paris metro, French people are uncomfortably silent.  Conversations take place in hushed whispers, leaned in close to the ear.  I am a mumbler - I fit right in.  

We did encounter a stereotype in our train commutes, but not a French one.  The French regard Americans as loud and brash, unaware of their surroundings, who never attempt to meld into the local culture.  Unfortunately, we discovered the truth behind our own stereotype.  While we were not the typical Americans - neither of us are loud people - Americans on the trains might have well been draped in the Stars and Stripes.  They were loud, brash, and even made us uncomfortable with their volume.

Our time in Nantes was characterized by walking tours of the city, enjoying the local food and wine, and enjoying the French people.  Joey, my brother, is wrapping up a year of study in Nantes as a French Studies major.  He was a gracious host, welcoming us into his dorm and cooking for us, acting as translator everywhere we went, and leading us through the sights of Nantes and the surrounding area.

Another French stereotype proved wrong for us both in Nantes and in Paris - the French are polite.  In every encounter, whether in a restaurant or cafe, at a ticket window, on a train, or with the bathroom attendant, French people are pleasant.  Bonjour!  Sil vous plait!  Merci!  Bon soir!  Always ready with a please and thank you, the French welcomed us into their country with open arms.  Even when they knew we were Americans.

Gigantic crepes at The Puss in Boots cafe in Clisson.

French food was tasty.  We had crepes a plenty, galettes smothered in cheese, the traditional croque monsieur, croissants nearly every day.  Freshly baked bread accompanied every meal, and sometimes became the meal.  Cheese was delicious and abundant - we even saw hamburgers served with a thick slice of parmesan reggiano perched delicatly atop the bun.  The vegetables had to have been picked that day, perhaps from a garden just behind the cafe.

The best food we ate the entire trip was on the Rue Cler in Paris.  This little pedestrian street nestled between the Eiffel Tower and the Invalides Museum, where Napoleon’s tomb rests, transforms from a bustling market street during the afternoon into a row of sumptuous cafes after sunset.  The first night we ate at Cafe du Marche and enjoyed traditional french fare - I dined on Confit du Canard (duck fried in its own fat) accompanied with roasted pomme du terre (potatoes - literally apple of the earth), and a green salad.  We accompanied our dishes with a pichet of Burgandy.

The amazing Tomate Mozza

The next night we ate next door at a place owned by the same people.  Tribeca is a traditional French cafe serving Italian food.  We sat a few tables down from some loud Americans and feasted on Tomate Mozza salad, Lasagna Bolognase, and a Parma Ham pizza, accompanied by a pichet of Bousilly Grenache.  Wow!  This was the best food yet.  It was only outdone upon our return to Tribeca the next night.  We began with the same salad, but this time dined on the Penne and a Margherita Pizza.  The wine was so good from the night before we ordered another pichet. 

Just a funny little note - my breakfast of choice in Paris was Pain du Raisin from a boulangerie near our hotel.  The translation is grape bread.  The French don’t have a word differentiating between grape and raisin, so even though I ate raisin bread, it is called grape bread.  Oh, and it is delicious.

Now, we didn’t just ride trains and eat the whole time.  We saw the sites as well.  In Nantes we enjoyed the Chateau du Ducs Bretagne - the castle protecting the region of Britannia from the French Kings during the 1200s.  We saw the Cathedral du Nantes, and were even filmed by an amateur French filmmaker making a film about a spy.  Samantha and I played the role of anonymous spies, sitting in a pew to covertly receive a “package” from the main spy.  We traveled to the small town of Clisson to visit another chateau, this one part of a defensive ring of castles surrounding Nantes.  

In Paris, we climbed the stairs to the second level of the Eiffel Tower, said hello to Napoleon, learned about WWI and WWII, got dirty looks in Chanel on the Champs Elysee, climbed the Arch du Triomphe, wandered the gardens of Versailles in the cold wind and rain, saw where Marie Antoinette escaped from the Parisian mobs, negotiated the maze that is the Louvre, basked in the ethereal light cast by the stained glass windows in both Notre Dame and Saint Chapelle, and ate at the most profitable McDonald’s in the world.

All in all, our trip was fantastic.  Sure, the weather could have been more pleasant (low 40s, windy, rainy), but at least the lines were short everywhere we went and the French BO was kept to a minimum.  The people were beautiful, the food and wine was amazing, and the aura of France was magical.  Thanks France for showing us such a great time and for dispelling some stereotypes in the process.