Sometimes I feel like we are playing a game of catch. Catch requires a minimum of two people working together to create a flow of catch and release. We throw the ball differently each time—although the people that do it for a living have a machine-like precision—which usually requires the other person to adjust. (Now, bear with me as I try explain this silly little metaphor which is actually more of a picture in my head that popped in there a few years ago and some reason had lay dormant until now.)
Suppose we are playing this game with our dad for the first time. He is ever patient with us, encouraging us so that we do not despair and give up. We look stupid as we fumble the ball and drop it the first million times he throws it to us. He says, “Don’t worry about it son, have your hands ready and keep your eye on the ball” as he throws it so that it requires little of us to actually catch it. When kids first learn they have to develop their reflexes—how many of us have seen kids grab at the ball in the air after it’s already landed? Then we learn what to do with our hands, you cannot have them stiff otherwise either your fingers get jammed and hurt for weeks or it just bounces off. They have to be relaxed and yet ready to snap, grab, and cradle at the right moment.
Once we get the hang of it—you know, when we get really good and there is not much that can wipe that huge grin off of our face—he changes it up a little. He starts throwing it at different distances with more or less power and speed. We go, “what am I supposed to do now?” as the ball no longer lands in our hands but five feet in front of us. Soon we begin to figure it out, “oh, I actually have to move to the ball now.” This makes it all the more complex, having to figure out how to factor in all of these things—you know, wind chill factor, not running into trees, not tripping on roots or sprinklers, and so on and so forth. Then to make things worse—or better?—he throws it harder and it comes at you faster than you can say ouch and it hurts more than a dozen bee stings. As your hands swell and throb he then throws so high up that you cannot help but wince as you squint into the sun and can only hope it does not hit you in the face.
Then he says, “Go long!” And off we run.
Why am I so rigid?
Why are my legs so stiff?
Why is it like my feet have buried themselves underneath the grass and have taken root?
Why am I so reticent?
Why can’t you throw the ball right to me where I want it?
You mean I have to run? But I’m tired, my hands sting, my lungs burn, my legs feel like they are going to give out—or rather, they will if I choose to go for it. What do you mean I can do it? How do you know? What? You’ve done it? You’ve been in my place and know how it is? Is that how you are so patient and good at coaching me along in this?
He knows what we are capable of and thus pushes us beyond what we though we could do. It is hard for me to believe that he knows these things, but I have to. I have to just believe that my little legs will take me the distance, the only thing spurring me on is his voice. In the end, I want to know that I ran as hard as I could to try and make the catch to make him happy. He knows how much I can handle and if I do not make it, maybe I did not push hard enough. I do know that when I trip on my own feet or get clothes-lined by a branch or just plain screw it up that he loves me all the same. Then when I am sweaty and thirsty, “hey, good job out there, lets get some lemonade.”
Showing posts with label analogy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label analogy. Show all posts
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Sunday, September 2, 2007
May 06, 2006
I've been thinking about how melancholy--especially in nature--seems so beautiful and somehow resonates with my inner being. Each person is probably drawn to different aspects of nature or what they consider beautiful. I also have been thinking about how so much poetry is descriptive and while that is beautiful, much of it is more than that because it describes something else. In sum, sometimes we may really be drawn to various scenes of nature, because it is in fact an image of our soul or our inner condition. Maybe this is excessively introspect or self-revealing but this came about as I was trying to figure out why I will start out describing something and tie in these other elements at the end of a poem.
Blogs are whatever you make them right? Ok, so here goes for random on a very different note. My other thought for the day:
This is a very loose and weird analogy. Today I began to think that our faith or relationship with God is like brushing our teeth. At least for me. I know this has its weak points, but let me explain why I began to think this. The actual brushing and other teeth care stuff is comparable with praying, reading your Bible, be real with God...plain seeking after Him and growing in your faith. Sometimes I can go for awhile without really doing any of that and think that I'm doing pretty well, not brushing my teeth but avoiding eating sweets and things that will give me cavities and are bad for my teeth. Yet, this is still bad. On the other hand, there are the times in life when I take very good care of my teeth as far as cleaning yet go crazy on things that hurt them like the aforementioned "sweets and things". So that's not good either because my teeth are still not being treated well. So I could expand further, but that's as far as I wish to take it for now. This is pretty lame, but I thought I would post it as it was such a random thought that came to me as I was sitting in the car.
By the way, I love it when people leave you a comment on your blog to say hi but don't read what you write. I am guilty of it, but I try not to.
*******Added (5/14/2006)********
P.S.
Reflecting on what I wrote I realized what I sounded like with my final comment. I think I owe an apology because it was not nice in its tone. I think I was frustrated and I realize, yes it is hard if you want to communicate with someone or in a hurry or just want to say hi. I was frustrated because I seek feedback on what I write, more so on what may seem less accessible to people--poetry. Then I thought about how it is selfish to think that people should take the time to try and figure out what you are writing about and reflect on it. I also admire those that just write, they do not need people's comments. They write freely and confidently and there is no dependency. Thank you all of you for everything. And sorry if I was rude.
Blogs are whatever you make them right? Ok, so here goes for random on a very different note. My other thought for the day:
This is a very loose and weird analogy. Today I began to think that our faith or relationship with God is like brushing our teeth. At least for me. I know this has its weak points, but let me explain why I began to think this. The actual brushing and other teeth care stuff is comparable with praying, reading your Bible, be real with God...plain seeking after Him and growing in your faith. Sometimes I can go for awhile without really doing any of that and think that I'm doing pretty well, not brushing my teeth but avoiding eating sweets and things that will give me cavities and are bad for my teeth. Yet, this is still bad. On the other hand, there are the times in life when I take very good care of my teeth as far as cleaning yet go crazy on things that hurt them like the aforementioned "sweets and things". So that's not good either because my teeth are still not being treated well. So I could expand further, but that's as far as I wish to take it for now. This is pretty lame, but I thought I would post it as it was such a random thought that came to me as I was sitting in the car.
By the way, I love it when people leave you a comment on your blog to say hi but don't read what you write. I am guilty of it, but I try not to.
*******Added (5/14/2006)********
P.S.
Reflecting on what I wrote I realized what I sounded like with my final comment. I think I owe an apology because it was not nice in its tone. I think I was frustrated and I realize, yes it is hard if you want to communicate with someone or in a hurry or just want to say hi. I was frustrated because I seek feedback on what I write, more so on what may seem less accessible to people--poetry. Then I thought about how it is selfish to think that people should take the time to try and figure out what you are writing about and reflect on it. I also admire those that just write, they do not need people's comments. They write freely and confidently and there is no dependency. Thank you all of you for everything. And sorry if I was rude.
September 14, 2005 - Living Demise
Living demise
Murmurs that caused such turmoil
Buried somewhere ‘neath the soil
Mistakenly my pulse was tossed among the forbidden
Now I can’t seem to remember where they were hidden
A long time passed before I knew it was lost
Before I began to feel my heart lined with frost
For as the last layer of dirt was lain
At that moment emotions were slain
Murmurs that caused such turmoil
Buried somewhere ‘neath the soil
Mistakenly my pulse was tossed among the forbidden
Now I can’t seem to remember where they were hidden
A long time passed before I knew it was lost
Before I began to feel my heart lined with frost
For as the last layer of dirt was lain
At that moment emotions were slain
Monday, August 27, 2007
May 29, 2005 - The Weed
The “Weed”?
**Another story if you will...one along the same lines as the last one, although this one is more relevant to something in the past.**
He reached up to adjust his rearview mirror, briefly taking notice of the shiny new car behind him. A thirty-something woman sipped her Starbucks as she prattled into her cell-phone equipped with internet and camera and from the looks of it—the steering wheel for the car. He sighed as he looked around at the mess in his ’87 truck—waiting for the stoplight which resembled a tomato—it was old but had served him well all these years. He pulled forward as the tomato unripened from a lush red to a bright and sour green, giving him the signal to go. Mellow music mused in the background interrupted by intermittent waves of static as he drove along silently.
Upon reaching the house he got out of his white truck which read “Gardening Service” on the side, and walked to the front door of the medium sized grey house. The nine o’clock sun glared at him while he squinted right back. He rang the doorbell but then realized that there was an enveloped taped to the door with his name on it in careful writing. In it was a note with some basic instructions and a check for far more than his standard fee.
He made his way around to the backyard to inspect his patient to see what he would need to do to conjure a remedy. It was bad, but he could tell that it had once been a decent backyard with a pleasant garden in the corner. The grass was wild and long—briefly bringing to mind his long hair hippy days—and the weeds were looking as if they were preparing to usurp control of the backyard.
In a matter of several hours it looked completely different—he had transformed a jungle into a lawn and garden. There was something that was troubling him however. There was a strange plant, like no other he had seen in all his years in gardening, at the corner of the part where the lawn transitioned into garden. It looked like it belonged in the garden and yet somehow at the same time it seemed so out of place. He was unsure as to what he should do. It almost looked like an exotic plant, but at the same time it could have been a weed. Whatever it was, it was strange and too small for him to determine. He did not want to appear unprofessional and possibly leave a weed growing but did not want to destroy a special plant. The note left by his customer asked him to come once every fortnight and mentioned that he would probably be gone before the gardener arrived to work. With this in mind he wondered if he should let this plant bloom or if he should completely extirpate it. He could trim it and leave possibilities open for either option—which would be avoiding a solution—either letting a weed remain rooted or preventing a flower from reaching full bloom.
Both solutions are problematic, he did not know what to do, there was no way he could ask the owner for he would never meet him. Which risk must he take?
**Another story if you will...one along the same lines as the last one, although this one is more relevant to something in the past.**
He reached up to adjust his rearview mirror, briefly taking notice of the shiny new car behind him. A thirty-something woman sipped her Starbucks as she prattled into her cell-phone equipped with internet and camera and from the looks of it—the steering wheel for the car. He sighed as he looked around at the mess in his ’87 truck—waiting for the stoplight which resembled a tomato—it was old but had served him well all these years. He pulled forward as the tomato unripened from a lush red to a bright and sour green, giving him the signal to go. Mellow music mused in the background interrupted by intermittent waves of static as he drove along silently.
Upon reaching the house he got out of his white truck which read “Gardening Service” on the side, and walked to the front door of the medium sized grey house. The nine o’clock sun glared at him while he squinted right back. He rang the doorbell but then realized that there was an enveloped taped to the door with his name on it in careful writing. In it was a note with some basic instructions and a check for far more than his standard fee.
He made his way around to the backyard to inspect his patient to see what he would need to do to conjure a remedy. It was bad, but he could tell that it had once been a decent backyard with a pleasant garden in the corner. The grass was wild and long—briefly bringing to mind his long hair hippy days—and the weeds were looking as if they were preparing to usurp control of the backyard.
In a matter of several hours it looked completely different—he had transformed a jungle into a lawn and garden. There was something that was troubling him however. There was a strange plant, like no other he had seen in all his years in gardening, at the corner of the part where the lawn transitioned into garden. It looked like it belonged in the garden and yet somehow at the same time it seemed so out of place. He was unsure as to what he should do. It almost looked like an exotic plant, but at the same time it could have been a weed. Whatever it was, it was strange and too small for him to determine. He did not want to appear unprofessional and possibly leave a weed growing but did not want to destroy a special plant. The note left by his customer asked him to come once every fortnight and mentioned that he would probably be gone before the gardener arrived to work. With this in mind he wondered if he should let this plant bloom or if he should completely extirpate it. He could trim it and leave possibilities open for either option—which would be avoiding a solution—either letting a weed remain rooted or preventing a flower from reaching full bloom.
Both solutions are problematic, he did not know what to do, there was no way he could ask the owner for he would never meet him. Which risk must he take?
April 06, 2005 - A Metaphor
Below I have a story which I wrote pretty much in a stream-of-consciousness manner. I got an idea and decided to run with it. It is a metaphor, analogy, or short story or something for what we face in life with decisions and what is on my mind. I realize it is not very deep and it is imperfect. Usually I try and develop an idea before I write it but this time it just all spewed out. This will probably bore you if you actually read to completion anyway, but I realize that if you analyze elements of my life (allow me to be narcisstic for a moment and pretend that it is even a possibility) it could seem that this has specific implications. Please do not assume so.
Mouth agape he entered the massive library, the wise incandescent glow watched from above. The smell of old books filled his nostrils as he stood in awe, gazing at the daunting labyrinth of books. The library was empty except for the sole librarian who sat at her tiny wooden desk, illuminated by a small bronze lamp. She was probably in her sixties, her gray hair short and curly, she looked up at him with faded green eyes through her spectacles, offering a gentle smile. "May I help you?" she asked. He looked at her sheepishly and admitted, "I'm here to find a book, but I don't know what i want." She chuckled and said as if she understood, "Take your time and browse, since you are new around here, I'll only let you take one book out, okay?" He nodded and began on his way, scanning up and down and along the towers of bookshelves. His eyes were drawn to many different types of books, whether it be the title that captured his curiousity, or the familiarness of the author or even an unfamiliar author with an interesting name. There were books that had colorful and artistic covers that caught his eye, others that drew him out of their simplicity. He visited the multifarious seictions systematically, in some he lingered for a long time while others he quickly left.
After going through several books which he decided he did not want to read for various reasons after reading little portions of them, he finally settled on one. He had walked by this book many times but did not really notice it until he had become frustrated with his previous selections. He found that he really enjoyed this from the start. He began to read it earnestly and as quickly as he could when suddenly the librarian rushed over and snatched it from him. She asked if he was sure this was the book he wanted and he said, "Yes, I think so." She said, "Well, I'm going to take this from you for a bit, you can sit and think about it some more. You can browse some more if you like."
Instead he sat there dejected because he had been so excited about that book. It seemed like an eternity had passed when finally she returned it to him. He read for a long time before she came back and did the same. She repeated this everal times, so he began to look around timidly, not really searching for anything because he had made quite a bit of progress in the other book. It pleased him and kept his interest, "it is good" he thought to himself. As he was wandering aimlessly he accidentally bumped into one of the bookcases which were so solid it did not even budge, but a single book fell off. "Silly fool!" he thought to himself, "watch where you are going!" He looked at the label of the section he was in and walked over to replace the book to its original location. There was something about it that made him not want to put it back, so he looked at the front cover--the title was an interesting one but he hadn ever heard of the author. He then flipped the book over and read the back and this really made him want to read it. He could not, he told himself, because he needed to finish the other one since he had read so much already. He refused to put the book back however.
The wait for the other book was forever. Finally the librarian returned and he tried to ask her which he thought he should read but she refused to answer, "you must make the decision yourself." She did say that it was time for him to leave as the library was closing. He was puzzled, which to read? The one he had begun, which he already knew as good or the other which was a new possibility? Risk keeping the good to find out the other was better? Or take the new and risking that it be a letdown? To go with what he knew already, could he make himself satisfied knowing that he had made a good choice? Or would the possibility of "better" haunt him?
Panic gripped him as he could not decide, but he knew he must.
***Yeah yeah, I know, there are many faults where you can say that it's not a big deal because its a library he's only checking out the book, he can get another one later. I could list more but that would be dumb.***
Mouth agape he entered the massive library, the wise incandescent glow watched from above. The smell of old books filled his nostrils as he stood in awe, gazing at the daunting labyrinth of books. The library was empty except for the sole librarian who sat at her tiny wooden desk, illuminated by a small bronze lamp. She was probably in her sixties, her gray hair short and curly, she looked up at him with faded green eyes through her spectacles, offering a gentle smile. "May I help you?" she asked. He looked at her sheepishly and admitted, "I'm here to find a book, but I don't know what i want." She chuckled and said as if she understood, "Take your time and browse, since you are new around here, I'll only let you take one book out, okay?" He nodded and began on his way, scanning up and down and along the towers of bookshelves. His eyes were drawn to many different types of books, whether it be the title that captured his curiousity, or the familiarness of the author or even an unfamiliar author with an interesting name. There were books that had colorful and artistic covers that caught his eye, others that drew him out of their simplicity. He visited the multifarious seictions systematically, in some he lingered for a long time while others he quickly left.
After going through several books which he decided he did not want to read for various reasons after reading little portions of them, he finally settled on one. He had walked by this book many times but did not really notice it until he had become frustrated with his previous selections. He found that he really enjoyed this from the start. He began to read it earnestly and as quickly as he could when suddenly the librarian rushed over and snatched it from him. She asked if he was sure this was the book he wanted and he said, "Yes, I think so." She said, "Well, I'm going to take this from you for a bit, you can sit and think about it some more. You can browse some more if you like."
Instead he sat there dejected because he had been so excited about that book. It seemed like an eternity had passed when finally she returned it to him. He read for a long time before she came back and did the same. She repeated this everal times, so he began to look around timidly, not really searching for anything because he had made quite a bit of progress in the other book. It pleased him and kept his interest, "it is good" he thought to himself. As he was wandering aimlessly he accidentally bumped into one of the bookcases which were so solid it did not even budge, but a single book fell off. "Silly fool!" he thought to himself, "watch where you are going!" He looked at the label of the section he was in and walked over to replace the book to its original location. There was something about it that made him not want to put it back, so he looked at the front cover--the title was an interesting one but he hadn ever heard of the author. He then flipped the book over and read the back and this really made him want to read it. He could not, he told himself, because he needed to finish the other one since he had read so much already. He refused to put the book back however.
The wait for the other book was forever. Finally the librarian returned and he tried to ask her which he thought he should read but she refused to answer, "you must make the decision yourself." She did say that it was time for him to leave as the library was closing. He was puzzled, which to read? The one he had begun, which he already knew as good or the other which was a new possibility? Risk keeping the good to find out the other was better? Or take the new and risking that it be a letdown? To go with what he knew already, could he make himself satisfied knowing that he had made a good choice? Or would the possibility of "better" haunt him?
Panic gripped him as he could not decide, but he knew he must.
***Yeah yeah, I know, there are many faults where you can say that it's not a big deal because its a library he's only checking out the book, he can get another one later. I could list more but that would be dumb.***
February 15, 2005 - Taunting, Transient Terror Revisited
Taunting transient terror, revisited...
"Taunting transient terror" thou have proved thyself not a sojourner, but rather stalwart in the tantalizing of my soul.
Have you come to materialize and show thyself to be an oasis and not a mirage? Or have I begun to fade, hiding behind the solid that creates me, from the light and become a shadow? Helpless, fettered to the movements of that which I hide behind. Only extant in the presence of light--that of which I hide from--the paradox of dependence upon its existence and yet it is what erases my existence.
Oh, terror, have you and I traded places?
"Taunting transient terror" thou have proved thyself not a sojourner, but rather stalwart in the tantalizing of my soul.
Have you come to materialize and show thyself to be an oasis and not a mirage? Or have I begun to fade, hiding behind the solid that creates me, from the light and become a shadow? Helpless, fettered to the movements of that which I hide behind. Only extant in the presence of light--that of which I hide from--the paradox of dependence upon its existence and yet it is what erases my existence.
Oh, terror, have you and I traded places?
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