Back at it

The past four years have been a mind clearing, soul awakening time for me. Covid put a welcome end to a direction I'm glad I did not go down. Over these past couple years, I’ve been the happiest and most self-aware that I have ever been. I’ve been fortunate to be surrounded by my supportive family. The one thing that has been a constant through this most recent journey is my insistence on making every decision based on my happiness, and not someone else’s. I still have a lot of work to do, and I still don’t really know where I’m going. But I do know where I do not want to go.  

I have met a lot of people through my life who have dealt with or are currently dealing with the common and normal feeling of being lost and anxious. That can seem a lonely, empty, and unexplainable feeling. It does not have to be. Whether it is a fear of not living up to some self-created standard or feeling like you aren’t where you think you should be, rest assured that those self-doubts are not unusual. They are the opposite. They are normal. They can be changed.  

I’ve always enjoyed writing. It helps me organize my thoughts and express myself in a way that I otherwise struggle with. Someone told me a long time ago to write what I knew about. Unfortunately, there aren’t many subjects I can write a lot about. But, as I’ve gotten older, my life experiences have begun to amount to something that someone may find helpful.  

It has been years since I’ve opened a Word document, but now that I have a story to tell, I am going to start my story again. 

Top 10 Songs

Here are my top 10 songs. As a musician, I can't say that I've listed them in order of musical aptitude, or beauty, or coherence even. I've listed them as my personal top 10 songs. Please note that number 2 and 7 have explicit content. So if you are offended, do not look those up. Otherwise, you are safe.

1.  Led Zeppelin                              Kashmir
2. Tool                                             Eulogy
3. Jimmy Buffett                             Come Monday
4. 311                                              Down
5. Nick Drake                                  Northern Sky
6. Zac Brown Band                         Colder Weather
7. The Roots                                    The Seed
8. String Cheese Incident                 Sirens
9. Jack Johnson                                The Horizon Has Been Defeated
10. Medeski Martin and Wood         Bubblehouse

I didn't say these are my all time best songs; just my personal favorites. As you have, I've gone through personal changes in my life, and this mixture of songs represents where my mind was during those times.

Bitter grounds.

For those of you who don’t know me too well, I am a timid and introverted person. For those who do know me, this story may surprise you. For those who don’t know me, it’s too bad you don’t. For those who do know me, you’ll realize how difficult this event was for me.

For the past couple months, I have had my eyes on a girl whom I see a couple times a month. I’ve wanted to know more about her every time I see her. She seemed so interesting. Quiet, guarded, a mystery. Today I caught myself off guard. I decided to do something different. So, I asked her out.

Since my experience is; well, lacking, this looked similar to a yard sale on a bad downhill ski run. Skis and poles flying everywhere. Words stacked on top of words. Nearly incoherent sentences.  When I managed to build the courage to ask her if she wanted to grab some coffee, my work was done. Whatever happened next was just icing.

Bitter icing. She doesn’t like coffee. Apparently because it is bitter.

That wasn’t my goal. My goal was to just ask. I didn’t know what to expect, but I’m happy I’m still alive.

I learned that rejection isn’t painful. I’ve learned that a life of not being confident is. I’ve learned it isn’t quite as hard to face your fears. And, I’ve learned that when you do, and fail, it’s just as easy to laugh at you.

I’ll keep asking. Someday I will find someone who likes coffee.

Family Portraits

Last night consisted of a myriad of vivid dreams. One, in particular, woke me up with tears dripping down my cheeks.

Growing up, my Mom always hung enormous photos of my brother and me on the hallway walls most near our bedrooms. One particular wall seemed like a prison lineup of school photos of the both of us, sequenced chronologically over the previous 8 years. They nearly were. It was a wall of nerdy, quirky, humorous, and embarrassing mug shots.

As we grew older, we started acquiring hobbies, and identities. So, as you would imagine, our photos began to parallel those changes. My brother had photos of him doing his hobbies. I had photos of me doing mine. Intermixed were photos of our whole family, Mom and Dad included.

All of these, of course, are photographs. They are accurate and definitive glimpses of a moment in time. Frozen memories behind a pane of glass.

My dream last night, as you may imagine, was a bit more.

Picture your family, let’s say five years ago, meeting together at the house you will always consider your one true home. And picture a painting on a specific wall of that house, which you will always remember. This isn’t a photo, this is a painting. This is a painting that changes with time.

This was my dream. Bear with me.

The first time I notice the painting, it is of my Grandpa and Grandma. They were beautiful people. As I look at the painting, Grandpa begins to fade away, until he is gone. As there were lineups of photos on the walls of my houses growing up, consider a wall of paintings on this wall. To the right was a painting of my Grandfather and Grandmother. They, too, were beautiful individuals. Grandfather fades away, until he is gone. Looking back to the left, Grandma is alone in her painting. Looking right, Grandmother has faded, and is gone. Their painting is now a sheet of black.

I don’t dare look back at Grandma’s painting, because I know the inevitable outcome. I knew this would become a painting that I would never want to buy. Empty. Lonely. Black.

Their painting is now a sheet of black.

In my dream, I receive a letter from Grandma. She had long passed. In her letter, she tells of a painting that has been in our family throughout the generations. This painting is a painting in motion. It changes as our family does. It is a timeline only seen by who is looking at it.

Looking at it, I see our immediate family. Mom, Dad, brother, and me. This particular painting is a rendering of a photo that a park ranger took of our family in the Smokies a few years ago. The four of us were there. Then, one wasn’t.

I wasn’t.

When I woke up at 4:00, I started sobbing. Not because I saw myself dying, but because I didn’t see myself living.

I don’t know when I am going to die. Truth be told, I hope I outlive all of you. But, if in the enormous possibility that I don’t, I hope I live my life alive.

I’ve lived most of my life in the fear of being beaten, in perhaps every sense of the word. But, I haven’t. Not nearly in any sense of the word. I’m learning to live my life in a way that motivates me, that pushes me, and makes me happy. And in that sense, I won’t be beaten. And in that sense, hopefully, I won’t fade to black.

I was honored to be my brother's best man in his wedding. This was what I said of him.


This is a letter to my brother that I never sent. I wrote it on January 9th, 1983. Exactly one day after the day Brett was born.
This is a letter you never read, because you were only here for 24 hours, and I was 2.
“Where did you come from, man? Don’t you understand that this is my world? Everything around me revolves around me! Mom and Dad are here because of me! This house is here because of me! My best friend, Charlie, is here because of me! Why are you here? Where is Charlie? Charlie dog, who is this ugly thing next to me? THIS IS MY WORLD! How do I avert attention back to ME?”

So, I tried. I climbed to the top of the stairs of our two story house and reached out to swing the chandelier hanging above our dining room table. I caused as much commotion as I could. I even escaped the barriers of the confined house to visit with my neighborhood buddy. Mom and Dad didn’t find me for hours, or as they claim, 20 minutes. I tried anything to regain my parents’ love. Granted, it was there all along.

Brett;

I learned about your intelligence when we travelled the state with your Odyssey of the Mind competitions. I watched you as you worked with your friends to build skits based on random information. I saw how happy you were. At that time, I was still learning how to play the drums.

I learned of your athletic abilities when we travelled the state with your volleyball competitions. I watched as you learned how to build a team of kids to defeat another team of kids. I saw how happy you were. At that time, I was learning how to talk to girls. (I still haven’t figured that one out.)

I learned of your social abilities when I was learning how to drive. Granted, I was still learning how to talk to girls when you wrecked my Ford Mustang just outside the high school parking lot.

Even though I have been the “bigger brother”, you somehow were always my bigger brother. I learned more from you than you may have realized. And there is a lot in my life that I follow and learn from as I watch yours. My hope is that maybe someday you will follow in parts of mine.

To keep this short:

Stephanie; you have found a winner. Brett is a guy who has inadvertently mentored an older brother. Brett is a guy who has chosen who he wants to be in this world. Brett is a guy who has chosen who he wants to be with in this world. Brett is someone who I have, and always will look up to with the most respect. He has been my inadvertent mentor, staunch ally, and my best and longest friend.

I am excited for your future together. You complement each other more than any two people I have ever known. I wish you the best, and I will always be here for you. I love you both.

Raise your glasses to these two wonderful people!

Sometime during my 18th year, I noticed a change in how happy I was with myself. Up until then, I lived my life as a carefree child. Years slipped by like lazy waves resting against a sandy beach. Vacations, weekends at the lake, and lazy afternoons in the backyard seemed to come and go as easily as a heartbeat. I remember riding my bike down the street, not worried about being hit by a car. I was never worried about impressing that girl who sat next to me in 5th period, although she was gorgeous. Never did I worry about paying a bill on time; I didn’t have any to pay. And, I never worried about where my life would lead. That would simply work itself out.

Counting down the days until I would move away from home, I quickly realized that I would be on my own. My opportunity to become a new person was approaching. One distinct memory I have leading to the day I would move away was of me asking how I might change my personality in college. What could I do to make people like me more? How could I become different than what I am? People around me told me that this could be my opportunity to rediscover myself. “Now you can form a new identity.” Nobody will know you there. You could start fresh! “Yes!” I said. I never asked “Why?”

Once I arrived on campus, I already had a close knit group of friends that I had relied on to get me through a socially unnerving two week camping trip in Michigan. The camping and scenery were fantastic. It took me a while to grow into the social experience. Being an introvert has its positive traits, but it also has its negatives. Persistent uncomfortableness is one. Thankfully this was quickly overcome, and I soon began to fully enjoy their company.

Traveling with a seemingly random group of college freshmen was in itself exciting and overwhelming. Traveling, on a later trip, with a brotherly college friend was something in itself. Nearly three years ago, my buddy Chris and I embarked on a two week adventure to discover what the country of Chile had to offer two Midwesterners full of wanderlust. When Chris called me and told me of his plans, I asked if he needed a companion. I bought my ticket the next week. Our Chilean trip has since become one of the highlights of my life’s experience. Before stepping onto that American Airlines flight to Lima, I had never been outside of the United States (Niagara Falls and Tijuana excluded).

Taking only backpacks, and subsequently losing said backpacks in route, we were on our way to whatever adventures awaited. We arrived at the Punta Arenas airport a dozen hours after we planned. We were exhausted and overwhelmed. Poured into an unmarked taxi driven by the driver’s brother, we hoped we would find our way to the hostel alive. Our bigger hope was that the hostel operator would be awake, able to speak English, and allow us our promised room. Chris seemed to take all of this in stride. I feigned confidence.

Rattled by our travels, we sank into our stiff and thin mattresses. I set my alarm to go off in 6 hours. When it did, we packed up, had the most memorable breakfast I will perhaps ever have, and flung our packs over our shoulders. “Muchas gracias por su hospitalidad!” We were on our way; two American caballeros on a mission to bewilder the locals, and enlighten ourselves.

After that opportunity, I haven’t had many experiences that genuinely satisfied my need for adventure. This is what I am searching for; nothing more, just happiness. Happiness doesn’t come in the form of a long American Airlines flight to some far-off place. Excitement doesn’t come from waking up to an earthquake on the other side of the world. Adventure doesn’t come from crossing an expansive wooden bridge crossing a thrashing river; the sign reading “ONE PERSON AT A TIME”.

Now, when I look back at my life, I realize I have been very blessed to have had these opportunities. Sometimes they fall into my lap, and sometimes I make them happen. But, either way, I’m grateful they have helped mold me. I’ve been fortunate. I’ve been sheltered. I’ve been guided. And I’ve been lucky.

Destiny has, to this point, been relatively good to me. I’ve had my low points, and I’ve had my exhilarating ones. I’m alive. I’m hopeful. I’m looking forward.

Later, someday, I may look back at this essay. When I was in college, I wrote a journal through all four years. I still have those journals. Every once in a while, I will open them up and take a quick glimpse into my past. In some ways, I am different now. My writing, I feel, is improved. My personality; well, that is the same. Apparently I didn’t listen to anyone when I was 18. Don’t be offended when I don’t listen to you now.

Everything seems to change, while nothing changes. I’m as happy as I was before I was 18, and I’m as equally as unhappy with myself after I was 18.

A Trail Witnesses the Changing of the Guard

One of my fondest childhood memories involves my Grandpa, a hammer, a damp basement, and a stool. This memory may be embedded in my mind because of a perfectly timed and preserved photograph, but it also may be the compilation of many similar memories engrained in my young conscious. Looking at this photo today sometimes brings me to tears. I never knew my Grandpa as well I should, because he passed before his time. He passed before I could grow to know him as a man. But, when I look at this particular photo, I have since learned so much more about him. His love towards me is encapsulated in that photograph; in his smile, and how he looks toward me. My regret is that he won’t have the opportunity to realize what that means to me now.



My goal yesterday was to hike all of the remaining trails at Shades State Park, and adjoining Pine Hill Nature Preserve. That was an easy task in itself. There were only 7 miles I haven’t hiked. They were, however, 7 gorgeous and rewarding miles. What happened during those miles was unexpected, and not well prepared for. Trails 4 and 5 at Shades are entirely unique in the state of Indiana. Both follow two narrow and steep gorges, flanked by cliffs, and lay on active and flowing creek beds. Lush, green, enveloping; these are rugged trails, dangerous to the most experienced and equipped hiker. Portions of these trails involve navigating rocks and boulders, water, and most importantly, wooden ladders spanning, at times, 20 foot mossy cliffs.



The last thing I expected to see as I bounded down Trail 4 was an elderly couple gingerly navigating their way through this maze of fallen trees and jagged boulders. Yards ahead of them, darted their pre-teen grandson, with all of the energy of a fawn on a double shot of espresso. As his grandparents struggled to keep him within earshot, I immediately pictured myself racing ahead of my own grandparents. My next thought was what this little hiker would remember of this particular experience when he grows older.


Sitting on that stool in my Grandpa’s basement, I had no idea the depth of that time of my life would mean to me later. I didn’t have the tools to comprehend that. We were just hammering nails into scrap pieces of wood. When I look back at that time now, I see there was something more happening. We weren’t there for my enjoyment. And we weren’t there for Grandpa’s enjoyment. Nor my parents’ or Grandma’s. We were there because we were supposed to be. There may not be any reason other than this was just simply supposed to happen.



When I first came up on the elderly couple, I was afraid for their safety. I thought surely he would slip on a rock, take a bad step and twist an ankle, or worse, fall off one of those treacherous ladders. I offered my assistance all the way down the trail. Never did they accept my offer. I was terrified. The elderly couple was not. Maybe they had no reason to be. Then I realized that they had to be there. This was what was simply supposed to happen. Maybe their grandson will write of this experience. Hopefully, at least, he will have a photograph.



Perhaps the only takeaway from yesterday’s adventures was simply the meaning of our existence. Perhaps we only exist to allow our offspring, and our species, to keep existing. Love is the necessary tool that allows that to happen. Why else would such a couple risk injury, or worse, to take their grandson on such a dangerous hike? Why else would a man sit in a basement and show a kid how to hit a nail with a hammer? And, why else would we photograph that?