Are you Drowning in ‘Literallys,’ or is it just me?

I learned in my adult life that I am a literal-visual thinker. It wasn’t until I googled the words that it quickly popped up in the pre-filled field. It lead me to a blog post that read as if it were describing me. Not until then did I know it was a real thing or that others struggled with it too.

Literal-visual thinkers process what is said based on the exact meaning of each word and then see it in pictures.

What?!?

Others don’t?

As a literal-visual thinker, I can’t hear ‘I want to blow my brains out,’ without seeing brain spatter everywhere. I shudder every time and need minutes to recover. There are times when I anticipate what’s coming and close my eyes and cover my ears to avert the suffering.

Photo by Julia Solodovnikova on Pexels.com

If there is a scale, I fall in the 80-85% range. Not because I’m not always 100% literal, rather I have adjusted to repeated idioms, metaphors, humor, vagueness and have learned to recognize the nuances. I was surprised to learn literal thinking is associated with Autism or Asperger’s and exists on the spectrum.

I have never been more conscious of my literalness than when I am in the company of the masses who are ‘literally dying’ all around me, but rather, are very much alive and well.

We are drowning in ‘literallys.’ They lurk in the most unsuspecting sentences from the most unsuspecting sources.

Let us imagine for a moment, that the next time you say ‘literally’ to emphasize a figurative statement or even a fact, you get slapped in the face as an odd reflex perpetrated from your own hand, then perhaps you might cease with this nonsense.

Can’t you see Molly Shannon and Kate McKinnon in a SNL skit catching up over coffee and slapping themselves every time they say ‘literally?’

Curiously hilarious, I say!

In the seas of today’s language environment, you can’t enjoy a random conversation with family and friends or turn on the TV without hearing its annoying chronic misuse. It makes me shudder every time!

Photo by Alin Luna on Pexels.com

“It was literally 80 yesterday and today it’s 30.”

“That house was literally there a few hours ago and now it is literally gone.”

Those are two very clear and distinct facts that need not be re-emphasized as fact. Like ‘ums’ and ‘likes’ ‘literally’ has become a filler word.

Even more egregious is using it out of context. If you were ‘literally dying’ you would be gasping for your last breath! It is a distressing and tiresome reminder of the real struggles we literal thinkers face.

The inadvertent agony created by the non-literal masses coughing up ‘literally’ everywhere is a fate worse than the high-pitched screech of metal on metal. It’s akin to constantly reminding an empath that they are being overly sensitive.

Duh…

Partly sunny or mostly cloudy?!

Are not they the same? I get why water under the bridge is an important metaphor. We can’t push it back upstream to make it come down differently. Or why a glass half full is better than one half empty even though from a volume standpoint they are the same.

I process information from long drawn-out stories of mundaneness to analytical equations in the same manner. I connect dots and put things in order. It must be clear and sensical. It must lack implied details, inuendo and nuance.

Throw in a half dozen or so ‘literallys’ and I stop listening and start counting.

Tell me a joke? I get painfully uncomfortable whilst mustering a fake laugh or an eye roll. Say something that isn’t true because it is funny. I wince and cringe in agony. Present a ‘hypothetical’ and I begin spiraling in confusion.

“Wait, so you did tell your boss to fuck off or you didn’t.”

I am painfully gullible.

Clarity, please. It is the only path I know.

There are endless examples. Fortunately, most fly under the radar and go unnoticed by those around me, especially if we don’t share the same roof. However, the more daily interactions I have with someone the harder it gets.

My mother recently had a malignant growth removed from the shin of her leg. The directions from the Doctor required her to clean it with bar soap once a day, Ivory, Dial, it didn’t matter.

Of course, I asked.

The next morning, “Mom, did it bother you to clean it?”

“No, I rubbed a bar of soap on it.” Gesturing with her hand toward her shin for added effect.

“Did that hurt? Maybe you shouldn’t rub a bar of soap over it and use a washcloth.”

Her innocent reply, “I didn’t! I used a washcloth! What do you think I am, stupid!?”

Concern and compassion with a dash of literal interpretation is a recipe perfectly formulated to look like an A-hole. Sadly, a place I find myself inadvertently landing too often.

Them, “I don’t like that restaurant, I don’t eat fried food.”

Me, “They don’t serve fried food.”

Them, “Well you know, when they sauté it in a pan.”

“That’s not fried food.” Me = A-hole.

You get the A-(w)hole idea.

My responses are not premeditated for A-hole conformity, but rather to my natural interpretation to the very statements being made. Like a train speeding down the track, I don’t see it coming until after it flattens me on the ground.

Fortunately, not all my literalness flattens me on the tracks. Years ago, I was on a plane headed to the islands for vacation and read an article in the airline magazine about the entrepreneur who developed the Big Ass Fan.

A bold ass name, I thought.

When we landed, the open-air airport had no A/C and I looked up and there it was… the biggest fan I had ever seen – A BIG ASS FAN. Thank you for living up to my literal expectations!

I am a planner and a doer, pragmatic and focused. Committed and loyal through the cloudiest of ends. Visually, it’s black and white, not gray. I see you standing over your boss’s desk telling her to fuck off. I contrive visual images of conversation details and when I can’t connect the dots, I interrupt with questions.

This annoys people. Some more than others.

The unaware may never skip a beat, on with the next anecdote of their tale, while others are clearly annoyed. As we near ‘The End’ if I don’t get it, I just can’t let it go. “Huh, what? I don’t understand.” Back to chapter one, we go.

I remember everything and expect that what is said is what will result. Say what you mean and mean what you say and don’t ask me a question you really prefer I don’t answer. I am painfully direct and frank. I call it like I see it.  To the point, no mincing words.

This annoys people too. Some more than others.

People who are close to me expect and appreciate this from me. No sugar coating, just a big bitter pill to swallow with no water to wash it down.

Cough, cough… ok.

To the outsider, I imagine this reads like a demanding bitch who isn’t worthy of friends and conversation. If that’s your thought, we agree.

If you are literal like me, painstakingly connecting dots, visualizing stories with images, responding directly and frankly, it can be a distressing way to live, often being misunderstood. I am quite the opposite of a demanding bitch, and struggle with the consequences of my literalness regularly.

Fully understanding this about my nature gives me clarity and a better understanding of my communication style but doesn’t necessarily help those around me.

Sadly, being misunderstood is a literal thinker’s way of life and being reminded of it regularly is excruciating.

Thank you

Why should you care, and how might you help, you ask?

Next time you are ‘literally dying’ or need to say literally five times in each sentence, first, make sure you don’t slap yourself in the face, then pause for some brief reflection and recognize the inadvertent agony you may be causing us literal thinkers. It just might curtail your flagrant behavior.

It is due time for an indefinite moratorium.

Obituary to follow.

Breaking Bread with Dead People

When you think of the commonalities you share with another person, what comes to mind? Most likely, things like interests, hobbies and passions.

Can we bridge the gap in areas of emotional distress? Why can’t we talk about death or tragedy without people feeling sorry for us or reluctant to welcome a difficult conversation?

Common tragedies bring people together from a sense of knowing. Compassion, empathy and patience are automatic.

The more we talk, the more we gather, the more we grow.

I would be remiss without referencing the inspirational, M. Scott Peck’s poignant words from The Road Less Traveled,  “…we must live with the knowledge that death is our constant companion traveling on our left shoulder.” Important words for the future whether you have lived through a significant death or not.

I originally wrote this in the summer of 2021 after lunch with two former high school classmates. I was so troubled and moved by their shared tragedy, I went home to write this for them.

Sadly, in the time since that day, there are other friends who, tragically and with great despair, have reluctantly joined the club.

This is for anyone who has lost a child.

I recently shared a meal with some high school mates among whom time and distance has put a few decades of space between. Life happens and so does death. How did we move from the bleachers of our high school gym to a table in a restaurant discussing the death of each of their sons?

Catching up on our years since takes a vastly different direction when one has lost a child. I only know this from afar because not only have I never lost a child, I do not have one to lose. In the reminiscent realm of these gatherings, ‘yea, me too’ is not something one might consider hoping to share.

I do know death intimately, though. We are old acquaintances. I have felt the air sucking deflation of every ounce of purpose and faith.  When I met death, disguised as hope and a glimmering light, it felt like falling off a cliff waiting for the bone crushing end that continued in perpetuity.

A bone crushing crash that never ends. Yes, can you imagine?

This is a path where second guessing intersects why me. A winding path full of questions that offer no answers and ends in a place where the entrance to the club requires a secret handshake.

They know the nature of fragility. They met at a dead end road.

They remain in turmoil while they stumble towards peace. They seem to rationalize the absence but not the loss.

How does one even reconcile the loss of a child?

How does one not say, ‘God should have taken me?’

They have asked those questions but find no answers. They choose to live despite them. They know time fleets, wanes and is a gift wrapped in a constantly unraveling bow. 

As an empathetic spectator, it moved me to witness the grace with which they each shared their grief and pain, and ultimate compassion for the other’s loss. A sense of knowing that doesn’t emerge until you walk in another’s shoes.

Interestingly, they both attended the Catholic elementary school together but admittedly struggled finding solace in their faith. I imagine a loss so great cannot be reconciled in any form intended to comfort.

It is there that we break bread with dead people. Where shared tragedy bridges decades long gaps instantly exchanging what truly matters, for what truly does not. Tomorrow isn’t what it will be without yesterday. Forward our only choice.

My old acquaintance taught me this, and apparently, it taught my friends the same.

Perhaps, this club is not for everyone. It requires great strength, resilience and fortitude to enter and stay, but true unwavering perseverance to leave, to seek and find peace, to hope and breathe again, and ultimately, to find the parachute’s cord before the bone crushing end.

If you know someone who has lost a child, meet them at the dead end road. Welcome a difficult conversation. Check in, be present, listen and support.

If you are the surviving parent, keep them close. Live within, through and beyond their absence and loss, ‘always traveling on your left shoulder.’

Peace and love for a memorable, reflective and joyous Thanksgiving to all.

What the ‘F’ is Wrong with People?!? 2.0

When I wrote my first blog post ‘What the ‘F’ is Wrong with People?’, it was in the aftermath of one of our country’s mass shootings. I was doing the dishes and became so distraught that I found a pen and a piece of paper to release my worried mind. I had no intention of conceiving a series around it.

Can you imagine having enough material for a blog series titled, ‘What the ‘F’ is Wrong with People?’?

Sadly, in our culture of late, it’s the gift that keeps on giving. I couldn’t possibly speculate the source of the malicious angst and venom that some people feel free to spew relentlessly but there is a definitive shift in how we treat each other.

Recently, I had a troubling conversation with a friend who works in education. She has encountered something so distressing that she has taken medical leave and is considering stepping aside from her career for her last two years as an educator.

Really?!?! Are you frickin kidding me? This is what we do to people?

What can you imagine is so egregious that it might result in such an outcome? What could push someone to the brink who has spent her career in education as a principal, teacher, mentor, and tutor?

She has two master’s degrees in education: one in literacy as a reading specialist and the other in administration. She has an endorsement to teach English as a second language and currently works in the private sector educating educators.  Need I go on?

Any guesses? We have a winner… bullying!

What the ‘F’ is Wrong with People?!?

These are not children on a playground (an equally hideous ritual) but grown frickin adults! How does a bully move through their career and remain in a position of authority?

My dear troubled friend is on leave in support of her mental health. This disturbs me so greatly, especially because she is on the other side of the country out of my supportive reach. Ultimately, if she steps away, the bully wins and the students lose. Or do they?

Let’s peel this back for a moment, shall we?

Bullies are weak, insecure, narcissistic a-holes that find their odd twisted insidious power belittling, demeaning, undermining, berating, shaming, and embarrassing others to feel superior. Did I overlook anything?

Their moral void so vast, the victims are cast aside at every corner.

Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Does that mean we give bullies consent, or do they prey on those who are sensitive, empathetic, compassionate, and emotionally curious? The precise type of person we want to educate our children!!

Sadly, by nature, educators’ gifts of emotional curiosity, concern and care are fodder for bullies.

Their gifts = their detriments.

Can’t we have a 12 step program for the bullying narcissistic a-holes of the world? Or perhaps, there is a small plot of land in Siberia suitable for the venom oozing a-holes.

Typically, I do not wish ill of others, even the a-holes of the world because their due shall come, but when the circumstance extenuates beyond the realm of reason it is time for drastic measures.

Since Siberia is likely off the table, we all need to stand in support of the next victim as the bully rounds the corner. Help them regain their power and not concede to inferiority. Their gifts should not be to their detriment but rather to their, and everyone else’s, benefit.

My friend may step aside, she may not. Hopefully, either way she gets her power back and protects her mental health. If she does step away, she leaves an accomplished and successful career in the name of her wellbeing a mere two years early.

Her legacy is worthy. Time to share her gifts where she can shine.

Peace out mother-fing bullies!

Friendship: When a Sailboat Capsizes the Keel Rights the Boat

I was recently graced with the presence of my all-time besties from college. For those of you that don’t know me personally, that is 41 years of our collective best and worst selves settled into the north side of middle age-dom.

We have come up together. We spent our last years as teenagers together. We embraced our independence and took trepid naïve steps toward adulthood together.  We morphed into responsible people, transitioning our college life from books, beers and boredom to Chicago, shit jobs and cool apartments.

Together we floundered and prospered. We were bold yet ambivalent, independent yet crazily dependent, and happy yet desperate. We ambled aimlessly and with intent. We were complacent and determined. We shared endless pleasures and a notable amount of pain. We felt the joy of hope and the agony of despair.

We laughed until we peed our pants and cried until we couldn’t shed another tear. We shared the warmth of love and coolness of contention, for there exists no greater comfort or pain than with someone who knows your greatest vulnerabilities.

We discovered our careers and our passions together. We stood in each other’s weddings as we married. We welcomed mini versions of ourselves into the confines of our friendship. We changed diapers, wiped tears and shoved the mini-mes off to college and beyond. We buried our parents.

Our early years together were the first real test of balance. We rode the seesaw up and down while eventually empowering each other to find the middle. These are people whose influence has greatly shaped my life and every step I take forward. I am where I am with and because of them.

After years as roommates, and decades in the same city, we are now in different parts of the country, so our time together is planned. Aside from the occasional one off we make a concerted effort to get together a few times a year. Is it fair to have expectations around these monumental visits?

Depends on which of us replies. Certainly, expectations are the breeding ground of disappointment, a no-win perspective masked in hope which seems to always land itself at the feet of disappointment. Sadly, we shared such a visit.

For me that visit was so detrimental that I stepped out of our friendship for a brief period of time. I didn’t draw a conscious line in the sand but as time passed it grew harder to reconcile my sadness and disappointment.

Life is too short to hold grudges, and I for one don’t allow room in mine for them but if a grudge’s twin is indifference, then I admittedly saddled that horse.

I’m not sure there is a worse way to feel about friendship than indifferent. It is quite the antithesis of how one should feel about their besties. I did not go down that road consciously but since hindsight is the reflecting pool of our misgivings, it is certainly where I double parked.

Fortunately, our friendship’s deep foundational roots endured their pruning. Erasing decades of unconditional love, guidance, empowerment, and congruency is a feat far greater than the reach of expectations or indifference.

When a sailboat capsizes the keel rights the boat. We continue to grow and mature as a collective unit and remain afloat.

We are the keel of each other’s boat. Stay the course!

Our independence is by virtue of our continued dependence on each other. Up, down and balanced harmoniously together forever.

What’s next? Stay tuned!!

The Last Time I Said I Can’t

At what age do we really start thinking for ourselves, making plans, setting goals and believing those outcomes are ours to achieve? If it is as simple as shifting our mindset, when and how do we know to do so?

My Hungarian father and his parents’ sacrifices cast a brilliant light on what resilient and perseverance meant and the tenacity with which they approached survival and hope for a new day. They were worthy examples but as an adolescent how could I associate the direction I needed to take with that of people who left their lives behind for freedom.

Through their example, I grew to see my life as limitless. It was simultaneously encouraged by my parents, but how and when could I put it into action?

Reflecting on that now, to pinpoint a pivotal moment in time when the light went on, it was my senior year of high school on the basketball court.

Something changed, forever.

My coach towered over my 5’9” lanky body and persisted in challenging me to a close jump shot through her outstretched arms. With absolutely no effort, she repeatedly swatted my shot away before it had any hope of success.

“Again,” she commanded, as my teammates watched, grateful not to be standing in my shoes while I continued to struggle.

“Again!”

After the fifth or sixth time, I muttered “I can’t.”

“What did you say?” She was as shocked by my response as I was by the tone of her question.

Gulp, “I can’t.”

Her next words changed my life.

“Don’t you ever say I can’t,” she screamed as she slammed the ball down on the court, promptly spun on her heels and returned to the locker room. Practice over.

Naturally, she was pushing me to think outside the box and do something differently to enable my success, but I threw in the towel and just gave up. I quit.

I can still feel that feeling today. My humiliation was overshadowed by an inordinate sense that I needed to shift my mindset. Verbalizing my negative thoughts allowed me to quit, give up and stop trying.

One of many quotes from Eleanor Roosevelt that I love; “Nothing has ever been achieved by the person who says, ‘It can’t be done.’”

Think about it. Believing you can’t is a cop out, a way to avert failure, an excuse that enables quitters. It’s Superman’s kryptonite.

Combining ‘I can’t’ with any hope of accomplishing something we set our minds to are opposing forces. The up and down of the seesaw has no prospect of finding balance in the middle. I knew in that moment; I could talk myself into something just as easily as I could talk myself out of it.

It became a forever mindset granting me the time and space to believe in myself, to push beyond where comfort lived and to color outside the lines. With time and maturity, it developed my critical thinking skills and furthered my confidence and pride. Attributes that were earned and not given.

After that day, I knew the sky was the limit and my life was mine to live. Sink or swim, I had control. That afternoon on the basketball court was the last time I said or believed, “I can’t.”

Thank you, Coach Nancy Paige.

Touching a Hot Stove Never Felt so Good

For as long as I can remember I have used the ‘hot stove’ analogy when I make significant mistakes in my life. You only touch a hot stove once because your skin bubbles, it hurts like hell, and you swear at the top of your lungs. Point made. I won’t do that again!

Conversely, there are mistakes that simmer on the back burner not hot enough to scorch our consciousness into change. They exist just outside of the realm of accountability and persist in variations of the same underlying theme. A self-fulling prophecy that lands us right back in the misery of where we began.

Recognizing that being numb to the consequences of our mistakes or failures isn’t a productive place to rest, we need to greet them with open arms and a willingness to effect change.

One small catch, how do we spot them a mile away barreling in our direction? Surely, there is a pattern in our behavior that is as clear as frickin day! “Hello, nice to see you again. Shall I trip you now or next time we meet?”

We don’t know what needs fixing until we do! Repeating the same mistake doesn’t teach us anything until it results in a different outcome. If we see mistakes as the seeds of our life lessons, then hydrating them is tantamount to overcoming them.

Many of the mistakes I made in my life brought about an abrupt change in my future behavior because of the writhing pain they created. If you touch a hot stove your next move isn’t jumping in the oven!

The one and done lessons are the easier ones to learn. Those that simmer on the back burner need our focus and attention. Many of the early choices in my life were in the name of self-protection and their misguided outcomes simmered until the pot went dry.

Time and maturity enabled me to be more objective with my approach and rationale of what self-protection should look or feel like and hurting those I loved was not it.

With time and reflection on my side, I learned those choices caused me and those around me more harm than good. Consciously choosing my path became the foundation for making productive decisions. A fork in the road doesn’t continue in the same direction for a reason. Pausing and anticipating the outcomes of going left or right became the starting point for positive outcomes.

Wrangling a definitive path that proceeds in a positive direction does not mean there won’t be bumps in the road. Ultimately, we need to believe that our actions and reactions are fully within our control. How we manage them, and their potential damage will dictate how we see our futures.

It is liberating to be accountable to the choices I make even when their outcomes don’t always work in my favor. Being accountable does not absolve me of poor decisions, rather it casts a luminous light on the outcomes. It is a proactive choice that balances the direction I take with its result. No excuses, no regrets.

We thrive or flounder in our own personal experiences and what we perceive them to represent to our benefit or detriment.  Life is not meant to be lived infallibly but without doubt needs to be lived absent blame, excuses and most importantly, regret.

Balance met Harmony and Lived Happily Ever After

When I think of balance the first image that pops in my head is a seesaw at the playground when I was a child. Its fluid motion lands you at the top or bottom quite abruptly, or ever so carefully in perfect parallel with the earth and the sky. These actions are not independently exclusive, but rather together in harmony with the movement.

Up, down and balanced harmoniously together. Brilliant! The challenge is putting this into action. How do we realize balance in all things we do? I have learned to rationalize many things in my life and balance brings needed equilibrium into focus.

Mark Twain said, “What is joy without sorrow? What is success without failure? What is a win without a loss? What is health without illness? You have to experience each if you are to appreciate the other. There is always going to be suffering. It’s how you look at your suffering, how you deal with it, that will define you.” (Thank you, Deb H. for the Twain inspo.)

When you trip and fall down you don’t crawl on the ground indefinitely because that is where you landed. You leap to your feet, look around to make sure no one saw you fall, then you move about as if nothing happened. Balance delivers light in the dark. It gets you back on your feet! It is capable of offsetting spite, revenge, anger, and blame by empowering forgiveness, acceptance, appreciation, accountability, and gratitude. 

If we balance negative with positive, the seesaw lands in the middle. Painful lessons may appear as more evident and obvious because they are not the hopeful outcome. Conversely, joyous lessons can slip under the radar because they are our expectation.

If joy eventually results from pain, then it washes over us like a revelation. If joy results from joy, it is often our expectation and lacks some of the revelationary qualities that joy from pain exhibits. They are both equally pertinent because if we distinguish the value and power in either lesson then growth prevails, and we find balance.

I have learned that painful lessons illuminate a path to a big ass gold framed mirror… Back so soon? Time for some self-reflection. Sometimes the mirror is foggy when I arrive, but as it clears, I can see the tools shining in the background poised for battle.

For us to thrive, balance needs to be in everything we do and everywhere we look. We can’t lose sight of the choice, the choice to balance joy with pain, good with bad, freedom with struggle, strength with weakness, gain with loss, right with wrong, compassion with abstinence, acceptance with rejection, empathy with apathy.

Balance is the calm in the storm.

It is not about choosing one direction over the other per se, it is about seeing the counter balance inherent in both directions. In the moment, it is hard to not see pain as pain but if the glass is half full then there is nothing negative that does not find its way to positive.

Ultimately, it is the harmonious fluid movement of the seesaw, up, down and balanced, that heals and empowers my choices and the direction they lead me.

Frank and Bill – The Tale of Two Fathers

If you have been a young child of divorce, you know the agonizing feeling of loss buried deeply under glimmering hope, wishful thinking and a blatant aversion to reality. Pretending, escaping and willing it away with every breath, longing for the return to normalcy are efforts in futility.

If you have been a young child of divorce lucky enough to be blessed with a second father, then you know the peace and joy that can emerge out such a devastating scenario. I am grateful that one of the most unfortunate situations in my young life grew to be one of the most fortunate.

As I say in nearly every post, I am where I am because of where I have been. As such and without doubt, my two fathers have been the most influential men in my life, albeit through vastly different examples.

Frank was a non-conformist Hungarian refugee who colored outside of the lines in every aspect of his life. He was sophisticated, worldly, cultured, artistic, philosophical, conversational, passionate, carefree, and wounded. He loved the Mamas and the Papas and Picasso, the Pacific Ocean and sailing.

He lived a minimalist laissez-faire life and believed rules were meant to be eradicated.

Frank was into vinyl records.

Bill was an Irish Catholic career military pilot who, before becoming a corporate pilot, retired after 28 years of service as a Lieutenant Colonel. He was disciplined, focused, strict, organized, loyal, humble, stoic, and soft spoken. He loved flying planes, fishing, skiing and tinkering in the garage or yard.

He believed rules were meant to be followed.

Bill was into encyclopedias.

By virtue of their differences, I am the best part of both. Frank, through his influence and struggles taught me resilience, perseverance and compassion. How to be aware and mindful, how to overcome adversity, what inclusion looks like and why it matters. We share the same passions for music, art, the ocean and sailing.

Bill, through his regimented influence and example taught me discipline, order, organization, humility, and loyalty. His favorite saying… ‘it’s water under the bridge,’ through which I learned not to hold a grudge, or wallow in things I couldn’t control. After hearing it so much, it got me thinking why I couldn’t push it back up stream to make it come down differently, something I reference to this day. I ski because of him. I teach skiing to others because of him.

I have five step brothers and sisters, nieces, nephews, and a vast extended family I would not know and love otherwise.

These traits were realized through time and maturity. In fact, many took years, even decades, for me to recognize and embrace. Like a diamond in the rough, time fortified the inherent truths of my traits and the source of such wisdom. With hindsight and reflection, I see that now. The tale of two fathers, their influence and infinite presence always traveling on my left shoulder!

RIP Frank E. Kalapos – February 12, 1935 – November 10, 1988

RIP Lt. Colonel, William J. McElroy III – September 5, 1927 – June 7, 2022

Forever in my heart and on my left shoulder!

To Concede or Not to Concede?

That is the question!

You can’t have lived a day of life without bumping up against failure. Real or imagined, it looms around the corner waiting patiently to trounce on your next hope filled endeavor. Whether athletic, professional or esoteric, our dreams cannot be dreamt of without the gnawing possibility of their immediate evaporation.

Do we save ourselves the agony of eminent defeat by squashing them before they are realized or exert only a halfhearted effort because we know “it just wasn’t meant to be?” A self-fulfilling prophecy whose path we laid with sparkles and walked upon with trepidation. Welcome to failure-dom. Please step to the back of the line, we knew you’d be back.

If we are where we are because of where we have been then our past failures become our future successes, that is if we choose not to concede. Losing sucks! What we do in the face of its full-on tackle will determine every step we take forward from that moment. Not the act of failing itself, more the mental concession to our subconscious and the negative energy it perpetuates. Do we kick dirt on it and turn on our heels or dust off the ole shoes and embrace the next trepid ride?

I’ve done both but favor going down kicking and screaming. Fortunately, this pattern showed me the worth of the many bumps and bruises I endured. They revealed the submission to failure grew from insecurity and thrived in hesitation. I granted permission to question my strength, my ability and my self-worth. The consequential outcome fed hesitation like a spreading cancer stifling any glimmer of hope or resolve. It kept pointing its finger right back at me, the sole saboteur of my own future successes.

Connecting me and my actions to the outcomes, seemingly simple yet elusive, changed how I moved forward. I have had endless support in my life, but there have been times in both my business and writing endeavors that I was told to quit or give up or “you can never do that.” I am grateful for the challenge that emerged from their doubt. I had a point to prove! I dug in my heels deeper and pushed harder.

Fortunately, I was raised to see my life as limitless, everything is within reach. I know in my gut that I can do anything I put my mind to and had I quit before I failed, I would have never realized success. The beauty of life’s greatest successes is they emerge from the shadows of failure.

So, fight like hell in opposition. Put every ounce of effort into failing. Quitters never win because they avert any and all opportunity to fail. An opportunity to fail is not a failure, it is a chance to win.

I am fortunate to have grown through my failures. Why not throw in the towel, fall on the sword and concede defeat? Because no growth is found on Easy Street. The glass can’t be half full if there is a hole in the bottom. Failure in effort is a great success because of the lessons it reveals.

It is a huge win in my book.

Losing Sucks!

Especially the tried your hardest, hope-to-win, feel it in your gut, but still lost, kind of losing. Even more especially if you are someone like me, a purveyor of wins. I win! I get shit done! I stay focused on the journey despite the path.

Easy, because most wins are relative, that is, unless there is a prize involved. Then it is either you’ve got it, or you don’t. You won or you lost. It is black and white, not gray. Your prize is shiny and bright. It is embossed, polished, engraved, laden in gold or adorned by a ribbon in the firsts of primary colors.

Fall short of that and it’s, “Nice try.” “Better luck next time.” “Everything happens for a reason.” The pretend compassion that reeks of cliché-ick apathy. Or worst of all, the loudest of silent voices, “What in the hell were you even thinking?”

While most of my life’s wins fall under the subjective umbrella – still a win because the glass is half full kind of win, a recent loss really sucked! It was a blow that left me gasping for every breath in my depleted worth.

I must trace my steps back to my high school athletic endeavors to even get close to this feeling. In those days, losing produced a gut ache so painful that tears found their way down my cheek. Typically, it was my shallow perspective on a specific reason that produced the loss… missed the jump shot at the buzzer, put the wrong wax on my skis, or was just simply out played.

They were not losses at the core of my identity rather ones that ran along side of it. This loss lives much closer to the core of my identity. It was full-on rejection.

I attended a Writer’s Workshop and there learned of their writing contest. Top prize, a $10 GRAND advance and a publishing contract!! Yes, please!! The only prerequisites of the contestants; attend a writer’s workshop, be a writer, submit a book proposal, and sit back to wait for the bells to ring and confetti to fall. I was confident there was no possibility of losing.

Losing, failing and rejection are the masks of opportunity. Yeah, yeah, yeah… I mean, I have gotten where I am in life believing that, but it doesn’t take away the monumental punch in the gut that lies in their wake. If we are where we are because of where we have been, then tomorrow isn’t what it will be without yesterday. Deal and move on.

While the rejection left me feeling depleted I was not to be deterred. After some time and the replenishment of my self-worth, I jumped back in the deep end and didn’t look back.

To some, it is a bit of a stretch to think of me as a writer. I mean, it seems that you either have always been one, or you are not. I landed somewhere in the middle. Dating back to the days of writing for my college paper, I have always loved the spoken leverage in the written word. Its strength and power exist without interruption, without the risk of deaf ears or a closed mind.

Writing is where I find my voice, even if only for myself. If you are reading this now, then I don’t have to worry about whether you are listening, whether your phone will ding with some notification, or if it’s time to put the laundry in the dryer. If you are reading you are listening. Agree or not with the message, at least I have your attention.