Blog
- They weren’t ideal for what we had in mind
- They were ideal for what resulted
High beams
I’ve started walking after dinner, for a couple of reasons, mainly because walking after a day of sitting helps me move on from what I’m doing for a primary income stream these days. Also there’s some health benefits from doing so, rather than just eating and moving directly to the couch to consume whatever the streamers have decided I should watch this week.
It’s the time of year here when it’s just about perfect weather at dawn or dusk. Something about watching the lights come up or go down on the day does good things for whatever I have left of a soul.
Dan Has Notes is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
That means I’m wearing a vest bright enough to be seen from space, because the neighborhood doesn’t have street lights (something I like) and too many of the neighbors think the speed limit is a suggestion and move down the main drag like they’re trying to clear the gates before the drawbridge closes against a zombie apocalypse.
I’m kidding about the drawbridge. But there is a gate. Can’t have just anyone wandering in to use the pickleball courts.
There aren’t many sidewalks here, either. Parts of the development have them, but where I normally walk is sidewalk-free, and so my options are either walking the side of the road, or a ditch, or someone’s front yard. I stick to the side of the road, because the ditch is too ditchy and walking in someone’s yard is grounds for at best a starring role in a series of Nextdoor posts or at worst a headline about how great “stand your ground” laws are.
My first choice clearly upset whoever was driving the large truck that let me know how they felt about it by honking their horn and flashing their high beams at me, opting to deafen and blind me in an effort to help me correct the clear error of my walking ways.
Or they were concerned I might not see them and wanted to be sure that I safely navigated the often treacherous roadways, lest I come to needless harm. I’m all for the benefit of the doubt.
High beam flashing is the thoughts and prayers of confrontation: it gets a reaction out of whoever it’s been directed to, makes the flasher/pray-er feel better, and accomplishes nothing.
Not that I wanted them to get out of the truck and discourse with me about the value of walking and whether my walking was interfering with their forward progress, but it would have been a nice change. Something different.
Knowing it all
I miss knowing everything. Having all the answers. Being smarter than everyone else. Because I, like my fellow Christians knew that The Secret wasn’t some hippy dippy Oprah-endorsed life hack.
No, the real secret was that because I’d opted to empty myself of self and allow Jesus to possess me in spirit form that I was going to go to Heaven someday and everyone else would burn in Hell.
Makes it easy to feel superior when you know that ahead of you is eternal reward and the rest of the world is headed for eternal damnation.
I miss that, because the alternative is to grapple with the idea that we’re all the same, all working for the same goals, all part of community in some way and instead of sitting on my high horse looking down I would better serve my fellow man by reaching a hand out instead of down.
Like a prayer
Scrolling through images of the devastation left behind by Hurricane Helene, I nearly did what I had done for years when faced with immeasurable catastrophe, but the half formed prayer never happened.
I miss praying, the warmth that comes from the knowledge that I’ve offered up what I can to some loving deity who would hear my entreaties and if enough of us prayed the right prayer, God would do something about it.
That if I was righteous enough, and sincere enough, and “fervent” in my cries to God, then He would bestir Himself on my behalf, and hear my prayer, and answer it the way I had asked it.
This is isn’t about God, not really, but about the version of God that won’t do anything unless His people pray. Because that God? Isn’t a loving God, because if you love someone, you act on their behalf when they’re in pain. You don’t wait for them to ask you, and you sure as hell don’t make sure they ask you the right way.
If there is a God, a deity, a force in the universe, and some part of me believes in those things, I’d like to think that being, that entity, isn’t sipping a latte somewhere scrolling through the prayers getting sent their way. Picking who to help, or to let down.
Sirens
One of the perks of living near a nuclear power plant is that the first Monday of the month at noon they test the area’s warning sirens. They’re not just for an incident at the power plant, but are meant to alert us in the event that something has gone poorly.
Except that there’s no accompanying “big voice” to fill in the blanks, whether we should expect a horde of locusts, a wall of water, or if we’re all about to be able to read in the dark thanks to our Dayglo skin.
Anxiety’s like that: letting us know that something isn’t quite right, without connecting the dots. And so we do what we’d do if the siren went off, and that’s either freeze up or just start packing the car because that at least gives us something to do.
Those mechanisms in our brain are meant to protect us, but not always let us know what they’re wanting us to avoid. Eventually they’ll wind down, like the sirens, and we get to get back to whatever counts as our daily baseline.
They’re a voice we should acknowledge, but not always listen to, because sometimes? They’re just testing.
Catching Up
Kabul, 2021, the Crossfit gym another expat had set up in the secure hotel we lived/worked/drank in at the time. I was attempting to end another period of non-fitness, and the coach there was more than happy to help me.
I forgot what the workout of the day was, but like most WODs, it was just all kinds of suck. I think there were pull ups (assisted), box jumps, and then a run.
Repeat until dead.
Another guy working out with me, about my same age, similar level of fitness, was a few yards ahead of me on the runs.
Coach Satan’s Stepson muttered at me in passing to “catch that guy”.
Mainly because “that guy” was very much “that guy” with a “punch me” face and everything.
“Working on it,” I told him.
His lead was all the more galling because he was half assing the other parts of the workout. Which meant he was fresher on the runs, and getting them done faster than I was.
Still, I caught up to him. Made up the difference. Crossed the finish line before he did. And promptly collapsed, just spent.
That’s kind of the point of Crossfit, and my workouts since then have gotten less intense, mainly because of my age and a desire to be fit as possible as along as possible, and blowing gaskets every time out isn’t a way to do that.
Catching up was a good goal that day, but mostly “catching up” is just an exercise in self-flagellation. Instead of knowing where we are and being OK with that moment, we tell ourselves we should be further ahead. And should/could/would put in more effort.
Except we’re already caught up. In the moment we have now. Whatever it may be. Make the most of that one. The next one’s down the road, and there’s no need to get there faster.
Get your wings
You could live a life where you never learned that Red Bull is energy drink. But you’d still know the name. Because they’ve positioned themselves as the ones that do the cool stuff, from Formula 1 car burnouts on top of helipads in Dubai, to water skiing from helicopters.
They still have the “gives you wings” commercials, but what they’re selling is the idea that if you get a can of chemicalized caffeine, you too could be as cool as a guy who skydives onto a beach from a skyscraper.
And while some of us might take a hard pass on that level of adrenaline, there are plenty of other people who want to feel that kind of rush, and if that starts with a purchase at a convenience store, well then, why not?
Because we make those choices based less on what the product does for us, and more on how that product makes us feel like we’re part of something bigger than ourselves.
Head down in the dark
Most mornings I’m walking before dawn. In the dark, headlamp on, worried more about a deer colliding with me out of panic than anything. When it’s daylight, I’m looking ahead, down the road.
When it’s dark, the headlamp doesn’t go that far. Just a few feet in front of me. So I’m looking down, making sure the way just ahead is clear.
We learn best when times are hard. In those moments when we can’t see the tunnel’s end. When we start to wonder if it ends at all.
They tell us to hold our head up. Not bad advice. But doesn’t work when it’s dark out. Just because I can’t see the end doesn’t mean it’s not there. So I switch the light on. Get my head down. And get moving.
Nothing To Say
That’s never true. We know we have something to say. What we don’t know is whether anyone’s listening. If there’s someone to hear it. Acknowledge us. Witness our passing by.
Our atoms have it easy. They just connect. Interact. Cooperate. It’s only when the humans get involved that they get destructive.
Communication takes a sender, and a receiver. Both in tune with the other. Until then, it’s just syllables into the void. Wrangling sounds into words that make sense of feeling.
Hoping that those feelings reach across the void to a response. Sending an answer back across the eons that we are heard. Letting us know that we are not, for now, alone.
More Is More
More isn’t better.
It’s just more.
And it makes it less fun.
Whatever it is.
A slice of pizza.
A favorite song.
A hug.
But none is worse.
No pizzas, no songs, no hugs.
It’s not about indulgence, but balance.
Moderation in everything.
Even moderation.
Because sometimes I just want a lot of pizza.
Deload
It’s a word used in weight training.
Refers to a time of active recovery.
Where you dial back the intensity, the volume, or both.
It’s a step back so that when you resume your usual intensity, you’re refreshed, and able to continue either at the same intensity or even greater.
It’s a way to break through plateaus, and it’s always going to be counterintuitive to me, because so often we’re told to push through whatever we’re doing.
That slowing down means giving up.
When what it really means is that we’re catching our breath.
Gathering ourselves for what’s next.
Big Wins
“It’s the little victories.” Little to who? Some days laundry is my moon landing. Getting out of bed? Everest.
We’ve been taught to rate ourselves by our wins. Stack each other up based on what we bring to the table. And the first loser?
It’s us. It’s always us. If we’re not first, we’re last, and we’re so quick to believe that’s not okay. Forgetting that being in the race at all, that’s one for the win column.
Thermostat? Or Thermometer?
Watching Jon Bernthal interview his brother. Bernthal’s always been an interesting guy to me. Beyond the roles he’s played in TV, movies, he’s just one of these interesting people that seems connected to who he is.
His brother’s even more accomplished, but this isn’t about fanboying the Bernthals. It’s something Dr. Nick said, because yes, Jon Bernthal’s brother is a doctor. An elite one. And he had this to say about temperature.
Be a thermostat, not a thermometer.
Don’t read the room, set the atmosphere in the room. Define your day, don’t let it define you. Choose, don’t guess.
Sometimes we drift, because paddling anymore just isn’t cutting it. But while life’s currents will lead as they will, we can choose where they send us.
Those days when I tell myself that today is an amazing day because I’ve said so, it’s true that I end up repeating that. A lot. Minute by minute some days.
But if I just react to the day, let it dictate my meaning, well, then I’m guessing.
I’m a thermometer.
And I need to be a thermostat.
Ideal Conditions
We can look at conditions one of two ways:
It’s not about controlling parameters, it’s about accepting outcomes.
It’s been said that you either win or you learn.
The ideal is winning.
Why?
We like winning.
Other people like winners.
If I want to be liked, and I do, then winning gets me there.
Or.
I can surround myself with people who want to hear about what I learned.
And in turn, I want to hear what they learned.
I like listening to winners, but the good ones, the honest ones, will tell you what they learned from loss.
The conditions are never going to be ideal.
The world is imperfect, after all.
But just because it didn’t turn out as planned, doesn’t mean it turned out any less.
Who Would Jesus Bomb?
Maybe Jesus would bomb the Syrians
Cause they're not Jews like him
Maybe Jesus would bomb the Afghans
On some kind of vengeful whim
Maybe Jesus would drive an M1 tank
And he would shoot Saddam
Tell me, who would Jesus bomb?
I’m not sure when I first heard this song from David Rovics, but it’s stuck with me ever since.
I know I was in Afghanistan at the time, working on post-conflict reconstruction, an idealist with a mortgage, still believing (most days) that we were doing some good.
I suppose we did.
We weren’t bombing anyone, although people that looked more like me than my Afghan colleagues were doing so in the name of freedom.
You can’t put a price on freedom, but you sure as hell can invoice a funeral.
Helping Hands
If you read one story about the war in Gaza, make this one from the Atavist about Layan Albaz, a teenager who lost her friends, her family, and her legs to Israeli airstrikes, and her struggle to be fitted with prosthetics in the United States.
It’s a long read, and not light.
Lots to unpack, but as someone who’s worked in conflict zones in the name of doing good, this was…poignant.
We made a plan for the next day to accompany Layan to physical therapy. But when we arrived at the Assafs’ house in the morning, a crisis was unfolding. In an effort to plan ahead, Steve Sosebee had asked if a HEAL volunteer rather than Dina could take Layan to a medical appointment scheduled for a few days later. Layan was furious, and she refused to come downstairs. “Am I a product to be rented out to these people?” Layan screamed as Dina, remaining calm, stood in the kitchen filling a pink Stanley cup with water. “It’s my therapy. I don’t want strangers there.”
The conflict highlighted an uncomfortable reality that often comes with being a charity recipient. NGOs like HEAL rely on networks of volunteers and donors, people so eager to help a child who got out of Gaza that they’ll sometimes greet them at the airport with posters and balloons; they invite them to dinner, family events, theme parks. This in turn requires the kids to play a role: to smile, pose for photos, show gratitude.
Layan didn’t like strangers looking at her amputated legs. She didn’t want their pity. And she certainly wasn’t interested in having to glimpse their happy lives, untouched by war and loss.
Someone a lot smarter than me on these things has taught me this: "Help that doesn’t help isn’t help."
It’s many things: altruism, pity, a stab at empathy.
But it’s not help.
Help asks, “How can I support you?”
Instead, much of what we do to help others is more about helping ourselves to feel better about things that are too big for us to do anything about on our own.
So we turn to acts of charity to assuage our conscience in the name of doing good, when the only good we’re doing is for ourselves.
Never Forget
There’s a picture of me, my sister, and my mom on top of one of the World Trade Center towers. I think I’m maybe 8. I keep thinking I should digitize that, so I’ll have the record long after my memory lets it go.
I think about that every year. About how much those people, that city, and the world has changed since then.
We plant the flag on that day, telling each other to “never forget,” without filling in reasons why.
And 9/11 still gets used as a touchstone for our lesser angels, to excuse our bigotry, biases, and bullying.
Because the decades that followed were ones best forgotten, from the violation of American privacy up through the violation of human rights for anyone not quite American enough for our tastes.
Those are the things I wish we wouldn’t forget, because they’re the egregious behavior of a neo-colonial exceptionalism that uses freedom and capitalism to explain away its excesses.
That whatever was done in the name of that awful September day was acceptable, because look what was done to us, how terrible that was.
Trauma informs but should never excuse. It’s a reason, not a justification. And waving that flag of national trauma, as the US does well and often, only leads to more of the same. That we should not forget. Ever.
Kicking Ants
Ants.
They’re amazing until they’re not.
The not usually happening when they’ve breached the perimeter and discovered that you’re less than careful with how you store your bulk sugar.
Or when they’ve been industrious to the point where they’ve gone condo in your yard and you can’t go out there until you do something about it.
You can’t kick ants, is what I’m saying.
Poison them, drown them, smash them.
Kick them?
Doesn’t work.
Same for habits, the ones I’d like to change.
They got here the same way the anthills did: bit by bit, barely noticeable at first.
And while it’s fairly easy to deal with ants, less so with habits, because I can’t kick those either.
Dismantling their structure, bit by bit, building other bulwarks into my life.
It's Closer
Something about the Indigo Girls always spoke to me. Raised as I was in a cult-adjacent church (adjacent because we never went full robes and compound, but otherwise, cult), I don’t think I registered their significance to pop culture, that Ray and Saliers lived a lifestyle that the version of the Bible I was taught took exception to.
Looking back a few years after they first made it into the regular listening rotation, with the advantage of growth and time, I realized those things, but by then it didn’t matter to me as much. More of “Oh…right. Yeah, I guess that’s why my dad never bought us tickets to Lilith Fair.”
Their music has remained as part of the soundtrack of my life, their lyrics periodically peaking up above the waves, and reminding me that words matter, and words set to music can mean so much.
“Closer to Fine” came out in 1989, when I was in high school. I can’t tell you when I first heard it, because I doubt I heard it then. I was still pushing the boundaries of my parents musical tolerance by listening to a lot of Petra at that point, which should tell you more than you need to know about how I was raised.
Still, the chorus resonated from the first time I heard it.
And I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains
There's more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
And the less I seek my source for some definitive
(The less I seek my source)
Closer I am to fine, yeah
Closer I am to fine, yeah
Having more than one answer was revelatory for someone raised to believe that there was only one answer and that was Jesus. Realizing that gray areas were ok and most of life was in the gray anyway so might as well get used to it was a necessary if sometimes painful realization at that point in my life.
Especially the line about seeking the source for some definitive, because looking back into my past usually ends up pointing me in all the wrong directions. Learning that how you were brought up means you’ll never truly grow up was a bitter pill to swallow.
But I gulped it down. More than once, because it’s a process. A journey. A work.
I’m not fine. I never will be. But I’m closer today than I was yesterday. And that’s enough.
Safe Space
They want to destroy safe spaces.
Replace them with fortresses, ruled by fear.
Fear of violence.
Of the outside.
Fearful of the other.
In their world, safety comes at a cost.
One they’ll happily invoice.
Freedom isn’t free.
But who sets the price?
Deer Sign
When whitetail deer get spooked, they run.
Because when you’re a deer, options are zero.
No fight or flight.
Just. Flight.
And their tails go up to let other deer know.
It’s called “flagging”.
Helps their young to keep track of them, too.
Thing is, deer get spooked by a lot.
Even the deer that live around here.
They’re basically tame.
No predators, no hunting.
They do cull the herd periodically using nets.
NextDoor goes off on that.
My favorite post compared it to the Holocaust.
When I’m anxious, I go full white tail.
Just ready to bolt.
Raise the flag, I’m done.
Except I’ve got options.
Before I run, ask myself what I’m running from.
Sometimes I still need to go.
Mostly, though, it’s just the brain, firing off in all direction because it doesn’t know how to process some emotion that got too big for it to handle.