Category: Simplicity

Awe, Christianity, Community, Creation, Emotional Health, Faith, Freelancing, Gifts, Grace, Gratitude, Growing Up, Health, Listening, Neighbors, Positive Thinking, Practice, Prayer, Relationships, Simplicity, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing

Awesome…

gregoryjoel

I sat on the porch for a long time this morning. Margaret slept in. The dogs were content to sleep in as well and I soaked in the solitude of the day. The air felt clean for the first time in weeks. An ever so slight breeze ran across my face as if God was saying, “relax and enjoy the moment”. My coffee tasted better, the chair was more comfortable, and all was right in the world.

According to the dictionary, awe is defined as a “feeling of reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder”. This is one of those days when everything is in focus and with clarity comes a reverential respect mixed with wonder – awe. The sun is a bit brighter, the chattering of the squirrels a tad sharper, and the grass has a tinge of green that wasn’t there yesterday. I’m in awe…

According to a April 27, 2017 article in Psychology Today, people who experience awe more frequently live longer and tend to have less health problems. In fact, the experience of awe leads to enhanced critical thinking and creativity as well as a feeling of connectedness to the community and physical world around us. It helps one ‘stay in the moment’.

The article cites Dacher Keltner, a leading theorist and scholar on the emotion of awe, as saying, “Seek out experiences that give you goosebumps”. Yes, it does, and it can be found in the smallest of things.

The kids tell me that Margaret and I lead boring lives. “You should get out more” they always tell us. In some ways I’m sure they are right. It’s not that we don’t want to get out at times, but there are days when Margaret isn’t physically able. Our twenty and thirty-something (and healthy, thank God) kids don’t realize how difficult it can. While Margaret is far more social than I am, we’ve both become homebodies, and not always due to physical limitations. We stay in a continual state of awe that we could be blessed to live the life we do. While our world may seem small to some, it’s filled with joy, wonder, and awesome incredible moments.

I start my mornings here on a front porch at the end of a cul-de-sac in Fort Wort, Texas. Not much changes, and yet everything changes. Most mornings, (even on the really hot ones) I’m greeted by the song of the little mockingbird that calls our yard home. Squirrels chase each other through the trees and stop only to chatter at our cat, Wallace. We even have a resident spider that graces our front porch with a magnificent, intricate web each day. They are all details of a world full of fascination and wonder.

Life does show up from time to time with setbacks and hardships that seem awful at the time. The irony is that both awesome and awful come from the word awe. Awe can be traced back to the Greek word, achos, for pain. That makes sense to me because life can be painful at times. It has its fair share of disappointments, sadness, and frustration, and each bear their own physical, emotional, or spiritual pain. Experience has taught me that walking through the pain leads me from awful to awesome – and both can leave me in awe…

I strive to be ‘awe-full’ (who you talk to depends on which spelling they use…). Seeing God in the minute details of the world and the lives of the people is a state I want to become accustomed to. Gratitude always seem to accompany awe, and gratitude changes the way I view my world. It’s a cycle I like being caught up in.

If people who experience awe more frequently really do live longer, then I’m pretty sure I’m going to be around for a while. To those that are disappointed by that, I say, “that’s awful…”

Choices, Christianity, Community, Emotional Health, Faith, Grace, Gratitude, Growing Up, Health, Love, Recovery, Relationships, Simplicity, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing

Recovering…?

gregoryjoel

I hit the porch about 6:30 yesterday morning. Whether it was still dark because the days are growing shorter or whether it was due to the heavy cloud cover, I’m not sure. I was prepared to enjoy our visiting cold front, but I was greeted by the same hot, still, and muggy porch. I wasn’t going to stay outside, but Margaret came out, so we shared coffee on the porch. I wiped the beads of sweat forming on my brow and commented that it was obvious the cold front hadn’t gotten to Fort Worth yet. Literally five seconds later a burst of wind from the approaching front filled the front yard with fallen leaves. It continued to blow in from the northwest and the temperature began to drop. My wife smiled and sad, “Ask and you shall receive”. Needless to say, we remained on the porch for quite a while, enjoying our coffee and relief from the last month’s oppressive heat.

It’s quiet this morning and we’re blessed with unseasonably cooler temperatures. I think the air conditioner actually shut off last night; something it hasn’t done for the last month or so. My mood has improved, and I have more energy than I have in the last couple of months. I’m excited about the day. That’s been infrequent during the heat wave. The temperature may be climbing for the remainder of the week, but I’ll make every moment count in the meantime.

It’s hard to believe it’s already the last day of July. When I was a kid, the end of July was a reminder that summer was passing way too fast and school was right around the corner. Today, it’s a reminder that I’ll be sixty this month and time is going much faster than I expected. I suppose sixty’s not the milestone I’ve made it in my head to be. I became AARP-eligible some time back and I already qualify for senior citizen discounts (and no, I’m not too proud to ask for them…).

Sixty seemed so far away to that kid dreading the end of summer and the return to school. I remember when I thought forty was old. Looking back, I used to subscribe to the Grateful Dead principle of “what a long, strange trip it’s been”. Now I just think it strange. It went by far quicker than I imagined.

I’ve been immeasurably blessed to be coming up on sixty years old. For many years I never thought I’d make it to this age. I ‘lived fast and played hard” as the saying goes. It was great when I was younger. It pretty much sucks when you’re older. Things didn’t begin to change until I was in my late forties when I found a relationship with God, as I understand Him.

My definition of ‘church’ has changed a bit, as well. I’m somewhat more comfortable in recovery meetings than I am in churches. ‘Church’ comes from the Greek work ‘ecclesia’, meaning ‘called out’. It’s where we get the word congregation from. I feel more ‘called out’ with self-described misfits in recovery programs than with most church folk. Besides, my minister would freak-out if he heard God and Motherf*#@ in the same sentence…

I mention this because I’ve been thinking a great deal about the last twelve-and-a-half years. In recovery meetings, there is some debate as to whether we ‘recover’ or are ‘recovering’. I’m not going to chime in on what all that means. It’s mostly semantics anyway. I’ve recovered from a hopeless state, but I’m still in the process of growing up so that insinuates ‘recovering’. I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use, though.

As I look back, I often wonder if there was much to recover. My life is so different from anything I’ve ever known that it feels new, rather than recovering something old. I’m not sure there’s much of the old life I want to recover anyway. I know it all boils down to the choice of words and individual understanding of their definitions. All I know is that God fulfilled His promise to “make all things new”, including me…

In a way it kind of sucks to be growing up so late in life. On the other hand, I wouldn’t be where I am today if I’d not had the experiences I’ve had. I like where I am today. Maybe the dark places of the past make it easier to appreciate the light. It’s been my observation that those of us who realize just how much grace we’ve received, appreciate life a bit more than most. “He forgives much who has been forgiven much”. Everything else just seems to fall into place…

So, come on big ‘six-o’. After all, I don’t have to go back to school…

Communication, Emotional Health, Faith, Grace, Gratitude, Persistence, Positive Thinking, Practice, Simplicity, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Work, Writing

Fake it ’til you make it…

gregoryjoel

Not only is rain predicted for Monday, but the weather gurus say we’ll actually have below normal temperatures for a few days. I’m so ready. The oppressive heat has worn me down: physically, emotionally, mentally, and even spiritually. I normally strive to be positive in my writing. There’s enough negativity and complaining in the world. I’ll be the first to tell you how blessed and grateful I am, but it’s become increasingly difficult to write over the last couple of weeks. I keep visualizing the old “Drug-Free America’ commercial with the eggs in the frying pan – “this is your brain on drugs”. I haven’t partaken of any mood-altering substances, but my brain is definitely fried…

When I was a young person living in Denver, we used to have these unbelievably strong winds that blew down off the Rockies and across the front range every Spring. They were such a force that Denver named its then minor league baseball team, the Zephyrs, after them. I recall a story about the effects of continual strong wind on people and the resulting depression. I guess our heat wave has the same results, for me at least. Perhaps there’s a government grant to conduct multimillion dollar research on my hypothesis…

I’m a firm believer in the old saying, “fake it, ‘til you make it”. I don’t want to be a fake person. God knows I’ve been there. Sometimes I just need to act as if it’s okay until it is. I guess this is one of those times. I must do the right thing, whatever it may be, whether I want to or not, until everything is okay (or the heat wave breaks).

My friend Edgar always tells me that ‘I can’t think my way into right acting, but I can act my way into right thinking’. I used to have that backwards and it didn’t work out so well. No matter how many positive thinking books I read or speakers I listened to, I never became a regular ‘Norman Vincent Peale’ kind of guy. It wasn’t until I changed my actions that my thought processes, and likewise, my attitude, began to change.

One of the blogs I follow asked the question, “What does it take to be a good writer?”. ‘Timing is everything’, as that was the same question I was asking myself on the porch this morning. I’ve thought about it a lot over the last couple of weeks. Work has been slow, and I’ve been frustrated. I question myself constantly.

When I started my blog, it followed my return to writing professionally as a copywriter. As with anything one seeks to perform well in, whether it be sports or the arts, one needs to practice. “Practice makes perfect”, as my Dad would say. The only way to practice is to, as the Nike ad says, “Just do it”. My blog seemed like a good way to develop the proper muscles to excel in my chosen craft…

That being said… I’m often filled with self-doubt as to my writing abilities, especially professionally. Although I have extensive experience in ‘business’ writing, I still question if I can create anything worthwhile for my clients. However, I generally ignore the committee inside my head and produce good work (and on time I might add).

In many ways this blog, which helps me immensely to grow on a personal level, has probably been professional suicide. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become less willing to deny who I am and the experiences that made me who I am today. Honesty has its drawbacks in the work arena, even though the life experience of someone ‘saved’ by grace is of immeasurable value. That, however, is another story…

I remember my freshman English professor telling a story about Ernest Hemingway (and that’s about all I remember…) and writer’s block. He was asked what he does when that happens. His reply was, “I tell the truth”. I don’t claim to have any corner on “the” truth, but I know what’s true for me. I can’t be something I’m not. Like my father used to say, “If it walks like a duck…”

So, the answer to the question, “What makes a good writer?” is one of honesty and practice. It doesn’t matter if it’s personally or professionally. Writing and honesty both take practice and sometimes practice is hard work.  I need to push through the periods of constant rewrites, frustration, and self-doubt that inevitably come around, whatever the reason. I don’t know if others will think of me as a ‘good’ writer, but I pray they’ll at least deem me honest, despite my shortcomings.

I’m a writer. That’s what I do. I trust I’ll get better with practice. Practice I will. One of my favorite suggestions is from Jack Kerouac’s, On the Road. He says something like, “you have to write with the energy of a Benzedrine addict”. I can get with that. I’ll leave the substances to others better fit to handle them and keep on writing…

 

Adoption, Children, Citizenship, Community, Emotional Health, Family, Gratitude, Growing Up, Immigration, Ireland, Letting Go, Love, Patience, Relationships, Simplicity, Texas, Uncategorized, Writing

Bucket lists…

gregoryjoel

I haven’t posted for the last couple of days. There’s a great deal going on at our household. Mostly, it involves trying to stay cool while getting things accomplished. Our poor air conditioner is having difficulty keeping up with the heat wave we’re experiencing and I feel a bit wind-blown from all the fans in our house.

Even with the triple-digit heat, the porch has provided some respite from the heat in the early mornings. I was able to enjoy conversation and coffee with Margaret for quite a while before the perspiration beading up on our foreheads said it was time to go in. Our conversation wandered around for a bit, talking about our kids, with their unique (and sometimes frustrating) personalities and what the future holds in store. I shared a blog from another writer in Northern Ireland and the pictures he posted from Belfast this morning. I’ve had a trip to Ireland at the top of my ‘bucket list’ for many, many years. His post this morning stoked that fire once again.

I’m not a ‘travel’ kind of guy. I’m quite content to live vicariously through the photos my friends post of their travels and prefer to stay close to home. Besides, I could spend a lifetime traveling around Texas and never see the same thing twice. Aside from the mountains in Colorado, I haven’t gotten around to very many other places. Still, I would travel to Ireland in a heartbeat.

The first time I entered a drug and alcohol rehab hospital I went through an assessment with the doctor on staff. He asked me if there was any history of alcoholism or addiction in my family. I told him that I came from a very conservative Christian home and even my great-grandfather was a circuit preacher in Texas, so I didn’t think so. I wasn’t sure it made any difference anyway since I was adopted. All I know about my birth parents is that I’m Irish. Without missing a beat, the doctor looked at me and said he’d just answer yes to the history question. I’m not sure how I felt about that, except it seems awfully stereotypical and extremely politically incorrect…

I’ve often thought about trying to locate my birth mother. I’d love to know something of my ancestry, as well as the family medical history. Now that I’m pushing sixty it’s growing unlikely that it will happen. Sometimes though, I wonder if I have half-siblings out there. I guess a lot of adopted kids from ‘closed’ adoptions have the same questions. I have an adopted cousin who found her birth mother and discovered she had nine brothers and sisters! It makes me wonder…

My mother and I were driving down from Fairplay, Colorado and out of the blue, she asked me if I’d ever thought of finding my birth mother. Although I was a grown man, I was a little freaked-out by the question. It was something that had never been discussed at home. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings because she was my mother, regardless of who gave me birth. Finding my biological parent wouldn’t change that. As I paused, she immediately followed up with, “Why haven’t you? I would.”

I remember telling her that it just wasn’t a big deal to me. I may have meant it at the time but that’s not an honest answer today. The reality is that I don’t want to be disappointed. Somewhere deep inside, that feeling of abandonment that has always been present comes u8p every time I think about trying to get court records unsealed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m eternally grateful to the mother with whom I share DNA. I know somethings about her from the profile my parents gave me when I turned twenty-one. I know that she was only sixteen. In the pre-Roe v. Wade years of the Eisenhower Administration, young women who were ‘in a family way’ were often shuttled off somewhere else to avoid familial embarrassment, to have their baby, and give it up for adoption. I know it had to be difficult for her. I often wonder whether she was forced by her parents to give me up. I prefer to think of her as courageous and wise; that she made the decision to adopt out of concern for my welfare. If I can’t ever ask her that question, I never have to believe otherwise…

If I were to meet her I’d like to tell her thank you for giving me up to such a loving home. My adoptive parents wanted a child desperately and I was loved by the very best. Dad always told me that everyone else had to “take what they were given, but that I was handpicked and specially chosen” to be their son. I came to know what they meant when they brought my little sister home six years later. She’s quite the women, my sister. I’ve led a charmed life, despite my adult struggles, and I couldn’t ask for anything better. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. God is so good…

The only negative I can find in the Joel family tree is that they are English. I have a friend who reminds me that “at least they weren’t French”, but he’s British and that’s another story. I truly would like to know about where I come from and how I ended up in Fort Worth, Texas. According to immigration records, most Irish immigrants in the 19th century came through the Port of New Orleans. What we know of the defenders of the  Alamo, the holy shrine of Texas Independence, is that most who sacrificed their lives were Irish and Scottish immigrants. I wonder when, and if, that was the case for my ancestors. Do I have an extended family I don’t know about? Do I need to know, for that matter? Who knows? Maybe there’s a genetic longing taking place…

I guess I’ll just have to keep saving until I can cross Ireland off my ‘Bucket List”…

 

Children, Christianity, Community, Emotional Health, Faith, Family, Gardening, Grace, Gratitude, Growing Up, Love, Marriage, Prayer, Relationships, Simplicity, Spirituality, Texas, Uncategorized

Farms and old green trucks…

gregoryjoel

It’s been a productive weekend. I hope it continues into the weekdays. Since they took my PICC line out I’ve experienced the freedom to sweat like everyone else. Believe it or not, I enjoy it. I get to work outside in the garden and go to the stables most days. I’m close enough to the house that I go in a cool off when it gets too much.

There’s something about the physical labor that calms my spirit and reconnects me to the things that are truly important in life. I pray a lot when I’m doing manual labor. We have a friend who calls it ‘dirt therapy’. I’m sure many of you understand.

I was telling Margaret this morning that I’ve been unusually nostalgic lately. It seems to be directly proportionate to the gratitude I feel. The more gratitude I have, the more reminiscent I get. I’ve recalled memories I haven’t thought of in years and I’ve noticed changes more acutely. Maybe it’s simply coming up on the ‘Big 6-0’. The reason isn’t important. It’s good to be reflective at times. My wife says it’s just because I’m getting old. I didn’t hesitate to remind her that she’s not far behind me. My bad…

I grew up in Fort Worth, but I spent my summer vacations with either my Uncle Carl on his ranch in South Texas or on my Uncle Roof’s dairy farm just northwest of Fort Worth. I may live in the city but I’m just an old country boy at heart. That’s one of the things I love about living on the westside in White Settlement. It has a small-town feel despite being a part of one of the largest metropolitan areas in Texas. The real estate developers saved the westside for last, I guess. Urban sprawl has favored moving north and south. The eastside is hemmed in by the ‘mid-cities’. Unfortunately, I spied several new developments on my last drive through the western edges of Tarrant County. It’s a little scary…

I don’t remember my childhood like many people do. I had a counseling professional tell me it was probably related to some trauma during my youth. I must’ve been abused in some way. I didn’t think that was the case, but I gave it serious consideration. The only thing I could come up with is the one time my Grandmother, who never engaged in corporal punishment, gave me a spanking because I was playing with matches and almost burned the carport down. Now that was traumatic…

I suppose that’s why I’ve come to cherish the memories when they come up these days. Unlike my right-wing friends, I don’t long for the ‘old days’, but I appreciate the little things I remember. One of my earliest, and favorite, memories is of my father’s 1951 Chevrolet pick-up truck. Trucks like that belong on a farm.

The truck was Hunter Green and had wooden side-boards so it could haul more papers. My dad had a third job ‘throwing’ a local paper called The Shopper on Saturday nights for a Sunday morning delivery. He’d often go straight there from his second job at a Striplings, a local department store.

I remember Dad coming home exhausted, around four-thirty or so on Sunday mornings. He’d crawl into bed for an hour and then get up, get dressed, and take the family to church. Sunday lunch always followed, and it was always a time to get with another family from church for lunch. If we were lucky, we got to go to Wyatt’s Cafeteria and eat out. It always seemed like a real treat, although I’d give anything to have Mom’s homemade Sunday dinner again…

Dad usually took a nap on Sunday afternoon. That meant I could turn on the matinee of old horror movies that came on every Sunday. There were always two of them and I hated to see the second one end. It meant that soon Dad would get up, pack his suitcase, and leave for the train station. Our primary income came from his job as a traveling auditor for the FW&D Railroad. He would take the train to wherever he was going along the line, work for the week, and return on Friday night in time to work his other two jobs on the weekend. The only thing I liked about his job was the occasional visits to the trainyard and the gift he brought me each time he was away.

If there really is trauma somewhere in my young life it had to be one Saturday evening when Dad was leaving to throw papers. He hugged and kissed my mother and I and headed out to the truck. I don’t remember the details and I’ve relied on my father’s telling of the story over the years. Apparently, I broke away from Mom, little legs pumping as fast as they could, and launched myself around my father’s legs. “Please don’t go, Daddy, please don’t go!”, I pleaded as tears ran down my face.

Dad picked me up and hugged me until I stopped sobbing. “I love you, Daddy”, I cried over and over. I eventually calmed down. Dad was late for work that Saturday night. He quit his job at Stripling’s on Monday. He continued to throw papers since he was gone while I was asleep. Not long after, he received a promotion from the railroad and only had to travel occasionally. He was home most of the time and I loved it.

What I didn’t know, until I was well into adulthood, was that my father worked so much so he could pay back my grandmother for loaning him the adoption fees for me. My parents couldn’t have children and wanted them desperately.  My sister and I were both adopted. My dad always told me that we were special because we were gifts and were chosen to be their kids. We were ‘handpicked’! He couldn’t stand to be away from us after that Saturday night so long ago.

Dad’s been gone since 2002 and not a day goes by that I don’t miss him. He’s the one that showed me what my Heavenly Father is like. His love was truly unconditional. Boy, did I test him through the years!

I wish he could see just how wonderful my life is today, despite the difficulties of my past. I’m sure he can. I love you, Dad and I hope I leave a legacy, as you did…

I guess that’s the trauma the professionals talk about. If that’s the extent of it, I’m a truly blessed man. Thinking about it today, I can’t help but pray ‘thank you’ over and over to a mighty God who has shown me so much grace. How can I refrain from loving others after receiving so much love, mercy, and grace?

Anyway, I’m just sitting here enjoying the cool of the morning and enjoying the memories. I still dream about that old green truck. Maybe one day I can run around on the farm…