Life As Story

FOR A WHILE NOW I've been working on a project called, "Storyline." It's the brainchild of Donald Miller. The project is about creating a life-planning process based on the elements of story and was developed combining the principles of screenwriting and storytelling.

I'm a big fan of Donald Miller--for several reasons: one, he is an excellent writer; two, his ideas of looking at our lives as STORY makes a lot of sense to me.

I love bildungsroman. Some of our most timeless and treasured stories are bildungsroman. You know the ones:

David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton

Bildungsroman are stories where the protagonist "comes of age." They're about maturity, passage, and developing morally and psychologically. This word, according to the Encyclopedia Britannica, is a German word meaning "novel of education" or "novel of formation."

For us Baby Boomers, movies like The Graduate, To Kill A Mockingbird and Rebel Without a Cause are examples of this literary genre. Some of my other favorite coming-of-age films include: Dead Poets Society, The Breakfast Club, Stand By Me, and most recently Wes Anderson's Moonrise Kingdom.

We all have a personal story, we're living it, and sort of making it up as we go. No doubt you remember a version of your first coming-of-age. Maybe it centered around puberty, or a religious event, or a rite of passage like the new found freedom of a driver's license. Maybe it came through a trial of some kind: losing someone close to you, a loss of innocence--something that required you to grow up fast.

Today there is a state or condition called "teen angst". I don't know if it existed when I was a teen or not. If it did, maybe it didn't have a name. In a way, this "second coming of age", as I like to call this time of impending "retirement", has some of the dread, uncertainty, and anxiety that the first coming of age had.

Quote by Donald Miller. Image from Pinterest.

Back to Donald Miller and this whole life as story point of view--Donald wrote a memoir of sorts called, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life. Here's one of my favorite lines from the book:

“Fear is a manipulative emotion that can trick us into living a boring life.”
― Donald Miller

He's right; you know. Recently I found an Airstream that would have been a great fit for us. It was Used, but in great condition at a fair price. I disguised my fear of doing the deal behind a curtain of being wise and discretionary and responsible. A crock of BS, as the kids say. I was just afraid. Not that this is an example of a life-altering moment, but it is real. 

There's so much more I want to say on this topic, but I'm getting close to the "optimum word count for a good blog post." So I'll sign off with final words from Donald Miller from the same book:

“Once you live a good story, you get a taste for a kind of meaning in life, and you can't go back to being normal; you can't go back to meaningless scenes stitched together by the forgettable thread of wasted time.” ― Donald Miller

P.S.: I highly recommend you watch the movie, Stranger Than Fiction, with Will Ferrell and Dustin Hoffman. It's a great movie about life-as-story.

Date Night: Then & Now

I write often here at About POPS about what I call our "second coming-of-age." The first being that arbitrary passage from youth to "maturity" and the second, the passage to some other older version of maturity. As I look forward to a "Date Night" tonight with My Amazing-Missus, I thought about the comparisons between a date night during my first coming-of-age and now.

In both cases, you want a full sensory experience: sights, smells, sounds, tastes and touch.

While we both look a bit different than we did back in the courting day, we've aged together, and as far as I know she's okay with that, but still I'll make the effort: you know, shave, iron my shirt, stuff like that.

One of the things I fear most about becoming a "man of a certain age" is picking up that essence of old guy and not even being aware of it. So, again I'll make the effort. Unlike the good old days, I won't be splashing on the English Leather with an extra spritz behind each ear just in case a slow song comes on and a dance breaks out, but again I'll make a good effort.

The sounds for a perfect date night are still key. Back then I would have been picking her up in my VW Bus (I still can't believe her Dad ever let her go out with me). Having just the right song cued up on the 8-Track player was essential. Something like "Wouldn't It Be Nice" by the Beach Boys would be a good choice:

Wouldn't it be nice if we were older
Then we wouldn't have to wait so long
And wouldn't it be nice to live together
In the kind of world where we belong

You know its gonna make it that much better
When we can say goodnight and stay together

Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up
In the morning when the day is new
And after having spent the day together
Hold each other close the whole night through

Happy times together we've been spending
I wish that every kiss was never-ending
Wouldn't it be nice

Okay, now I've actually embarrassed myself.

Tonight I might Bluetooth® sync my iPhone® and have this oldie-but-goody by The Beatles ready to go:

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now
Will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

If I'd been out 'til quarter to three, would you lock the door?

Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm sixty-four?

Date Night tastes once included stuff like a Shakey's Pizza followed by an ice cream float at Weber's Root Beer Stand. Tonight? Well since I'm less than two weeks out from gall bladder surgery, I'll probably go with a piece of grilled chicken and dry baked potato. Maybe we'll splurge and go for fro-yo after. What a romantic? Right?

Oh, and the Date Night touches? Now, that's really none of your business is it?

Go have your own date night.

Free At Last

Years ago I was in Pineville, Louisiana, to speak at Louisiana College. They put me up for the night in a wonderful old hotel in downtown Alexandria, The Hotel Bently. To enjoy the wonders of historic buildings you have to endure their old quirks and failings. Sort of like you have to do to enjoy the wonder of us old "men of a certain age."

Unfortunately, for the Hotel Bently, while it had undergone some rehab and modernization, the elevators were still on the to-do list. So, returning from my speaking engagement, I returned to the hotel and boarded the elevator. It made it up roughly two and half floors and quit. I was stuck on an old elevator; tired and hungry.

Fortunately, a phone had been added and it worked. The rescue took 30 minutes or so, which seemed like three hours or so. The doors were manually separated and a ladder was lowered into my little prison. I climbed free. The Freedom was sweet indeed. 

The hotel manager was on hand for the rescue, full of apologies he was ready with vouchers for free drinks in the hotel bar. "Oh, that's okay," I said. "It wasn't your fault and anyway, I don't imbibe." He asked what they could offer for the inconvenience. "How about some of those little bottles of shampoo and conditioner." I said with a smile. He looked at my bald head, but missed the irony. We finally agreed on a room-service burger and fries.

Just a few weeks later I was scheduled to speak at an event in Tulsa. Again I was staying in a downtown hotel, but a modern one. I don't remember the name of it but it involved two trees. (a Mitch Hedberg joke.)

I remember using my recent elevator saga in my talk to illustrate the sweetness of freedom. The next morning I was at breakfast in the hotel restaurant. At a table near me, were three older men and two women. The men were wearing military style caps and I noticed POW patches on the caps. Then I noticed many more in the restaurant. Turns out it was a reunion of a group who had been prisoners of war together.

When their breakfast arrived, the fun, rowdy conversation stopped. They joined hands and one of the men lead them in a prayer. He was thankful for the food, the company, but most of all for FREEDOM. I watched and listened and thought: how could I possibly think I could understand freedom from the context of being stuck in an elevator. 

I learned that a heart, truly grateful, has truly known hopelessness, emptiness, fear and despair. 

I can't truly empathize with those who have made, as we say, the ultimate sacrifice, because I never have. But I can remember them; and the lives of their loved ones left behind, fractured by their passing and injuries.

The price is so high.

This Might Sting A Little

ONE OF THE COOL THINGS about the world-wide-web is the ability to google medical stuff and diagnose your own maladies. And I'm sure doctors love it when I go to the office and start the conversation with, "I Googled my symptoms and..."

Say what you will, I love being able to get a second opinion for free. Here's an example. A recent bit of online research yielded this bit of wisdom from a doctor I trust a great deal:

When at last we are sure
You've been properly pilled,
Then a few paper forms
Must be properly filled,
So that you and your heirs
May be properly billed.

--Dr. Seuss

This is highly relevant to my world the past few weeks, all leading up to tomorrow's big event.

First let me say this: Some kinds of bragging I celebrate, like Kevin Durant talking about his teammates, or parents and grandparents sharing pictures and the exploits of the kids. (Here's an excellent example)

The Grand-Girls. I'm not sure even the flowers are as lovely--but that's just me.

There are some kinds of bragging that further turn my messed up belly, like: people trying to impress you with how busy and significant they are by telling you how many emails they have in their inbox. Or, those who want to talk about how many surgical procedures they've endured, which inevitably includes a Show & Tell for each of their scars. Unfortunately, this kind of stuff is a staple for conversation of us mature adults.

That said--a couple of weeks ago after a few days of stomach uneasiness, my gall bladder attacked me. I went to the ER where this pretty little girl, that I'm guessing was 15 or so, squirted some kind of jelly all over my stomach and then rubbed a probe all over, like she was hunting for coins at the beach with a metal detector.

The doctor studied images from her procedure on the monitor. They looked something like a Rorschach test. "It's time for you and your gall bladder to part company," said the Doctor.

I wanted to argue; we've been through so much together. But this sucker had betrayed me, and I realized that if I said, "No thanks, Doc, I'll keep it," it would only be the drugs talking.

So tomorrow, one of those spare parts that only God knows why He put in the mix, like tonsils and appendixes, is coming out. 

Remind me next time we meet and I'll show you the scar. ;-)