It doesn’t rain often in Southern California, but when it does it’s a pretty big deal. Headlines appear, roads shimmer, cars spin, mud slides, and people tend to lose their ever-loving minds.
The playoffs are rare in Detroit City, but when in town it’s a pretty big deal. Jerseys appear, tickets inflate, excitement builds, parties proliferate, and people tend to lose their ever-loving minds.
Not many people win the lottery, but when they do it’s a pretty big deal. Relatives appear, interviews occur, purchases transpire, plans change, and people tend to lose their ever-loving minds.
A hole-in-one can seem impossible, but when it happens it’s a pretty big deal. Astonishment appears, laughter erupts, joy abounds, celebrations begin, and people tend to lose their ever-loving minds.
I think of all the things that I haven’t done—yet. They may seem impossible, but if they ever happen, it will be a pretty big deal.
And that’s enough to keep trying.
Obstacles appear, critics scoff, fear mounts, hope wanes, and I want to lose my ever-loving mind.
But I won’t quit. The wait just might make it better.
Laps on a track can be tedious for a runner, especially when you can almost sense the nearby beach and mountain trails wondering why you are running in circles instead of enjoying their spectacular views. So maybe I was just bored and looking for entertainment when I noticed the snail there on the track with me. Now I’m not known to be fast, and I don’t want to brag, and pardon me for being crass, but I was absolutely kicking that snail’s ass—if snails have asses. Again, not to brag, but in the time it took me to run twelve laps — three miles! — the snail had only made it across two or three lanes. Regrettably, I don’t think the snail even knew that you are supposed to run on a track in a circular fashion, so its lack of progress was sort of embarrassing. I just couldn’t break the news, but I kept watching on each lap, and that silly snail kept right on going.
I myself was on the track because I am a fifty-three-year-old man whose decades of poor posture produced a year of terrible lower back pain. The pain was so intense that I thought running was over for me entirely. Done. Kaput. Sayonara. But, surprisingly, I have been inching back toward where I would like to be as a runner. Inching, well, I guess, yes, now that I say it out loud, at a snail’s pace. I was specifically on the track that day to take it slow and easy so that I could continue for the long haul.
Huh. Interesting.
Maybe the snail and I have a lot in common after all, beyond our striking features. Stubbornness, for starters. Or, to place it in a more positive frame, perseverance. Confucius reportedly said, “It does not matter how slow you go so long as you do not stop.” I’m not 100% positive that Confucius spoke English, but I’m trusting this is somewhere in the neighborhood.
My primary physical talent is that I do not like to stop. That can often be a negative characteristic in multiple life areas, which is worth considering on another day, but today I celebrate the good in that part of my constitution. I may not be the smartest or fastest or strongest or funniest or best-looking or mechanically-inclined or able to leap even small buildings in a single bound – okay, a bit depressing to go on recognizing all the things I am not – but I have always been able to keep on moving, even when it hurts, and even when it is slow going. Sometimes, maybe that’s a pretty great thing.
I guess a snail running track can be quite inspiring when looked at from the right angle. When we gauge ourselves not by flashy victories but the ability to persist toward a destination, maybe we can be pretty inspiring, too.
It just occurred to me that the snail may have been crossing the track the entire time I was there simply to line up for the mile run. I wouldn’t be surprised, and if so, you go get ‘em my new snail friend.
If this condo is the last place that I live in this old world, I don’t think I will be missing out on anything. That’s how sucky I think moving is at this point in my life.
When I was born among the dinosaurs back in 1970, my parents brought me home to a tiny rental house on West Mueller Street, which also served as my port of departure when I packed a happening yellow beige Pontiac 6000 and drove away to college in 1988. In the thirty-five-plus years since, it feels like all I have done is move.
Just in college, I lived in one dorm, two houses, and four apartments, followed by yet another apartment upon my return from college. Next comes marriage, and in our thirty years together we have lived in sixteen “homes” in five states. Our longevity record for a single address is five-and-a-half years, and that was the house that was destroyed by a hurricane, which at the time seemed a possible sign that we should keep moving to avoid being smacked by the universe.
Thus, I repeat: If I never move again, it seems that I have enjoyed just about all that there is to be enjoyed about the experience.
We returned to California last summer, which actually turned out to be a unique move for us. We moved to a tiny apartment, really a hotel room, expecting to move back to one of our old neighborhoods at some point in the year ahead; so, for the first time we rented a PODS container to ship most of our stuff directly to a storage facility in California. About six months later, a.k.a. a few weeks ago, we moved to our new condo and had the PODS container delivered where we fully reacquainted ourselves with the joys of moving: cardboard; hand trucks; cardboard; assembling beds; more cardboard; furniture movers and navigating stairs; so much cardboard.
My wife and I came to the same independent conclusion: Moving ever again sounds like a terrible idea.
Our situation is interesting: If we ever retire from our jobs at Pepperdine, we are required to sell our condo and move somewhere else again, which means, if you’re playing along at home with me, that our future offers two real scenarios—we can die, or we can move again. I’m just saying, here among the cardboard, that dying does not sound like such a terrible choice.
Oh, I know that I’m just getting old. And that I have a faulty memory, which I understand will not necessarily improve with more aging. There will be a point, I’m sure, when I forget what seems clear right now, and moving yet again is not completely out of the question. But my goodness the list of things I would rather do than move just grew exponentially.
Um, so you are planning to move again? Oh. Congratulations. Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.
Starting to Look Up 