Unfinished Friendship

You were my friend.
You were my friend years ago, but I hadn't talked to you in ages and I was afraid to talk to you now.
I would steal glances though--to make sure that that high school kid was really the same neighbor boy that I had played Mortal Combat with throughout much of my childhood.
You had grown quite a lot, and gained weight too, although you were always a bit rotund, from what I remembered.
Your older self seemed to be a sort of trouble maker, and I admit that I was put off by some of your behavior. You hung out with the other kids in our class who often came across as rude, and who, in my mind, had questionable morals and likely did questionable things.
But I still wanted to talk to you.

I wanted to talk but I was a "good kid," and I was fearful of how you might respond to my attempt at reaching out. I was afraid of being rejected by someone who once had been so close to me.
I tried to think of what I might say.
Again and again, opportunities would arise but I just couldn't figure out a decent way to start a conversation. "Hey we used to be neighbors and best friends and hang out everyday lets catch up" might have worked, but to my hyper-conscious high school self, that just didn't come across as a natural way to start a conversation.
I specifically remember one day--
One day you stood in the entryway to the classroom while talking to one of your friends. You were blocking the way through, and that was my chance. I could have said anything at that moment, and it would have re-initiated some sort of contact, even a simple "excuse me" with a glance and a smile would have done well enough.
But I didn't.

Instead I forced my way past, you obligingly stepped aside, and I rolled my eyes. I rolled them like some snooty, stuck-up drama queen who can't stand it when people improperly stand in doorways. And I instantly disliked myself for doing so. I felt foolish and snobbish and cowardly.
And underneath the i'm-better-than-you facade that I so suddenly constructed was my insecure self that desperately just wanted to say hi. 

I missed having you as my neighbor. I missed when we would eat three servings of taco salad and drink Sunny D, much to my mother's chagrin, and when we would play with your old black (now gray) lab named Yogi.
I missed being your friend.
But these were words that I could not get myself to say, despite the chances that I had to say them, and I became resigned to the fact that we had both simply changed too much. I was a good student and you had grown tired of the whole operation, although you acquired a fantastic skill with your drum set, which I thought was pretty cool.

And then you died.
You had a nice funeral service--despite it being kind of preachy--or so I heard. I didn't go because my parents had forgotten to tell me the date and then forgot the date themselves.
I heard about your service the next Monday in pottery class and was brought to tears when I realized I had missed it.

I had missed the memorial service for your life.
A life that I had grown up with and cared about and respected, a life which had so suddenly vanished--
I had avoided talking to you for so long,
and I wasn't even there to pay my last respects.

You were my friend.
You were my friend and part of me--
Part of me thinks that on that morning when you stood in the doorway--
if I had just said something. If I had extended my friendship out to you once more than perhaps...
Perhaps things could have ended up differently.
And as I walked on graduation day, maybe your name could have been read aloud, and you would have crossed the stage also.
Rather than having your name read in memorial.

It's been almost five years, and I still think about you, and tears still form in my eyes. I don't know if it's because I'm over-emotional or over-dramatic or what.
But I think of you and I remember this boy from my childhood. A boy who sometimes threw rocks and said inappropriate things, but who also had an infectious laugh and a good heart.
A boy who was not very unlike myself.

Food and Family

As a slight divergence from the themes of my previous blog entries, I’m going to write about something that I almost always finish, and with Thanksgiving coming up, I would venture to say that it is pretty relevant:

I can't stand leaving food unfinished. 

To be honest I don't know what goes through my head when I pick up the last few bites from my plate and force feed my self while my stomach is on the verge of exploding, but it never seems to fail. Then I spend the rest of the evening feeling mightily uncomfortable and wishing that someone had an antacid.

Let’s face it. There is something about scraping perfectly good food into the trash that just makes me feel like some horrible, ungrateful, wasteful person. And so the alternative is? Eat it. All of it. Despite the tension around my belt. I don't know if this is primarily an American mentality, but I know several friends who can sympathize with me, and I have some social theories as to why this is exactly. Perhaps one cause is the old saying that I'm sure quite a few of us heard at the dinner table as children: "eat your food, because there are children starving in (Insert China, Africa, or whatever country your parents deemed to be more unfortunate here). This saying doesn’t make sense now, and it never really made sense to me then, either. If children were so starved that they would gladly eat the spinach that I would have rather tossed out, then why didn't we send it over to them? Was my stomach some sort of secret teleportation device that transported food over to hungry kids?

Of course, I’m being slightly facetious. Surely the saying was meant to help us appreciate the food that we had, because there are other people who have nothing at all. It’s a stretch to say that such a simple saying could be the primary cause for childhood obesity, but I do think that it could have attributed a bit to our guilty consciences when we leave food unfinished. Another factor is simply the fact that America’s culture is so familiar with having excess, and the reality is that people are used to taking more than what they need. This is a habit I personally have been trying to break. Instead of piling my plate with food so I don’t have to go back for seconds, I’ve been trying to eat in shifts. I start with the vegetables, go back for the grains and proteins, and return once more if I’m still a bit hungry. This helps me control all that goes into my stomach, while sparing myself from feeling guilty at the same time.

Nonetheless, on Thanksgiving Day, even with all my past experiences of accidentally having one too many biscuits, or unwisely squeezing in that last slice of pumpkin pie, I will probably overdo it. But hey, the food has been made, and what better way to be thankful to the hands that prepared it then by trying out every single dish on the table? It’s an American holiday, after all, and like it or not, the sharing of meals has long been an important factor in regards to holidays and family gatherings. Not that I’m complaining.

Unfinished Art

There are few things that make me feel guiltier than leaving a painting unfinished, and yet I do it all the time. At first I thought it was just out of sheer laziness when I would give up on half-finished art (which may very well have been the case). Now I think that maybe I refuse to finish things primarily because, at this point in time, I simply do not have the amount of artistic skill that is necessary for my vision to be brought to life. I think its okay to recognize this. I might try and sketch something out multiple times, while attempting to pin down the feeling, the emotion, or the thoughts that are swirling around in my head.  In a way, working on a painting is a lot like writing a story. You might have a shadow of an idea that you formed in your childhood that gradually grew and developed itself more within your own mind as you gained more ideas, read more, or experienced new things. That's not to say that you couldn't have written down your idea as a child, but it's very likely that it would lack the depth that one often desires their stories to have. The same can be said for producing art. I have several ideas that have yet to see the light of day, and still others that I would like to one day attempt to do again. But over the time that I've pondered my visions, they have steadily developed within my mind, along with my skills as a painter.

I'm not implying that finishing a piece that does not live up to my expectation dampens the idea any. I can always try to rework a painting, or completely start over, and then I would have something to compare my work to and learn from. In fact on one rare occasion I actually did this--I completed an entire painting that took me hours upon hours to do, then showed my teacher, who said that she wanted me to change something about it but it was impossible to do without starting over completely. So I did. I took every idea that worked really well and drew it again, only this time I knew exactly what I was looking for and how the space would be occupied. When it came to the things my teacher wanted me to change, I already had an idea of what worked and what didn't. I made less mistakes on my second drawing, and when I finished it I was much more satisfied. Holding the two paintings up to each other shows some drastic differences and it was really encouraging to find out how much I could improve something on the second time through. But it certainly takes more effort. Many, many extra hours and loss of sleep, in fact. And sometimes I just don't have enough time to waste on working on paintings of paintings before finally being satisfied with a piece of art.

I really probably should start doing more unfinished sketches and drawing and paintings, at least to get my thoughts down visually, and then later I could always go back and flip through a jumble of incomplete ideas while deciding which one I could tackle. You know, sketching is like writing too. More like journaling, maybe. It gives you a chance to collect your thoughts and saves them for a time when they would fit in with a bigger picture. I should really sketch more.

Perhaps the reason I don't really does come down to my just being lazy. But that is besides the point.
What it all comes down to, as I previously read in a book on writing, is that no idea is sacred. Just as one sentence in your first draft may not be completely necessary or beneficial for the whole story, the same can also be said about brush strokes on a painting. Sometimes you choose to do something that does not benefit the picture's balance, or you may even begin an idea that you realize you are really not all that interested in. Why waste time pushing through a painting that you don't really want to do (Unless it's a commission of course. In that case you better knuckle down)? The reality is that art exists for you, because of you, and as an extension of yourself. Whether you do a partial sketch, or paint the Mona Lisa, you are still giving the world something that is apart of you, and that does not depend on whether something is completed or not. Even Da Vinci (you can tell I admire him, huh?) had some unfinished pieces that he simply never got around to. And you know what? They're still beautiful. Not in the same aspect of his complete, fully-realized work, but in that it gives you a glimpse of his thoughts, and the process he went through to bring his more better-known pieces to life.

Don't Leave a Friend Hanging (or with a broken arm)

There are some things that you really should not give up on. A marriage is one example, or a job, or staying awake while driving, etc. Of course, there are always exceptions (except for maybe that last one), but we should all know the difference between when it’s okay to drop something, and when you really just need to struggle through until you make it. I learned this the hard way (actually, my friend did).

Being that I grew up through a homeschool program, I and a good number of my church friends would learn biology from a nurse, who was a family friend and one of the ladies that also went to my church. We would go to her house and do things like frog and sheep’s eye dissections, look at live gold fish under a microscope to see their pulsing veins, learn how to identify and press flowers, found out what our blood type was, and other such things. After class, we would go play in the tree house that she had in her backyard, which once belonged to her now grown-up son.

The tree house had a rope ladder that went up through the middle of the floor, and even though it was sturdy, it was relatively difficult to climb up on. I had struggled many a time on my own before, but today I managed to get to the top and was goofing off with several of my friends who had also climbed in.

One of the girls named Katie, who was making her way up the ladder, was obviously having a bit of trouble. I, being slightly older, figured I would give her a hand and help pull her up. However, I was not expecting it when she let go of the rope completely and gave me both her hands. The rope ladder was being pushed forward by her feet, so much so that it wasn’t holding very much of her weight, and instead relied on the strength of my arms. To be honest, I don’t know if I would have had the ability to pull Katie up or not, but the position I was in was so awkward that I simply was not ready to bare that much weight.

All I remember was feeling her fingers slip from my hands and watching her fall, probably a good seven feet, back to the ground. She landed flat on her back and the wind was knocked out of her. I remember thinking about how hard her head appeared to have hit the dirt, and I instantly felt terribly sorry. Katie immediately burst out into tears and clung to her arm, which seemed to be causing her the most pain. Our teacher/nurse came out and checked on her, eventually having her mother come to get her. All the while I was feeling very guilty, and didn’t know what to tell her (sorry I dropped you from a tree house?). Instead I got away from everything that was going on, and practically hid from Katie’s sight as her mom took her out to the car. I was scared to death that she would blame me for her injury, would be angry at me, wouldn’t forgive me.

Instead of saying I was sorry I just avoided her. A week later I found out that she had broken her arm, and I wondered if it was clear in her mind that I was to blame. I just lived with the guilt, although I told my mother that it was my fault the poor girl broke her arm, but my mom didn’t really understand what I meant. Any friendship I had with Katie quickly faded away. I thought about going up to her and apologizing on many occasions but figured it was too late by then. I remember a few years later, when we finally did interact again, we were in the same class and she asked me what my name was. She had forgotten me completely.

I guess it’s obvious, but what I regret most about the situation was my inability to hold onto her. If only I had tightened my grip, or asked for help, or told her to still hang onto the rope with one hand, I would have kept her from falling. But in that split second the only decision I made was to give up. I had given up on holding onto her literally, and further down the road I also gave up on asking her for forgiveness.

This incident taught me one of two things, the first being that you shouldn’t let your guilt get in the way of repentance. Katie was always a nice girl and I’m sure she knew that I hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she was probably just waiting for me to come up and say some sort of apology. A sincere sorry may have been enough, and even if it wasn’t I would have at least known that I had tried to apologize. My saying something wouldn't have caused her any more harm, and it certainly would have helped my conscience, but instead I just bit my tongue and let our friendship curmble to dust.

The second lesson I learned was to not help people into tree houses.

Piano Lessons and Self Doubt

When I was maybe around ten years old my mother decided to put me into piano lessons. If I remember correctly, my sister's friend had gone to the very same piano teacher, and she was very skilled at playing both the piano and the horn. While I had grown up singing, both inside the church and in productions, I had never learned how to properly read music, so the exercises I would begin doing with my instructor would set me up for basic understanding of how the notes on the paper correlated with the keys on the piano.

 

Before I learned anything, however, I first had to get to her house. This wasn’t a problem per say, because my mom certainly was going to drive me there, but there was an anxiety that accompanied me on the way to my piano teacher’s place. The only way I could justify this anxiety would be to say that it was a fear of the unknown; thinking that maybe she might not like me, that maybe I wouldn’t be good enough. This of course, looking back now, was an obviously silly notion, because I was going there for her to teach me how to be good at the piano. Why would the teacher expect me to have any skills beyond the basics?

 

We finally arrived there and the house had a distinct smell, not bad or good, just different. My fear trailed behind me as I sat down at the piano bench and my instructor began to explain her program to both me and my mom. She began telling me how some children start out very young, perhaps as a method to explain to me that anyone could learn to play. This however, was not how I took it. I instantly began to imagine a 5 year old child who played marvelously at the piano, who knew so much more than I currently knew about the large and mysterious musical instrument that sat before me. In all honesty I think this is what set me up for failure. I instantly felt inadequate, thinking to myself that I should have started younger, that I would never be as good as the children who already had five years on me.

 

The problem was that no one knew that this was what I was thinking at the time, that I had instantly internalized a feeling of inadequacy. The teacher may have very well thought that her words were going to be an encouragement to me, but I had taken it the completely opposite direction. In my mind, I had already come to the conclusion that I could never be good enough.

 

Since the lesson was an hour long, my mom was going to perhaps go shopping or do some other such errands to preoccupy her time before she would come back to pick me up once the lesson was over. I remember the feeling of dread that I felt as I was left with this kind, yet unfamiliar lady. My instructor had a strong personality. She probably needed one in order to keep five year olds on task, but it didn’t help any with my levels of intimidation.

 

I remember her asking me questions, trying to get a feel for what I did already know about the piano. She asked me if I knew what kind of piano she had, and showed me three silhouetted drawing of different pianos with the names underneath. I stared at the pictures and looked back at the large instrument before me, but none of the outlines seemed to quite match up. I ventured a guess, but I was wrong. “Perhaps this will help” she said, as she opened the top to reveal the strings and hammers. The half-opened lid now matched the silhouette of the grand piano, which was what it was. After that she taught me the proper form and placement of my fingers, and where to find middle C. This was all good and well, and by the end of the lesson she had given me a short assignment to practice and memorize over the course of the week.

By the time my mom returned I was feeling slightly less on edge. Over the next few weeks, I worked on the different piano assignments that my instructor had given me, and returned to her house every Saturday for one hour to show her what I had learned. The assignments had been relatively easy, I had little difficulty, and I was beginning to expect praise and encouragement from her.

 

One particular week however, I ended up not getting as much practice in as I should have. I don’t know if it was because my school homework had taken up too much of my time, or if I simply slacked off. Nonetheless, sometime throughout the week I had decided that I had practiced enough, and went back to my instructor to show her what I had learned, despite the fact that I was not fully prepared.

 

As soon as I returned to her house for the lesson I sat down and showed her the exercise I had been given. My fingers fumbled over the keys a bit more this time, and it was obvious to my instructor that I hadn’t spent an adequate amount of time to learn the song. She gave me one more chance to play it through again to see if I could get it right a second time, but I had no luck and struggled with the same parts that had given me some trouble before.

 

“Did you practice this week?”

“Yes” I said, because I did, just not very much.

“I want you to work on this one more week and spend more time actually practicing it.”

And with that, my lesson was over. I had failed this week and would have to do the same exercise that I really didn’t want to have to do over again.

 

The following days I felt dejected. The lesson was still giving me difficulty and I was afraid to go back and fail again. I bet her five year old students didn’t have to redo assignments. I bet her five year old students were way better than me.

 

As the next appointment with my teacher got closer and closer throughout the week, I felt more and more anxiety. I couldn’t do this, I thought. I would never be good enough. The night before my meeting with my instructor I sat crying on the couch, and my mom asked me multiple times why I was crying after I refused to tell her. Eventually I caved. “I don’t want to go back to my piano lesson.” Oh was that all? My mom didn’t understand why I felt the way I did about my situation, but she didn’t want to push me into something that I didn’t want to do. My problem was that I did want to learn how to play, but I was just so afraid of disappointing my teacher again that my fear of her disapproval overshadowed my desire to learn. If I didn’t have to face the feeling of inadequacy, then I wanted to avoid it. The only way I could do that was to not go back.

My mom called her that night to cancel my lessons.  My mom said my teacher didn’t understand why I would quit, she said I had been doing well so far. This came as a surprise to me. I still felt a pang of regret but the relief I felt, knowing I didn’t have to go back, was even stronger.

Looking back, I really do wish I had stuck it out with my piano lessons. I still love music and try my hand at learning some songs by ear, but knowing how to properly play would have really benefitted me. As a child, I knew deep down that I wanted to learn, but I let my fear get the best of me. As I’ve matured I have faced other similar situations, but have since tried to swallow my fear so as to not be held back by it. I still feel anxiety when it comes facing the unknown, but I know now that if I can stand my ground, usually the benefits outweigh the fear. I certainly regret not sticking with my piano lessons, but I think that the experience taught me something that I never would have learned had I never dealt with such a situation. I now understand the concept of a missed opportunity, and as opportunities arise in my life today, I try to put my fear aside and take a chance. Most often it turns into a great experience, and may even transform into something that I love.

Completing your Priorities

Is it ever acceptable for someone to just never complete something? Have you ever started a project that you had every intention of completing, but you just never got around to finishing it because somewhere along the way you just lost all interest?  Do you ever feel guilty when you end up not finishing something, or do you figure that it just wasn’t all that important to you in the first place?

The reality is that everybody has started something at one point in their lives that they just never managed to complete. It may have been something like a movie or book, a class or hobby, an exercise routine, a vitamin regimen, etc… And the reason we give up may stem from a number of different factors. Perhaps you came to the realization that skydiving just really wasn’t your thing, or you read a story that was so ridiculously inconsistent that you just couldn’t pick it up anymore, or perhaps you started something that you really did like and meant to finish, but just somehow managed to forget about it.  

In some cases giving up may be seen as a bad thing, perhaps because it shows that you were too weak or uncommitted for a task. This seems to be the way society views such matters, and in some cases we may feel guilty because we were unable to meet society’s expectations. Regardless, I think the things we choose to do and the things we give up (whether we consciously choose to or not) can say quite a bit about our personalities. Everyday people are prioritizing things in their lives based on the decisions they make and the time they set aside for some things, even when that means taking time away from others.  

Trying new things is one of the wonderful aspects of humanity. There are so many possible avenues for us to take, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that each and every route will always be the best one for us. I know I’ve had times where I started something and, even when I would try and push through to enjoy it as best I could, it was such a relief when I stopped trying and invested my time in something that I found to be much more enjoyable. The reality is that there are simply so many things out there that we can do, that sometimes we have to choose one thing over the other.

This is not to say that we should give up on anything that takes more work than we expected, or that doesn’t excite us at the time. Rather, we should ensure that what we are committing ourselves to is something that we know we love, despite the amount of effort that we have to put forth in order to get to where we want to be. Growing up, I personally had a friend named Corey who was into wrestling simply because of his father's expectations for him. My friend’s real passion was theater, and even though his wrestling career made his dad happy, it didn’t make him happy. Eventually he gave up wrestling, despite his father’s protests, and has since had many wonderful roles in multiple performances. Giving up wrestling and letting his father down was not easy for Corey, but he made a conscious decision to prioritize his life and do the one thing that he really loved to do.

As for me, when I find that I leave projects uncompleted, I take comfort in knowing that the great Renaissance artist Leonardo da Vinci also had trouble with sticking to his projects. That however, did not diminish the value of the work that he did complete! Lucky for us, we have the same amount of hours in a day that Leo had, and that means that our efforts have the ability to take on just as much significance, just as long as we choose to spend our time wisely!