Little Townhouse on the Prairie Part 4 - A New Season

I have to start with a quip. So I let my inner Wisconsinite out the other day. At a stop-n-go light an SUV (which I would later learn was from Illinois) pulled up and the passenger asked out their window how to get to the Culver's. my inner monologue said "Oh you is going the way wrong way." But I replied, "OK so you turn left here, you get to the stop and go light and hang a left and just keep going. It's gonna be right next to a BMO Harris bank on your left." They probably still got lost because at first I told them to turn around and go left at the roundabout but then corrected myself because it would have been easier to just turn left than to turn around, especially since they were in a left turn lane. Wherever this adventure of life lands me, I will always be a Wisconsinite at heart. Except for the fact that I would help them regardless of the fact of knowing they came from Illinois. Though admittedly, the Wisconsin Department of Transportation could do a lot more to ensure motorists on the interstate would not get lost whilst getting off to eat. But then they should have thought about that before building a concrete wall around the city...but I digress.

So the growing season is over. And the results are in. The bunnies in my general vicinity are very well this summer. A wise farmer once told me that a farmer figures on 10% ish of their crop will go to the wildlife. In my case, I consumed about 10% of my crop. Ah well...I don't think farming genes run in any of my family history...save for maybe one or two. We're city-dwelling workers, not workers of the land apparently.

Admittedly as of late it'd been a while since I got into the kitchen and made anything more than a nightly meal. Since the second week of September at least one person in my household has been sick. Lord willing we have kicked the virus or illness or what have you, out of the Little Townhouse, and are moving forward.

I have to say, I felt a rush - the same rush that I feel when I sit down to write - when I got back into the kitchen. It all started with me wanting to use my bread machine. Not currently listed on my resume is Murderer of Yeast. I have successfully made one loaf of yeast bread in my life. It was a Ciabatta Loaf, and Oh My Expletive was it good. Well I don't have yeast currently, and so I found a recipe that was for a "Country Loaf". It was flour, baking powder, salt, "Any Liquid" and "Any Liquid Fat"...I jumped on that, as I had a bottle of Hard Apple Cider that was just sitting in my fridge and wouldn't you know it, was exactly the amount needed for this loaf. End result - Not too bad!

I didn't stop there. I have (or, Had...) exactly 1/3 cup of sugar in my entire kitchen. So I did what any sane person would have done and made coconut macaroons with them, which of course needed exactly 1/3 cup sugar. Seems to be a healthier alternative to regular cookies, as there's only 1/3 cup of sugar, and whatever added sugar was in the shredded coconut. Didn't have time to scientifically do that math or anything but let's just assume they are.

Also made some meatballs, since i had 2 egg yolks after the macaroon matter. I was so excited about them, except they turned pasty. I mean 2 out of 3 though...Meatloaf said it best.

So that true passion thing...perhaps I can just add cooking to it too. Writing and cooking. I can be okay with that. Of course, I will be adding more, as Christmas is coming (and the goose is.....ok too soon for Christmas Carols), and I do like making me some Christmas Crafts! Little Townhouse on the Prairie continues into the Fall and Winter!! Here we go.

Comparative Epitaphs

Lately I've been thinking about true passions. The thought has come to me, "What will your epitaph read?" "When you die, and your children and grandchildren have to write your obituary...what will they say?"

Immediately I think to myself "I do not want them to write 'he was a claims adjudicator for X amount of years." So why then, am I still a claims adjudicator? Well the short answer is good intentions not only pave the road to hell, but they certainly do not pay the rent. If I knew I could write a novel and my family would never know want (hyperbolically speaking), I would turn in my two weeks and never look back. Or, at least, I would write that novel and then turn in my two weeks.

That then brings the subject up of duty vs passion. It is said that if one does what they love, they will never work a day in their lives. I find myself working 50 hours a week in what I would describe (in a not complaining tone) as a position that does not utilize my talents to the best of my ability. And I think that's where this period of reflection, this discernment of my true passion, stems from. This, of course, led to The Choice for Awesome. And, failing to achieve my goal there, a step back in reflection of figuring out just what I am good at. It's easy to sit here and say "I'm not using my talents to the best of my ability", but what exact talents am I speaking of? Without an answer this just becomes a clever way of saying "I hate my job and I want a new one, a better paying one."

To paraphrase Stevie Nicks, what dreams do I have to sell? Definitely not dreams of loneliness.

There is something to be said about being too dutiful. It sucks the life right out of you. It kills your passions, it kills your sense of self...but hey, on the bright side, it pays the bills so you can continue to live your mediocre life on repeat. (That was overly cynical, tell me how you really feel)

Without sounding too much like Ariel (I want to be where the people are, I want to see, want to see them dancing...whoa just typing that it sounds creeperish but I needed to explain my metaphor because not everyone gets my sense of humor), I want to have the kind of job that utilizes what I know I'm good at, and/or what I enjoy doing. I like writing (although the verdict is out on whether or not I'm particularly good at it). I like cooking (same parenthetical remark as before applies). Photography. History, Genealogy, haven't we been through this before?

So there's that. A resolution: I need to make a better use of all the free time I can, which probably will consist of after bed time, but nonetheless, utilize it better, to foster my writing. I need to make it happen. Yes, it's been a while since I actually wrote wrote anything. But to start again, I simply need to just do it. I need to grab it by the --- (wait, that's beginning to sound too Trump-esque).

(Come on now, I can't infuse my blog posts with a bit of pop culture to make them a little more interesting to the handful of readers I actually have?)

My first novel is only a blank page away.

A piece of advice I will leave you with. If you're like me...when you scroll on your Facebook feed and you come across people you went to school with...don't click and scroll and see what they've been up to since you were in school, unless you want to truly reconnect. ESPECIALLY if you're experiencing the kind of wanderlust, if you will...(OK maybe wanderlust isn't the exact word I'm looking for). But it's a classic example of how social media makes you feel...I don't know, sorry for yourself? You see where these people are, what they've done, and then you look at your own life comparatively. I don't think I have to go further into detail, if you've been reading my last few posts.

It can be a good thing, it can spark a sense of urgency, if you will. It can spark you to want to do something more. And admittedly, it has. But the pangs of knowing I'm just where I was 10, 12, 15, 21 years ago (exformation intended for reasons I've just divulged), and to know it is at least for the time being, out of my control...you get the point. Social media though...it's supposed to be a connective tool that brings people together, makes the world a bit smaller...Maybe it's just the election, but it's in all actuality a very cold and lonely thing. And yet, we are still addicted to that thumb scrolling joy sucker. We just want to be part of their world...(what did I say about sounding like Ariel???) Anyway back to the point. Facebook sucks joy. So don't do it.

It might just be a hindrance to creating your own joy.

A Worthy Sacrifice

"A man's biography is written in terms not so much of what he causes to happen, but rather what happens to him and in him. The difference between men is not in the adversity which comes to them, but rather how they meet the adversity." - Archbishop Fulton Sheen.

I came across that on my Facebook feed and immediately my brain crack receptors went off.

Brain crack? Rather than try to explain it, just watch this video from the Great Ze Frank, who came up with the term.

That particular quote couldn't be more perfectly timed, as I sit here and contemplate my life's story.

Google search defines adversity as "difficulties, misfortunes". I'm not going to sit here and pretend to be the person most affected by adversity. But I will say that adversity takes many forms, wears many different hats and disguises if you will. Many of mine in recent years have been monetarily in form. I've learned lessons, slightly slipped back, but found more gripping as the days progress, however I can look back on where I was two years ago and state with confidence that even though it feels the same, it really is not. It's better.

And it will get better.

I've done my fair share of running, when faced with adversity. But I've also trudged through like a blinding blizzard because I've had no other choice. I've taken easy roads and hard roads, though admittedly my inherent impatience does get the better of me when the latter is involved. It's easy to let happen. You want results, and you want them now. A misfortune befalls you, and you immediately try to think of ways to solve it. Sometimes that solution lies just outside your realm of control, and it irks you to no end. And then it becomes an obsession (or maybe that's just me?).

But it gets better. It doesn't feel like it at times. It feels more like you are stuck in a rut and it's never going to get better. But it will.

Choices are and must be made every day. One often looks back on those choices and wonders how things would be different if they just took that other path. But what one doesn't take into account sometimes is that everything would be different. You go back and alter one choice and you end up in a totally different situation. And then, realizing that, one comes to the conclusion that you were meant to choose that path for a reason. What you might now deem as a mistake, ultimately leads to a great joy. A joy which sometimes is overlooked for the simple fact of the desired result of making that other choice.

It's easy to look back on past choices, but a whole other mountain with present choices that need to be made, along with all the possible future outcomes. And it becomes dizzying.

There's something to be said about a worthy sacrifice. For some reason this phrase has been bouncing around my head this week, which is a sure sign that this is brain crack and must get released from my fingertips. It's choosing to forgo going out so you can spend time with your family. It's briefly taking a second job so you can provide better for your family. It could be forgoing, or at least temporarily, your big city dreams in favor of a smaller town life because that's what your family has become accustomed to.

In the past few entries I've talked about my desire to move. I can never fully shake that feeling, especially when I pull up Google Maps and look at all the places I could go. But then I see my sons playing with their cousins. And then I know, that at least for now, rather than think of it being "my fate sealed", that I made the right choice. That regardless of any other feelings of being an outsider looking in, being a stranger in a group that once was so closely knit, effectively being shunned to a point...regardless of all that, I've made the choice for awesome. Or at least it would seem that way, for my kids. And wasn't that what I'd wanted all along?

A worthy sacrifice.

An outsider looking in?

Perceived or otherwise, feeling like an outsider doesn't feel good at all. To belong to a group where everybody seems to be connected to each other, and know, or at least perceive, that you are not included, sucks so bad. It feels like you're living in the shadows of that group. Like you're trying too hard to fit in, and why doesn't he just get the hint that he's not welcome do we have to come out and say it? It may or may not be the case, and in most cases it's not. But sometimes, perception is everything. People will never forget how you made them feel.

Then you shake all that out of your head. Concentrate on the choice, concentrate on the here and now, and forget everything else. Deal with the conflicting feelings as they come in waves, like high tide. Build a levee to control them. Consider your worthy sacrifice.

The trouble is determining whether or not said sacrifice is, in fact, a worthy sacrifice.

The Laugh Track is Extra

Life isn't just a sequence of waiting for things to be done." - Ze Frank

Do you ever get the feeling that you are living in a circus and all of a sudden you are thrust into the role of unwanted ringmaster?

Hi, I'm Eric, and this is my circus. 

My car won't start. And when it does...it acts as if it has elected a new pope. And last I checked Pope Francis is still the pontiff.

**For those who do not get that, this is my punneriffic way to say something is majorly wrong with my vehicle. You see, when the pope does and the College of Cardinals convenes to elect a new pope, They indicate said election by releasing white smoke from the Vatican. If they've not, black smoke is produced. Side note over.**

Now then, it doesn't stop there. Yesterday my father's guardian angel made itself known by guarding him from being hit by a semi truck while in his car. 

My days have converged into a series of get up, work, work overtime, log off, cook dinner and go to bed, in a series I'd like to see cancelled by Fox. (don't mistake that for suicidal ideation, it's a metaphor, duh guys.)

My life is a sitcom; all that's missing is the laugh track. Or maybe the live studio audience. But I guess, in my case, everyone I interact with is my live studio audience. They're just not gathered collectively as my life situations play out. Going off of my previous post, the phrase from Beauty and the Beast (modified for context) "There must be more than this provisional life" seems to be uttered by my inner voice a few times a day.

Provisional Life. What the F does that mean, I asked myself. A quick Google search defined it as follows: people whose lives are stuck on a dysfunctional merry-go-round of self-inflicted crisis, that everything they don’t like about their lives will change just as soon as something else happens

Hmm. 

And now I'm drawn back to the previous post, thinking about Puer Aeternus. My fascination (or borderline obsession, if you will) that moving from this town will magically make everything better. We have a winner. This sounds oddly familiar, the resemblance is striking.

And now I've just had an epiphany. I was writing that during my lunch. Back story, the past few months we'll say, I've been taking stock of what my true passion in life is. I've done some research, as I've briefly referenced in previous posts, and one of the things I've stumbled upon are the following questions:

1 - What makes you lose track of time?
2 - What do you spend money to do?
3 - Where do you fear judgment?
4 - What makes your heart race?

I've discovered one thing that can answer all four of these questions. WRITING. I almost forgot to come back from lunch and punch back in after my half hour, time just flew while I was writing, and the words just keep coming off my fingertips. I may not be able to do it at present but I've been toying around with the idea of self-hosting my blog/writings. I do fear judgment on my writings, because I don't really take criticism well. And when I write what I feel is a really good post, my heart does race as I wait to see how many people it will reach. 

Side Note - I'm thinking of drawing up a character I'll use in a forthcoming story. All I will say is he has a man-bun. And people call him Man Bun because his name isn't worth remembering, mainly because I haven't thought of his name yet. But I do wonder if I can pull off a man bun myself...but then I remember I'm balding. Moreover, I have a growing bald spot on the back of my head from where I used to (don't judge me) consciously pull my hair out as a kid. Side Side Note, The diagnosis of childhood psychosis is starting to make more sense...

So, as if it never existed before and I'm just discovering it now, the world is not flat. No, no, that's not it. I've found (at least one of) my true passion(s): writing. It was there all along, I haven't sat down to actually write anything in a while, but rather than feel guilty about it (as I read in another Google Search of "how to start writing again after a long break"), I will resolve (wait is this New Years?) to start writing again.

You'll notice that I've allowed my inner voice some commentary throughout this post. That actually gives me a rush too in thinking of when I will post this. My inner voice has a dad-jokes sense of humor, which is why I feel like I will be (or, am...) that classic dad jokes guy.

Asphalt Bars

I will be the first person to say I don't know the inner workings of depression, how it operates or what brings about episodes. I will also say that I would love to be privy to such information.

I'm not saying that I believe I am going through an episode at present. I'm not even saying that right now I am currently depressed. The term I think is most applicable in my case at immediate present, I would say, is restless.

It amazes me that a little over a month ago I could make a post called The Choice For Awesome and now find myself saying I feel restless. And not in a good way, either.

Okay let me back up a bit. The aforementioned post, admittedly, was a little overzealous. I did do a vlog, on September 12. Due to circumstances beyond my control, including but not limited to an eardrum-rupturing ear infection, I was unable to continue. Don't get me wrong, I still have that taste for awesome as I so vividly displayed back then. I may just need a little redirection of sorts.

Let me back up a bit further. Ever since I moved to this city from suburban Milwaukee exactly 21 years ago this month (October 1st to be exact), I've hated it. Speaking in the hyperbolic sense, there's nothing more I'd love than to move, to a bigger city, to a different state, maybe even to another country altogether. Just. Out. Of. Here.

Several factors are preventing such a move, even in the slightest degree of moving to a neighboring biggish city, as I discovered last year. Some are inside my control, but most are out of my control. In addition, one of the biggest things that is in my control, even when I accomplish it, might not have a huge difference in the municipality of which I reside.

Yes, this city is a prison of sorts, especially taking into account that it is "walled off", if you will, by a freeway and a freeway-wannabe, the access control points of which are becoming decreasingly hard to cross. But then I stop and think how much different things would have been, say had I done what I wanted to do post-high school. Differently, not in a good way either. As much as I felt (and sometimes still feel) like George Bailey, it needed to happen this way. And sometimes I forget that.

And that's when it hit me.

Save for one paragraph above, everything I wrote in this post was written about a week ago, before I had an epiphany of sorts, this morning. I wasn't ready to post this post yet, partially due to the fact that my routine has not permitted...no, but this restlessness I am feeling, has an origin.

Enter puer aeternus.

I've just become privy to information about this, and would not even describe myself as marginally knowledgeable about it, but what I did glean from it has gotten me thinking.

I think there's a difference between "being a kid at heart" and "never wanting to grow up", as the puer aeternus would state. It might be a fine line, but there's a difference. I think my biggest problem is as of late, I have fallen into the trap of "waiting for my ship to come in", so to speak. I've lost a certain amount of joy, but yet I am not per se depressed. Not that the loss of a certain fraction of joy doesn't bother me, but it is nowhere near the episode I experienced before.

I googled something to the effect of "finding joy again", and one of the things I found that was rather noteworthy instructed me to think back to the Halcyon Days of when I was 7-8, and what I enjoyed doing back then. It took some coaxing, and didn't come to me right away.

I derive joy in puzzles. Sudoku, crosswords, piecing together the puzzles of family history. I derive joy in just looking at maps. The new year's edition of Rand McNally's Road Atlas was always on my must-have list. As a result and with the help of Google Maps at times, I consider myself a person with a great sense of direction, something I generally take for granted until I come across someone who does not have said quality and asks directions to get somewhere (Mom and Alex, I'm looking at you). I derived joy in playing pretend. I derived joy in creating, even if it was just making Lego Towers in Lego Cities, or buildings and train stations out of empty cigarette packs while my dad was building the real deal in the basement. (In retrospect, admittedly a 7 year old should not be trusted with a soldering iron, as much as I wanted to build things myself)

I derive joy in writing, in using big words correctly (but not often enough to be considered pretentious). I derive joy in research, as I've already mentioned genealogy. But other things, too. Looking at Google Maps, seeing the borders of any given city, the population trends of said city...but then just when I start to think that that city would be a great place to live in, the pangs of being stuck here come back.

It's stupid, I know. But as I say, these are the things that thrust themselves into my mind every day.

I want change, yet am scared of it sometimes. When I want things to stay the same, they change, and when I want them to change, they stay the same.

I must learn to create my joy in the restlessness, in the "puer aeternus" if you will. I cannot keep standing on the dock waiting for my ship to come in. I've got to get to the shipyard and build a dinghy myself.

Yes, I chose dinghy because I like the sound of that word, not because I never want to grow up. I'm not asking for a luxury cruise liner here, a freakin' raft will do.

I don't know if my grandpa ever felt "stuck" in Milwaukee, but I do know if he did, it took north of 70 years for him to get out. And here I am just north of 20 complaining. The problem I have here, is that there's just so much to be seen and experienced beyond the asphalt walls of this town. So many other places that may be a better fit for me and my family. And maybe that opportunity will open up, but I have to let it open up when it's ready. I can't create it myself. I might as well be waiting in New York City in 1912 for the Titanic to dock.

But what I can do, is create joy in the here and now. And that is my assignment.