Wil To Make

The day started out sunny and fairly pleasant, but by the early afternoon, it was cloudy, cold and windy.  By the time we arrived, it was rainy.

 

A group of my son’s friends, his wife Maria, and the Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design put on an exhibit and silent auction of art work to raise money for a scholarship in Wil’s name called, Wil To Make.

 

Art was hung on the walls, including some pieces Wil had taken.  T-shirts were purchased and passed out, along with buttons that carried the scholarship name.  Kim, Hannah, Emily, and I wandered around looking at all the donated art.  The pieces had the artist’s name and a brief paragraph explaining why they had donated the piece. 

 

Music played in the background.  Before long, there were so many people.  An eclectic group.  All ages.  All races.  Friends.  Family.  Some of my former students, some from my teaching days, some from my principal days.  They shared stories about Wil, his high school days, his college days, his life as a professional.  Heartwarming, enduring, sincere.  Comforting.

 

There were pictures of Wil that showed his joy, his passion.  We thought of bidding on several of them.  We settled on one by Mikah, who went to school with Wil.  A beautiful picture of Wil superimposed on a sunset taken in Door County, Wisconsin, where we had lived once upon a time and where Wil went to middle and part of high school.  A beautiful picture and we were fortunate enough to have the winning bid.

 

It was a bit later in the evening when Hannah pointed out the very last photo and told me to read the caption.

 

I had seen it.  I had looked at.  It didn’t catch my eye like some of the other pieces.  I’m more of a landscape guy.  This particular framed photo was an urban scene.  A street scene.  A young man with a very descriptive expletive on his back.  His jeans sagged way below his waist.  Interesting.

 

The title of the piece as ‘3:19’.  Hannah urged me to read the paragraph, so I did.

 

The photo was taken by my son using his phone’s camera just three minutes before Wil was shot and killed.  To our knowledge, it was the last photo taken by my son. 

 

I know you have heard the expression that one’s “heart sunk” or one’s “breath was taken away” and while those might be time-worn cliché’s, that’s exactly what happened to me.  I wanted to look away.  I needed to look away.  But at the same time, I couldn’t.  Even after I had walked away to a different part of the gallery, my eyes kept coming back to it.  I could not NOT look at it.  I just couldn’t.

 

I suppose I could sit here and give in to the urge to talk about the tragedy, the senselessness, the sadness.  However, I haven’t done it so far and I have no intention of doing so now.

 

No. 

 

Instead, I want to focus on the fact that up until my son was shot and killed, he was doing exactly what he loved to do, what he felt he needed to do.   He was following his passion.

 

You know, we should all be so lucky to end this temporary life in this way.  By doing what we love to do, need to do.  By fulfilling our passion whatever positive thing that might be.

 

One last photograph.

 

I have written many times about how we need to live in the moment, how we need to live each moment, each and every day.  And, what better way to do this than to live what you love to do! Wil did this up until the very end.  He lived.  I can see him smiling, perhaps laughing quietly, at the young man in front of him, the subject of his photo.  Knowing Wil, he’d laugh out loud.  So I choose to picture Wil laughing out loud as he walked down the street.  And laughter is always good.  Always good.  And so is living each and every moment, each and every day, and making a positive difference as we do so.  Something to think about . . .

 

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Light Behind The Clouds (reposted)

Light Behind The Clouds 

I'm reposting this today because I really needed to . . .

When I lived in Southern California, the blue sky was never really blue.  As one looked up, there seemed to be an orange-colored tint to the sky.  It was because the pollution, the smog layer, that dulled the brilliance of the blue.  I remember a quip by Fritz Coleman, a weatherman on one of the local stations that like other parts of the United States, Southern California had air that could be chewed.  What set Southern California apart from the rest was that it had a nice mesquite flavor to it.

When Kim and the kids and I would fly home to Wisconsin, the plane would take off and rise above that smog layer and when we looked down, we could see the orange layer.  But above and behind that orange layer, was a brilliant blue sky. 

The same happened when the plane took off and rose above a particularly heavy cloud layer.  Gray and gloomy one minute, but sunny the next.  Light Behind The Clouds.

Every now and then we run into a patch of stormy weather.  The day might begin sunny, perhaps with a few clouds, but by late afternoon or evening, the sky would become overcast, and boast a dark bruised sky, that would eventually burst with a sudden, sometimes pounding downpour.

Sort of like life.

Happy one minute.  Everything going your way.  Things falling into place nicely.  And then in the next moment, and sometimes without warning . . .

It is human nature to get pulled in and to succumb to the dark and the gloomy, the foreboding and formidable.  We’ve all been there.  Perhaps there are those reading this who are still there.

But I might remind you, perhaps not so eloquently, that there is always Light Behind The Clouds.  Always.

Just as when a plane takes off, it rises above the smog layer and one can see the brilliance of the blue.  Just as when a plane takes off, it rises above the clouds and one can see the sun, the Light Behind The Clouds.

And, storms don’t last.  They run their course.  The clouds burst, rain pours forth, and then there is sun.

During those dark days when all seems gloomy and ugly, when all seems painful and lost, when there doesn’t seem to be any direction or help forthcoming, remember . . .

There is always Light Behind The Clouds.  Always.  Always.  And until then, let the rain refresh you.  Or as Fritz might say, enjoy the mesquite flavor.  Smile.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference! 

A Code Of Silence

Ever get on an elevator with strangers, people you don’t know?  Maybe one or two, maybe a larger group?  Sometimes you might be taking the ride up or down with one or two folks you know, but the rest of the carriage has other folks you don’t know.

There is this Code Of Silence that most everyone follows.  Can’t find it written anywhere.  I don’t believe anyone ever cautioned me to be quiet or to not speak in an elevator.  It just seems to be something that one does, or in this case, doesn’t do.  A Code of Silence. 

If someone does speak, it is done quietly and in a low voice.  One can’t talk loudly in an elevator because, well, it might be too loud.  But one cannot speak in a whisper, because the feeling might be if you whisper in an elevator, other passengers might be uncomfortable because they aren’t sure what you’re saying or what you’re whispering about.  Seems inappropriate to whisper in an elevator somehow.

So, the passengers in an elevator mostly remain quiet, still, and motionless.  Perhaps most eyes are front and center, a bit lifted to stare at the lighted number above the door waiting for their turn.  And when the elevator stops on the appropriate floor, the doors open up and the passengers leave.  Sometimes one by one, sometimes in groups, to go on about their business. 

And often when the doors open and when passengers disembark there is talk and laughter, perhaps relief.  The brief lull ended.  The moment of silence observed.  And then all move on with life.

A Code Of Silence.

There are times when each of us should observe A Code Of Silence.  I believe it is necessary and appropriate to do so.  How else can we cope with the race we run, the maze of life we explore, the pace we must keep up with?

How else but with A Code Of Silence can we stop and think and reflect on what we’ve done . . . are doing . . . on where we’ve been . . . where we’re going?

For me, mornings have always been that time for me.  I lie in bed somewhat, but mostly awake, and think.  I ponder.  Sometimes I’m out of bed and sitting in the family room by myself in the not quite daylight.  Television off.  Newspaper untouched.  No music, no sound other than perhaps the air conditioner turning on and off or an ice cube or two dropping into the bucket in the freezer.  Kim is out running or at the Y swimming.  Emily is still sleeping.  Hannah is off at college.  Our dog, Bailey, lounging on her couch in the other room.  And I sit on the couch with my feet up enjoying the stillness, the silence.  It is relaxing for me.  It helps me recharge.  It helps me refresh.  It helps me.  It helps.

I have a brother-in-law who walks in the woods.  For as long as I can remember, Jim would take long walks.  Hike.  Explore.  He’s always been a hunter and fisherman, but often, he’d just take a walk.  To enjoy the stillness, the quiet, the peace.  The beauty that is of his world, but not of his world.  My wife, Kim, runs in the dark, early in the predawn of day.  Her time to think, to recharge.  She calls it her “cup of coffee.”  Sometimes after I’ve sat and thought and reflected, I wonder why Emily isn’t up, so I wander back upstairs, knock on her door, and find her sitting in bed reading.  No music.  No TV.  No computer.  Just a book in her hands and a smile on her face.  Maybe one she has read once or twice already, sometimes a new book by a new author.  Content with life.  At peace.

Perhaps each of us can make it a point to keep A Code Of Silence with ourselves at some point each day.  I believe that just as water and air and sunlight are necessary for our well-being, so is silence.  The peace of it.  The quiet of it.  The focus of it.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

To My Readers:

Thank you so much for taking a chance on a rookie writer and for making Taking Lives, my debut novel a success.  For those of you who haven’t given it a shot, it can be found at:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00MG2JAWE?ie=UTF8&at=aw-android-pc-us-20&force-full-site=1&ref_=aw_bottom_links  If you’d like a signed copy, contact me via www.Facebook.com/JRLewisAuthor  and I can make arrangements.

Great News . . . .

Taking Lives is the prequel to my trilogy.  The first book of the trilogy, Stolen Lives, will be out and available in November.  I don’t have a release date yet, but as soon as I find out, I will let you know.  And again, thank you for taking a chance on a rookie.  JL

The Weight And Toll Of Stress

I received the following story from a friend, Sharon:

A young lady walked confidently around the room while leading & explaining stress management to an audience with a raised glass of water.  Everyone knew she was going to ask the ultimate question, 'half empty or half full?'  She fooled them all...  "How heavy is this glass of water?" she inquired with a smile.  Answers called out ranged from 8oz to 20oz.

She replied, "The absolute weight doesn't matter.  It depends on how long I hold it.  If I hold it for a minute, that's not a problem.  If I hold it for an hour, I'll have an ache in my right arm.  If I hold it for a day, you'll have to call an ambulance.  In each case it's the same weight, but the longer I hold it, the heavier it becomes".  She continued, "And that's the way it is with stress.  If we carry our burdens all the time, sooner or later, as the burden becomes increasingly heavy, we won't be able to carry on."

As with the glass of water, you have to put it down for a while and rest before holding it again.  When we're refreshed, we can carry on with the burden - holding stress longer & better each time practiced.  So, as early in the evening as you can, put all your burdens down.  Don't carry them through the evening and into the night.”

The Weight Of Stress

Try this for me, please . . .

Make a fist and at the same time, keep an eye on a watch.  Hold that fist for one minute straight without letting up.  Keep it tight as you possibly can.  After one minute, straighten out your hand.  Easy? Difficult?  Don’t you feel weaker than before you did this little exercise?

The Toll Of Stress

There are those walking among us who are under an unbearable amount of stress.  Needing to pay bills and not having enough money.  Worry about an evaluation.  Wondering if a son or daughter is doing okay.  Worrying about where the next meal will come from, or worse, if there will be a next meal.  Worrying about the upcoming test or quiz, the assignment that was due and is not complete.  The boy (or girl) friend that doesn’t seem interested.

Stress knows no boundaries.  Stress isn’t concerned about gender or religion or race.  Stress doesn’t care about poverty or wealth, talents, looks or dress.  Stress doesn’t care where one was born or where one lives.  Stress laughs in the face of status and title.  Stress ignores how much stress one is under and doesn’t know if too much is too much. 

Ignorant that way.  Selfish that way.  Uncaring and unconcerned that way.

The Weight And Toll Of Stress

We’ve heard the old adage, “Walk A Mile In Someone Else’s Shoes . . .”

To be honest, there are some shoes I wouldn’t ever want to walk in.  I look at the folks wearing them, walking in them and I hurt for them.  I can guess at their pain.

Yet . . .

I know absolutely nothing of what they might truly be feeling and experiencing.  So truly, really, how can I walk in their shoes when their experience and pain and suffering . . . their stress . . . is their own unique experience?

Perhaps, then, it might be best in some cases . . . some times . . . maybe most of the time . . . to sit beside them, to walk along with them, to lend them a hand and help them up.  For them to lean on.  Sometimes it is enough . . . more than enough, really . . . to remain silent and be with them.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Tears Of A Clown

I have to tell you, and I hope I don’t offend anyone by writing this, that clowns are kind of creepy.  I really never thought they were funny, and for just about forever, I was or am creeped out by them.

I mean:  white face paint, big red nose, floppy feet, painted on smile . . . see what I mean?

Remember the Stephen King classic, IT? 

The “bad guy” in the novel was Pennywise, the clown, whose tag line was, “We all float!”  Now tell me if that isn’t creepy!

In the old days . . . yes, even before my time, though not much . . . there were court jesters.  They were to amuse the court and the king in particular.  The unfortunate aspect of their job, however, was if they failed at being funny, they were sometimes put to death.  Not necessarily a job I would apply for.

Parades have clowns.  The circus has clowns.  Balloon animals.  Stilts.  Funny bicycles.  All that.  It has been a part of our culture and in spite of what I write or how I feel about them, clowns will always be around.

It is the concept of the clown I find interesting, though.

Smokey Robinson sang a song back in the ‘60’s titled, Tears Of A Clown.  The lyrics included:

Just like Pagliacci did

I try to keep my sadness hid

Smiling in the public eye

But in my lonely room I cry

the tears of a clown

When there's no one around

I know any number of people who can apply that lyric to their life, their feelings.  I see kids in the hallway, teachers working with their students or with their colleagues, who I know are moving through life carrying an unkind and heavy burden they might not be able . . . perhaps unwilling . . . to share with just anyone because it isn’t safe to do so.  There is hurt, there is sadness, and in that hurt and sadness, vulnerability.

More recently, Zak Brown sang a song, Goodbye In Her Eyes and it contains the lyric:

Sometimes I feel like a clown

Who can't wash off his make-up

Sad, really.  A clown . . . a person . . . somebody . . . who hasn’t received permission from him or herself, from others, to wash off the make-up.  Cast in a movie of life to live a character of perhaps his or her own choosing.  Perhaps of someone else’s choosing.  Never to be real, but just a character . . . a caricature.  Really sad, I think.

The actor, Jeff Goldblum was on an evening talk show discussing his role in a movie and the host asked the question, “How hard is it to get into a role?”  I will never forget his response.  He said, “It is only in acting that we are our true selves.  It is in life we play a role.”

Hmmm . . .

I think he has a point.  Kind of scary. 

A pretty tall order, a tough task: To know the difference between our true selves, the role we play, the mask we wear, and the make-up we’re afraid to or can’t wash off.  To be cast in a part, a role, of our choosing or someone else’s choosing.

And even sadder is the fact that we don’t recognize the sadness behind the smile, the sadness that rests in one’s eyes, the hurt disguised in the laugh.  Of kids.  Of our colleagues.  Of our leaders.  Of those in charge.  Of those we rely on for help and strength and inspiration.  Instead, we presume, assume, that all is well because a tear hasn’t been shed, a cry was not heard, a plea for help was not uttered.  And because we don’t recognize that hurt, see the tear, hear the cry or plea for help, we don’t reach out, we don’t offer help.  We just move through our day thinking all is well with me . . . with you . . . with them. 

Sad, I think.  Really sad.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!