tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614884318601092182024-03-21T19:12:19.865-04:00Ankle Deep in the Silver SeaStanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-24205530278721412252013-12-23T18:59:00.000-05:002013-12-23T18:59:29.423-05:00RemembranceThe ancient Hebrews stressed the importance of remembrance and memorial. Time and time again, the Scriptures call out "Remember!" Remember the God who provided the sacrifice for Abraham, the one who rescued his people from Egypt, who raised up the judges and eventually David. Remember! When you find yourself beset by temptations and bewildered by the world around you, remember.<br />
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My exodus.<br />
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I embarked upon this journey 5 years ago to find myself. The decent white-collar job, the spacious apartment, I possessed all the accoutrements of genteel civility, but like so many others I felt unsatisfied.<br />
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Little by little, each seemingly unrelated decision, each action brought me closer to where I was supposed to be. Running and lifting became triathlons. Reading turned to writing. This journey continued.<br />
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As I look back on these 5 years, I want most to identify the places where I've strayed from the path. And why not? Only a fool makes the same mistake twice. But in my rush to identify what I've done wrong I find again a need to remember. Remember why I even begun. This journey was about self-discovery. And if I'm to go forward, that once again must become the aim.<br />
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"All knowledge is self-knowledge." -- Bruce LeeStanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-47198659272846744002013-12-22T18:35:00.002-05:002013-12-22T18:35:27.422-05:00A ReturnIt's been over two years since my last post on this blog and it's time for me to start writing again. No, not the stories that I've been creating and hiding away in some lost corner of the internet. I write because some thoughts shouldn't be locked away in private journals. Some thoughts need to be scrawled on internet blogs, daring, audacious, ambitious.<br />
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That's why I'm writing publicly again.<br />
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In these past two years, I've felt my ambitions wither as I kept to myself. Speaking forth dreams in this space, here, invests them with power. My dreams need to have power again.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-9733450759152744332011-12-28T18:18:00.000-05:002011-12-28T18:18:30.092-05:00Racism and the Online PetitionRacism is bad but I'm probably not going to sign your online petition. I'm probably not going to draw up a sign and stand outside protesting a person, a store, a company. Don't get me wrong. Whatever's making you upset probably makes me really upset too. I just don't think those things work. <br />
If I were the CEO of a company and found a letter with 5,000 names attached I probably wouldn't even read the letter. How do you respond to force? If I capitulate to the demands, I end up looking weak before people I know. If I stand resolute with the people I know, I look like a jackass to strangers. I don't believe much in letter writing campaigns, petitions and protest signs. <br />
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Look at this facebook collection of responses to the Knicks' acquisition of Jeremy Lin. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Iq7nSTSL4Ko/TvuY1pOMHSI/AAAAAAAAAMs/naqHmzX1gwk/s1600/Jeremy+Basketball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Iq7nSTSL4Ko/TvuY1pOMHSI/AAAAAAAAAMs/naqHmzX1gwk/s1600/Jeremy+Basketball.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Yes, we can say that nearly everyone commenting is ignorant, stupid and a whole lot of other words too, and I think that's fair. But I also think it's fair to say that Chinese people haven't proved themselves in the NBA as a statistically significant population. Forget Yao Ming and read that last clause: statistically significant population. We need something like 5 more Yao Ming's and about 20 more average players before Chinese players begin to really get respect. <br />
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Reflecting back on my life, it feels like I've lived two lives. The early portion of my life met with a lot of racism. Sing song cries of ching-chong-belly-wong (because I was fat in addition to being a minority), Chinese-Japanese eyes, fast food jokes, and a whole lot of bullying accompanied the early years. I'm thankful for my Caucasian friend Brandon who acted as a buffer for reverse racism. Everytime I wanted to type-cast my oppressors as categorically evil, I couldn't do so because his example bucked the trend.<br />
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Then there were the college and post-college years where there seemed to be a vacuum of racism. I never heard another racist joke aimed at me. What changed? <br />
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I did.<br />
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I stopped being fat. I became strong.<br />
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I dropped the accent. I became articulate, even overprolix. The only traces of New York Chinese show when I say names like "Sarah" and words like "hilarious." <br />
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I stopped dressing like a nerd until the mid 2000's where nouveau-nerd became popular.<br />
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I transformed myself and no one made fun of me anymore. But I still wasn't comfortable. I may not be the target of jokes but I know that there are still <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/8-us-soldiers-charged-in-death-of-comrade-in-afghanistan/2011/12/21/gIQAXmE38O_story.html?tid=pm_pop">others</a> who are getting shit for being Chinese. I don't know Danny Chen but I know Chinese-Americans in New York. I know what they sound like on the phone with d's that should be th's. I see them in gyms, undershirts unflattering to their thin chests and stick legs protruding out of too baggy shorts. I know that they get shit I don't get. For them, they're small and weak because they're Chinese. For me, I'm big and strong because of diet, genetics, exceptionalism. Others say they're held back by the same thing that I should be proud of: being Chinese.<br />
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I think back to W.E.B. DuBois' talented tenth. I hate reading that <a href="http://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/index.asp?document=174">essay</a>. I feel so alone afterwards. Even if 10% of 1 billion is 100 million, I still feel too alone, too burdened to succeed. I want to be a writer because I want to punch everyone who ever made a Chinese accent joke seriously in the teeth. I want to be an Ironman-Crossfit-kickboxing athlete so I can stand up for every Chinese, every oppressed who ever got shoved down in a group. <br />
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But it's so un-Chinese to take up the torch. I think my greatest racial struggle has been to acknowledge my exceptionalism with its perils and responsibilities. Doing so acknowledges many things. Number one, experientially, most Asians I've met are physically underdeveloped. It feels shameful to bring this subject into the light. Number two, it means people will look towards me. My failures will be magnified and my successes questioned. What must it be like for the Yao Ming's and Jeremy Lin's when they choke in the clutch? Their failures are because they're Chinese. Their successes are because they're exceptional. <br />
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I still haven't made it big yet. I'm strong but not overwhelmingly so. Deadlifting twice your bodyweight is the beginning of strength, not strength itself. Completing a marathon? Millions do it every year. Probably thousands exist that can do both at once. And I still haven't received my first publishing contract yet. <br />
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But I've made an impact. In small ways, I've made an impact. And dare I say it? I think I've made more of an impact than online petitions and boycotting. I'm "normal person strong." When people are moving apartments, I get phone calls. When I'm at parties, I'm asked to do pushups or pullups, inquired as to how much I bench and what my favorite workouts are. Do I know P90x, Crossfit, Gym Jones, HIIT? When I write, I prefer to stay away from themes of immigration. I think it's still too close, too emotional for me to put it out there in fiction form. Reality is easier than fiction. <br />
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That's the impact. Going to parties and being big and articulate. Having conversations that display me both intelligent and unawkward. <br />
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Did you know that at one point black people were thought to be weak and unathletic? The rationale for enslaving them was that they needed to be educated and brought up. Left to their own devices, they'd be helpless and small. Doesn't that sound so ridiculous in light of pro-sports today? <br />
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And I think that's the best solution to the problem of racism: time and contrary evidence. People don't make racist jokes around me but they will around others. But when they do, my spectre will remain in their mind, the uncomfortable exception to the joke that they made. What bothers them? It's not that I might be offended if I heard them. What bothers them is that their joke might not be funny. And a joke loses it's humor when it loses it's basis in reality. They can joke about Chinese people and their accents but that won't work if they know 50 people as articulate as me. They can joke about Chinese people and their toothpick arms and pencil legs, but it won't be funny if they see a profusion of Chinese athletes on t.v. in power sports. <br />
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Sign the petitions if you want but know that five hours a week in the gym will do more for you and for your people than the petition ever will. Be angry and gripe about how it's unfair but taking accent reduction classes will protect your parents more than your complaints will. <br />
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Be exceptional and be in the wider community. I think we ought to try this method instead.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-29333468848050552702011-12-14T14:54:00.000-05:002011-12-14T14:54:48.246-05:00A Workout InterruptedI was wary but unafraid. He was smaller than me, much smaller, only about 5'6 or 5'7, but I could see, even through his clothes, that his skeleton was filled out muscles as taut as piano strings. His hands kept disappearing back into his pockets though I couldn't see him take or put anything in. Maybe it was just the cold. It was after all, only 34 degrees this morning. Maybe it was the cold but then maybe it wasn't. It would be best to be on my guard. <br />
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"I left Romania when I was 19, a revolutionary. You know that picture of that one guy in Tiannamen Square with all those tanks in front of him? It was like that, except I wasn't alone. There were 3,000 people behind me." Tiny said.<br />
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I was in the playground doing my usual workout because I couldn't afford my usual gym anymore. 50 pullups and 300 pushups before work was a better workout than most people with gym memberships ever did. I was only halfway through my pullups when he interrupted me. Small, like his name, his hairline receding, I've seen him here before working out just like me. I always assumed he did parkour from watching his workouts. It suited someone of his build.<br />
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"Then the general walked out and talked with some of his men. They opened up the barricades and let us through. We stormed the dictators house but he got away in his helicopter. No big deal though. I watched as we shot him and his wife dead a few days later." he continued.<br />
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I didn't know what to make of him. I've looked in the eyes of crack addicts before, unnerved by the way they could face me and give me the impression that they're seeing a different world. He came up to me, introduced himself as "Tiny Love" and asked me what I was doing. "Oh, just some shadow boxing." I said. Usually people leave me alone when they see me working out in the park, drilling the few combinations I remember. Jab, jab, right straight, Feint, right straight. The most interaction I've received was from the traceurs who worked out here as well, leaping through the jungle gyms, wowing the kids with precision jumps. We'd nod and smile at each other. Mutual respect. <br />
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I always assumed he was one of them.<br />
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"Then I came to America and got into the club scene. Rave. You know. Liquid. Check it out, yin-yang sign." He moved his hands into various shapes. I nodded. Yes, I could see the symbol. <br />
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"I saw all sorts of things back then. UFO's, demons, the High Council. It wasn't until I saw God that I turned my life around."<br />
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Oh. So it was going to be that kind of meeting.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-49954305363096103172011-11-06T05:30:00.001-05:002011-11-06T05:40:24.065-05:00Marathon SundayRunning is worship. The open skies, my cathedral, the bustling roads, the church aisles. Running is where I meet God.<br />
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I talk about this rarely. It's much easier to talk in terms of the German concept of *aufhenen* or the Japanese concept of *kaizen*, but at its simplest, most reduced state, for me running is about meeting God.<br />
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People wonder what I mean by this mysticism, what do I actually do when I run that makes me so much different than the cardio bunnies who wear the expensive sweats with PINK or JUICY written over their butts, those for whom running is mere exercise, mere fitness. Well, I don't recite scripture and I don't listen to Christian music when I run. I don't wear Christian t-shirts either. I've always found that to get in the way. No, I can't tell you what I do that's different. The difference doesn't lie on the surface.<br />
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Have you ever met with a friend and come away aglow in the joy of companionship? If someone asked you, "Hey, why are you so happy? What did you do?" you might answer "not much" and that would be a good parallel to what happens when I run. Or you might say "I met with a friend" and the question-asker would smile knowingly and that would describe my running exactly.<br />
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The marathon then, is my great day of worship, a day to pour out my heart in gratitide for the life I've been given, my way of honoring providence and blessing. For each mile I've picked out a person whose memories I want to invoke, whose life I want to pray for and whise presence I wish to honor. I wish I could run even more than 26 miles.<br />
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It's a day of great love. There are lots of things to hate about NYC. The MTA is near the top of everyone's list, I'm sure. But if you want to find something to love, run its marathon. "Baptism by boroughs" read one of the ads yesterday, and it'll feel like that as a full quarter of the population throngs the street to cheer 40,000 runners, plunging them beneath the waters of acceptance. For one day, New York comes out to say "I love you too." <br />
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And when I run on this day, I run wih a heart overflowing with love, joy. I've done the work. I've paid my dues, worn down my soles molecule by molecule. This is the big day, a day of testing and celebration. Count it all joy when you meet these tests in your life, for they lead to the perfection of your faith.<br />
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Thank you, friends, family for sharing in this day with me. I would not be who I am, where I am without you. Thank you.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-55629244373876734092011-09-16T14:48:00.000-04:002011-09-16T14:48:45.874-04:00First Thoughts on "He Shines In All That's Fair"After leaving Boon Church, the only institution I had called my home church for 13 years, the only one that had ever been my home church up to that point, I chose to attend Trinity Grace Church's Chelsea service because of their outreach to artists. I don't consider myself an "artist" much. It conjures too many associations I don't want to be weighted with but I know that I fall under that category as others use it. <br />
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Their outreach to artists intrigued me because it was part of a larger commitment to the redemption and reclamation of creation. Most of my writings on this blog grew out of a frustration that I had with the Christian church as I lived it. I'll say it simply. I felt that they wanted me inside their 4 walls (metaphorical walls) as much as possible and everything inside bored me to tears. The hidden condemnation I felt (and myself fed) for not listening to Christian artists, wearing Christian t-shirts and reading Christian books crushed my soul. I felt guilty for being bored. And I knew that no exciting, action-packed, hard-hitting, cross-cultural, more-catchphrased sermon was going to fix the problem. The problem was one of belief - the belief that the only good things in life were found within the boundaries of Christendom.<br />
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Spurred on by some titles the pastor of Trinity Grace gave me, I began doing my own research. I'm currently reading through "He Shines In All That's Fair," Richard Mouw's book on the doctrine of Common Grace, and wonder of wonders, I find that the struggle that's made me lose sleep has been a subject of debate for centuries. And here I thought I was facing the challenges of Christianity's terra incognita. And moreover, many questions posed by Christian and non-Christian alike belong to this family of inquiry. <br />
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This series of posts doesn't have a conclusion in mind. I still expect to wrestle with this issue for some time but having discovered that I'm not alone, haven't been alone, in this struggle gives me great hope.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-27054906336359150222011-09-14T12:21:00.000-04:002011-09-14T12:21:50.469-04:00Life SpiralNow is not then. It's a constant struggle to remember that.<br />
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For the first time in my life, I can see my 6-pack. This is a bucket list item. In addition to the abs, I have the V-shape, the 10 inch difference between my chest and waist measurements, thick forearms, heart-shaped calves... all the things that bodybuilders covet. It's not easy to accept the image in the mirror as reality. I spent so much of my life rationalizing why the body I have now is not a body that I could ever have. Genetics. Rice. Friends. Rice. But this truth finally makes sense to me. It's been a long time coming.<br />
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I'm not a rookie. I've been working at changing my entire life since 2003. 8 years now. I did a half-marathon in a decent time with only 4 training runs. It's taken 8 years to carve out a 6-pack. Some things take more work than others. Perhaps it's the number of magazine covers promising 6-packs in 6 weeks, the number of youtube and TV specials on people who've made life changes (shouldn't I be included in that group?), but the reality of life transformation is that <b>it takes time, and it is not a linear process</b>.<br />
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If you've ever had any modicum of success with body transformation, you'll know what I mean. You'll be stuck at a certain weight for weeks and weeks, dieting, lifting, running, trying to move even half a pound, a tenth of an ounce. You'll say "to hell with this" one weekend, go out have 2 beers, a steak, french fries and an ice cream sundae and wake up the next morning 5 lbs. lighter. "This makes no sense." you tell yourself and shrug it off. The uncommitted will give up, happy with their modest progress and live life unchanged.<br />
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It makes perfect sense if you have the framework to understand it. Your body doesn't know what the hell a scale is. Roleplaying games have destroyed our concept of progress by giving us EXP bars. If you slay enough monsters, you'll just get better right? Run enough miles, eat few enough calories and weight should drop, right? Almost. But the difference between almost and correct is the difference between success and failure.<br />
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Physically, when you're doing all those things that you should do to lose weight, your body is trying to make sense of the world. Why are you doing this? How do you see this? If you are miserable when you run and eat right, your body will interpret the misery and do all it can to keep the weight on. This is my personal understanding of the process. But if you approach the process of life transformation as a gateway to the life you've always wanted, your body will do what you need it to do. It'll take some time. Be patient with your machine. It's subtly rewiring nerve pathways, experimenting with different combinations of body chemistry, doing a million things that don't show up on the scale.<br />
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Did you really think you have nearly the same body at 205 as you did at 210? Why do you think your body took so long to make the jump and skipped 209, 208, 207 and 206? The numbers are different for everybody, but everyone I've talked to has had thresholds, and not a single person has ever dropped weight by going on a steady decline of 1 pound at a time. I couldn't imagine the scientific experiment that can exist to verify this. The scientific method, as far as I understand it, is about isolating factors while the very hypothesis that I posit is about the interaction between innumerable micro-factors. Whatever. I'm not writing an academic paper on weight loss (though I secretly, and now, not-so-secretly hope that this blog post does inspire someone more scientifically educated than me to create the experiment that verifies or debunks my hypothesis). I want to speak to the person who feels trapped in their own life and the one who's just beginning to change their life.<br />
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You are not a unique and beautiful snowflake. You are not good enough as you are. If you were good enough as you are, would you hate your life as much as you do now? Change takes time. And it takes a strong heart that can suffer much. It's OK if you don't have that heart right now. I didn't when I first began. You acquire a heart that can endure by enduring. Ore does not purify itself. Purity needs fire.<br />
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Running hurts. Lifting hurts. Not seeing progress on the scale crushes. Can you deal with these realities? They will happen. They will absolutely happen. Grab any of those magazines. They promise shortcuts and quick fixes. Slap those authors if you ever meet them. Slap them once more on my behalf. Change is hard. Change will hurt. A real significant change will take more than 10 minutes a day for 6 weeks. Your body will take care of itself if you give it good food and good rest. It'll change the million things that the scale can't read. But you must have the heart to be patient while it figures out what it needs to do.<br />
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Don't delude yourself into thinking it will come easy. Use those magazine articles as glossy toilet paper so that they can be of some use to you. Don't look for shortcuts, pills and the easy way out. Embrace the difficulty. Challenges are a summons to the heroic within us. Is not the real reason you want to change because you see your current self as pathetic? You're probably right. You're pathetic compared to who you could be. I've done a hell of a lot, but I'm still only a shadow and a wisp of what I can become. I'm not afraid to say that. This mountain-conquering marathoner with the 300 lb. bench press and 450 deadlift isn't worth a brown bag of dog shit. Not when I hold him up to my tomorrow me. If anything pushes me through the hard days, it's that thought. Why would you accept anything less than the most you can get out of life? Become your potential.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-9869936937761813742011-07-26T17:46:00.000-04:002011-07-26T17:46:33.253-04:00Shame and TransformationShame shook me awake and began my metamorphosis. I was ashamed that it took me 20 years to find the courage to ask a girl out (especially when I had friends lose their virginity at 13 or 14). I was ashamed that I was dumped the very next day with the worst of phrases, "Let's just be friends." I couldn't handle the embarassment, the frigid waters of reality drowning me. I remember clutching my chest and hyperventilating because the thought made it hard to breathe at times. I remember randomly assaulting concrete walls in stairwells because the rage suddenly came upon me.<br />
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Shame sent me down this road. I'm grateful. I'm not looking back. I've said that many times. I'm writing today because I've never written about how shame can stop a transformation in process or even abort one in the womb.<br />
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It's something I've seen in the eyes of so many people who have come to me and asked for help as they're getting started. <br />
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<em>"I want to lose weight, but my fat jiggles when I do anything." </em><br />
<em>"I'm so slow at running. I get tired so quickly."</em><br />
<em>"My friends have seen me fail so many times. I don't want to keep embarassing myself."</em><br />
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There's no diet or exercise that will solve these problems. These issues must be tackled first. Insanity or P90X, kettlebells, ICT, HIIT, swimming, running, bodybuilding, Crossfit, ghetto fitness, Planet Fitness, <strong>anything</strong> more honest than the Shakerweight will get them fit and looking good sooner or later. The plan that they choose means little in the long run. The commitment and dedication to their goal means everything in the short and long run. I've seen videos of people doing amazing things with poor planning. I've never seen anyone do anything amazing and admirable without first having something extraordinary in their spirit first. <br />
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There's this story I keep telling - please bear with me if you've read many of my blog entries - but I keep telling it because of how crucial a role it played in my transformation. When I was early in my transformation, at a chunky 260, two brothers wanted to test out my running and challenged me to a race. 33rd St. by the NYU medical center down to the Williamsburg bridge and back up. They were athletic. Lithe, basketball playing types and I was still fat. The morning of the race, I tried to convince them to do a weightlifting test. I knew I could win there at least. <br />
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As we started, the two brothers took off and quickly left me in the dust. I couldn't see them at all two minutes into the race. This was going to be humiliating. Even more humiliating, wrinkly grandfathers and grandmothers were passing me by. Runners usually mark a target up ahead and use that person as a goalpost to pull themselves further. I lost all my targets. Each one I picked out pulled further and further away. I felt my legs drag. <br />
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But twenty minutes into the race, I found both of the brothers. Dry-heaving and panting on a park bench, they had burnt each other out. They had completely discounted the fat kid in basketball shorts. I wonder what they might've said had they the breath to speak back then. I ended up winning the race by a half hour margin.<br />
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That contest carved in me a powerful lesson that day. It's a lesson that has continued driving deeper and deeper into my soul. Other people's embarassment might hurt but that pain pales in comparison to the pain of giving up. The choices we make once enable us to make it more easily the next time. Giving up becomes a habit of giving up, a lifestyle of surrender, a deep-seated belief in the inevitability of despair and failure. Honestly, it might be better to die than to hold that belief truly. <br />
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But just as giving up becomes a habit, a lifestyle, a worldview, so does perseverance. Hush the critics in your life and press on despite their nay-saying. Win or fail, you've done it once. Do it again. And again. And again. As many times as it takes for you to develop a worldview, a belief that your opinion and your estimation of your life matters more than the screams of the haters, the vampires, the ones you indict with your courage and passion. <br />
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But the key is to start. Nothing will ever happen, nothing will ever change if you don't start.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-2838537974265387212011-07-23T14:34:00.001-04:002011-07-23T15:02:41.350-04:00Triathlons and LifeSo <a href="http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/43866337?gt1=43001">Amy Winehouse</a> is dead.<br />
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She was the soundtrack to the events that sent me into the triathlon world. With the interview coming up tomorrow, I couldn't help but take a blog entry to meditate on how the rest of my life intertwines with triathlons.<br />
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</i><br />
<i>"It's only after we've lost everything, that we're free to do anything." </i><br />
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Around the time that Amy Winehouse crooned in the background, I watched Fight Club over half a decade after everyone else did. Tyler Durden, my prophet, his words, sparks falling on dry tinder. I lost everything. I knew nothing.<br />
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<i>"I don't know. You're just too Christian for me."</i><br />
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I lost my perspective on life. I had nothing on my resume except teaching at a church day camp.<br />
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<i>"You have to answer this question! If you died right now, how would you feel about your life?"</i><br />
<i>"I don't know. I wouldn't feel anything good about my life." </i><br />
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That was my answer too. I looked at my whole life. I didn't have anything I cared about in all of my life. I had a job I felt nothing towards. It fed me and kept a roof over my head. Was that sufficient for life? I had friends but what did we do except go out to restaurants and eat? I had a church I spent most of my free time at but what was that to me? Why was I even doing this? And take my church activities away from me and what was left of my life? Nothing much. And if those activities were taken away, would I really miss them so much?<br />
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People misunderstand what I mean by transformation. They think I mean the 120 lbs. I've lost. I mean the life I began. I turned off my auto-pilot switch. I stopped caring about what other people thought should matter to me. I became obsessed with my own death. Not in a macabre goth way. I feared death before - not because of heaven or hell - but because I lived a life that other people wrote out for me. How shameful would it be to arrive on the day of judgement with a life lived by committee?<br />
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</i><br />
<i>"Mom told me to find a stable job. Dad told me to find a quiet woman. Church told me I needed to volunteer more. Work said they needed more hours. So there's my life!"</i><br />
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<i>"First, you have to know, not fear, know, that some day you're going to die." </i><br />
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I became obsessed about death because I knew what kind of death I wanted. I wanted to be surrounded by chubby, red-faced grandkids. I wanted my kids to gather around me grateful for the spirit that I had passed onto them. I have no intention of leaving grand material possessions behind. I'd like to give most of that away before I go. But everyone I meet at anytime, I want to give them a piece of me, the realest piece. I want to lay on my death bed and look back on a long life, grateful for the amazing ride I had. I want to do something incredible. I want to meet kindred spirits. I want to scream defiance against the impossible. I'd like to live a life I thought was amazing.<br />
<br />
Is that too much to ask?<br />
<br />
We overestimate what we can do in one year. Look at the New Years Resolutions people make when they're "determined" to change their lives. I want to learn a language, read a bunch of books, go skydiving/bungee jumping, etc. Most people end up accomplishing exactly none of those goals. Most forget them by February. I couldn't forget my goals because those goals were all I had.<br />
<br />
We grossly underestimate what we can do in five years. Look at where you are now. Look at where you were five years ago. How much did you learn? How much have you changed? And for most people, this happens passively without application or dedication. What might happen if you put the full force of your life behind your drive to accomplish your goals? I was around 25 at the time. I came up with a "WILL DO BEFORE 30 LIST." Completing an Ironman race was up at the top of the list.<br />
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So I wrote out a 5-year plan. If I was to make the Ironman by age 30, I needed to see at least some of the steps in between. So I registered for the NYC Triathlon. Halloween 2008, while everyone dressed up and drank, I was at my computer frantically clicking away on the Firefox 'refresh' button. I'm glad I did. The race sold out in 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
I chose an Olympic because a sprint just didn't look challenging. A quarter mile swim, 10 mile bike, and 5k? I could fall out of bed and roll 5k before I woke up at that point. I wanted to push myself to the very limit. The thrill of finishing NYC in 2009 was diminished by the fact that my body felt so good. I wasn't sore that day or the day after. Did I take it too easy? I always trained with the goal of over-preparation in mind, but I should have at least some sign that I was pushed.<br />
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Next year, I'll get that chance. Ironman. NYC. 2012. A great challenge in the world's greatest city, filled with the world's greatest fans. 2.4 Hudson river miles. 112 Palisade Parkway miles and 26.2 miles ending in Riverside Park. It's my dream come true. It's a chance for me to knock off one of my Before-I-Turn-30 Goals, a year early.<br />
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Triathlons are amazing. I'm built for powerlifting. It took me a month to bring my max bench press from 200 to 375 lbs. It took me two months to go from 300 to 450. But I don't regret leaving that behind for triathlons. The first triathlon, I ever did, NYC back in 2009, changed my mind. As I rocketed down the West Side Highway the clouds broke and the sun painted the course with brilliant light. I don't know what happened at that moment. I've seen sunrises and sunsets, magnificent declarations of God's goodness in his creation, but I began to cry. I rarely found God in church. I knew doctrines. I studied a whole hell of a lot. I found a bunch of friends but my soul still rang hollow. At that moment, alone on the West Side Highway, I met God and I felt an overwhelming confirmation that this race course was where I should be at that moment. I could've been in church leading the congregation in prayer that July Sunday but I believe that what happened to me that day did more to help me make much of Christ than ten thousand sanctuary-sequestered Sundays.<br />
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I stopped letting other people write my life for me. I'm the one that has to wake up in the morning and look myself in the mirror. When I die, I have to be the one to give an accounting of my life, all the wrong I've done, all the good I've done, before God. I am the one that will lay on my death bed one day, looking back on my own life. I don't know where or when, but I want to look back with satisfaction on my life.<br />
<br />
I'm glad Kid Cudi dropped his weed habit. He's the soundtrack to my life right now. And right now, I love where my life is heading.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-80859474376507411992011-05-17T14:10:00.000-04:002011-05-17T14:10:27.348-04:00GenerationI finally got a chance to read this <a href="http://nymag.com/news/features/asian-americans-2011-5/">article</a> that everyone has been posting and re-posting over facebook.<br />
<br />
My spirit is burning up.<br />
<br />
This is what I went through. This is my blog in 11 pages. This has been the last half-decade of my life. I've always been too big to be a typical Asian but I've soaked in the culture long enough to absorb it's worst qualities. And this past half-decade has been my own Shinto purification.<br />
<br />
If I could share but one dream I have, it's to be a guiding light for others who've been in my position. I want to pave a way out of the social hellhole into which our parents have led us. My iPod plays Kanye's "All of the Lights," Eminem's "No Love," Lupe's "The Show Goes On," Maino's "All the Above" continuously so that I can keep my spirit strong. When I see other Asians acting meekly and awkwardly, I want to slap them in the face. I don't want to punch and destroy them. I want to injure and awaken them. Don't go as far down the road as I did. Wake up! Wake the hell up!<br />
<br />
Not just for Asian-Americans. For everyone who was ever told to keep your head down and shut up, for everyone whose opinions were trampled on, for every Korean who the church has burnt out with the disgusting social pressure, for every Chinese who watched their parents get shoved around and thought answering with financial success would ease the hurt in their souls, for the black and latino kids, the ones so many Asian parents deemed distasteful, the ones who society sees as unnatural when they pick up books and pens, for everyone who was told that they had to follow the destiny of their parents, I want to show you the way out.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-72962305417551069532011-05-12T06:33:00.000-04:002011-05-13T16:29:21.266-04:00Sitting is killing you.<a href="http://www.medicalbillingandcoding.org/sitting-kills"><img alt="Sitting is Killing You" border="0" src="http://images.medicalbillingandcoding.org.s3.amazonaws.com/sitting-is-killing-you.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
Via: <a href="http://www.medicalbillingandcoding.org/">Medical Billing And Coding</a><br />
<br />
My public service announcement.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-68059889179199367402011-05-04T19:54:00.003-04:002011-05-04T20:49:10.890-04:00Molting"Change" begs the questions "From what?" and "To what?" <br />
<br />
Change is, for me, like most people, hard. But although change is hard, fear of change is suicidal. Trying to stop the process of change, trying to keep things the way they are, or worse, to bring back an earlier time, is to consign yourself to a damp, gray, Purgatory. You will never succeed. You will wear yourself out. Our only refuge is in hope and hope lies in Tomorrow. <br />
<br />
I haven't conquered my fear of change. I fear the transition in becoming a writer. I fear that I won't make it, that all my neuroses and insecurities will flare up, a madness born of Asian parenting and valuing the shelter of big organizations. Have I defeated my upbringing?<br />
<br />
I'm doing it now. <br />
<br />
2011 has been all about change.<br />
<br />
From the church of my yesterdays to a community who can support my tomorrows. <br />
From the heavy frame of a powerlifter to a more economical chassis.<br />
From wavering to steadfastness.<br />
From selfishness to humility. <br />
From fear to courage.<br />
<br />
Boon Church and its culture are antithetical to where I'm going. I've written for a number of years on the things I detest. I find sitting in Flushing restaurants talking about sitting on a couch watching reality TV or sports repugnant. That's not fellowship for me. That's spiritual suicide. The church I'm eyeing fascinates me. In their 5 years of existence, 9 non-profits have started within their community. Intrepid, entrepreneurial spirits fill the community. I'm excited. <br />
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Weight loss has been something I've talked about but have failed to accomplish for a number of years. Going from 320 to 220 has been such an accomplishment. A part of me felt that I earned the right to rest on my laurels. You look fine. Women actually check you out now. Men come to you for advice. No need to change anything! But 'good enough' is not good enough for where I'm going. I don't want to do this until I'm 30 and then go on and live a sedentary life. I don't want to let my passion for adventure devolve into a side hobby of hiking and racing. To do this for my whole life, I better look into dropping weight. And I've done just that. I've reached 10 and 12 year lows in weight. I've hit one personal best at a race this year and nearly took two more. We're only 4 days into May. I'm excited.<br />
<br />
When I first considered writing, I said "I'd try it." Those words haunted me, shamed me. I read Mark Twight's "<a href="http://www.gymjones.com/knowledge.php?id=15">Twitching</a>" half a decade ago and it inflamed my spirits. <a href="http://youtu.be/628qphA1-8M">This video</a> burned the image of a real workout into my mind. The song that comes on at 2:15 is "Thunder Kiss" by White Zombie. "I never 'try' anything. I just do it." threatens one of the lyrics. Saying "I'd try it." betrays the spirit that I admired, the spirit that I received from Mark Twight. I wavered. I would not own up to my dreams, my beliefs. As Peter denied his God, his friend, so I denied my soul. But now, I no longer waver. I make the same declaration I did when I first had my heart broken. I will change or I will die. I do not believe in NOT risking your life. In fact, one should realize that every true choice risks their life, whether they will live themselves or die and eke out a false life.<br />
<br />
And so I realized I didn't need to grasp my life as tightly as I had. I have enough regrets about my yesterdays. I once told a girl I loved that I was going to live my life the way I wanted to and if anyone wanted to come along for the ride then they were free to do so. I don't believe in living that way any longer. My life isn't my own. I recognized that in many ways. Perhaps I thought I could hold one small corner back and it wouldn't be noticed, missed. Perhaps I thought that with love, I might find a safe way to love, but one cannot love defensively. Tomorrow demands that I hold my life loosely, as one might hold a small bird. When it needs to fly, you need to let go. When you are in love, you must never live otherwise. <br />
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And so, this is my letting go. This is my discovery of courage, of resolve, determination, hope.<br />
I feared not recognizing myself at the end of 2011. I should have hoped not to recognize myself. Who I was won't be appropriate for what I'll do.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-84559941905809932442011-05-02T22:00:00.001-04:002011-05-02T22:02:22.168-04:00SittingI hate sitting. <br />
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The arc of my life's transformation takes me further and further away from sitting. In my younger years, I read a lot until I found video games. Then I planted myself before a computer and read a lot. The reading has blessed my life a great deal while the sitting has been an unmitigated curse. <br />
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Studying the <a href="http://stronglifts.com/the-psoas-is-it-killing-your-back/">psoas muscle</a>, particularly my own issues with the psoas muscle, has led me to think along these terms. <br />
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The hips produce the force for running, fighting, dancing, leaping, loving, living. Plant yourself in a chair and your tell your hips this position is natural. Your pelvis tilts back, the spine comes forward and the head lowers, falling further from the sky. Sitting degrades your hips. Compromised hips, hips that can't run, fight, dance, leap or love properly, ruin the spine. Without a spine, it becomes nearly impossible to stand tall. Who can respect, much less love, a man who's forgotten how to stand tall? What woman is love-able when she doesn't believe she's worthy of love?<br />
<br />
So stop sitting.<br />
<br />
Repair your hips.<br />
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Cure your unnatural addiction to television reality game shows and comedy dramas with life. Breathe it in deeply, the purer, rarefied air of living worlds. <br />
<br />
I was teaching a friend good running form this past Sunday, showing him how to finish his stride with his feet coming up towards the buttocks. "Doesn't that use more energy?" he asked. "It's running. It uses energy. Dragging your feet is the act of someone uncommitted to the reality that they're running. They don't want to use energy, don't want to open up to the possibility that running may be enjoyable. These people believe that running must be awful and are determined to be right about their belief no matter the cost. Lift your feet."<br />
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Move. In any direction. Open your hips. When you run, stride with commitment to each step. Yes, I am running, so let me run beautifully! God, free me from plodding and power-walking and all such half-hearted efforts! When you fight, let your hips explode with their full fury and force. Don't just throw arm punches, afraid to get hit or hit others. Throw a true punch, snap a true kick. When you dance, let your hips come to the party. Don't just awkwardly shimmy your shoulders on the side of the dance floor like you're afraid someone will see you trying to have a good time. In all that you do in life, do it with your most powerful driver, your hips. Don't go to the grave never having brought your body's engine to redline. <br />
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Unlearn sitting. Unlearn all the practices of life that destroy your core, your strength, your integrity. In that vacuum, rediscover possibility. It will start slow. For many years, I struggled to do a single pull-up. It took what felt like forever before I could run 5 miles without stopping to walk some part of it. Even in my 2nd year of running, I still took breaks in the shorter races to catch my breath. Keep fighting. Keep striving. The habits you've acquired over the course of decades will not dissolve in a few well-meant weeks. Before you can build a new life you must clear the rubble of your current one, and to do that, you most certainly must get up off your ass.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-69095571212692472722011-05-01T22:19:00.001-04:002011-05-01T22:33:32.161-04:00WaitingI've known amazing people throughout my life. I'm deeply indebted to them. <br />
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I don't talk to them nearly as much as I should. With one of my best friends, I only speak with him twice, maybe three, sometimes four times a year. Facebook keeps me well enough updated with how they're doing.<br />
<br />
Today, one of the people I look up to finished a third run of her play. I went to its first reading and saw it performed twice. It got better each time. She said this was the best iteration. I don't doubt her. Her work is unbelievable. It's hard for me to remember that she's younger than me. She inspires me.<br />
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One of my ex-girlfriends finished a project that Perez Hilton used for a piece on the royal wedding. I've always thought the world of her and admired her ability.<br />
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One of my best friends is ministering to the communities in Staten Island.<br />
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Another one will be an attorney in the Manhattan D.A.'s office.<br />
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A few years ago a friend I served in Graduate Christian Fellowship started up a non-profit to combat sex trafficking. The organization has grown with more and more volunteers. Every time I see them in the news, they're taking on more projects and doing more good.<br />
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And where to begin with my girlfriend? I love her spirit. The way her eyes shine when she speaks of doing Chinese medicine and the way that she understands the methodology captivates me. It's the light of a passionate woman. She goes extra miles, clocks in extra time, not to gain some edge over competitors but out of a desire to extravagantly over-deliver on her future product. Who wouldn't pay a premium for a doctor who spent her studies with that attitude? Who wouldn't be incensed to live more passionately with that kind of partner?<br />
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People come to New York City to chase dreams. My friends are doing just that. What am I doing? I can't be the only one to drag his feet. Their lives call out to me. What can I do but chase my dreams? I'm done with waiting. I'm done with being safe, sensible, taken care of and comfortable. Each blog post I've ever written was intended to be a slap across my own face -- an attempt to wake from the parent-induced stupor of comfort and safety. There's no safety. There never was security. Embrace the free-fall and learn to fly. Waiting is certain disaster.<br />
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I'm done waiting.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-3938852753771886122011-04-28T20:00:00.001-04:002011-04-28T20:09:08.993-04:00Giving UtteranceYou can look at my thoughts from the past few years in a few ways. You can see them as meditations on ambition. My desire to do triathlons, marathons, kick boxing, novels and finding love can be seen as a desire to stand out and accomplish. In refusing to sit back and live a "King of Queens" or "Everybody Loves Raymond" kind of blue-collar life of beer league sports and reality tv, you may see me as a pretentious hipster. My jeans are certainly tight enough.<br />
<br />
You can see my thoughts as preposterous navel-gazing. Just why is it that I think about my own biography so much? There is a limit to how self-absorbed one can be, no? Just how often do I need to think about my past relationships? <br />
<br />
But really, in my own eyes, this blog has been about life. <br />
<br />
Writings like <a href="http://brooks.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/04/20/matter-over-mind/?partner=rssnyt">this one</a> encourage me and help me think that I haven't gone insane. The body and the soul have a deep, intimate connection. Traditional Chinese Medicine sees it this way. Their embrace of psychosomatic treatments have profoundly changed my worldview. Reductive anatomical medicine has conditioned me to think that a psychosomatic problem was somehow a lesser issue. The body is not physically wrong so there's nothing wrong. It's all in the person's <em>head</em>. My first steps into TCM (thanks to my wonderful girlfriend) have changed my views completely. A psychosomatic problem just means that there are two problems and reductive anatomical medicine has no means of treating one of them. If a house has problems with both the wiring and the plumbing, shouldn't both of them be addressed? <br />
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Western Christianity taught me that souls are real only when we're talking about death. Souls are only real when we're talking about Jesus and his atoning, substitutionary work on the cross. What I've been fighting for these past few years was my soul. I wanted to take it back from the butchers in the pulpits. Eternity is longer than your mortal life so spend your life to further the glory of God. What does that mean? Win souls. What does that mean? Tell people about Jesus and then get them to tell others about Jesus. Your suffering in doing this is glorious. <br />
<br />
The practice of Western Christianity as I have seen it contains a deep line of hypocrisy. We teach the reality of the soul and the impermanence of the body. We live the reality of the body and the low value of the soul. Was your flesh martyred for the cause? Excellent. You have a reward in heaven. Did you give up soul-nourishing activities so you could give out tracts? Stop whining. Did a body go beneath the waters and emerge a Christian? Excellent harvest. Did your soul experience renewal and life when you heard an aria, read a passage, saw a photo, watch a ballet, spat a flow, played a riff, or breathed the rarefied air of purer worlds? Better talk about Jesus or we'll talk about how small your experience was.<br />
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I heard my soul echo in life's empty darkness. These blog posts of the past 3 years have been an attempt to give utterance to the institutional, doctrinal violence I suffered. My joys, my heart, my passion was crucified on a cross of evangelism and mission. If it doesn't manifestly lead to conversions, then what I do doesn't matter. If I don't apply my talents to racking up conversions, then I'm living in rebellion. <br />
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Their words affirmed that creation was made for joy, for our relationship with God but when I wanted to meditate on nature, on beauty, I found their hypocrisy. C'mon, hurry up! Get to the Jesus dying part! They have to know about that! What's with all this sappy crap about your own soul's experience? Joy? Joy without meditating on atonement? Blasphemous. That's not important. Quick before they leave, tell them about Jesus. Every time you talk to someone, you have to mention this!<br />
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The soul is real and it can die while a person lives. Rob a person of their means of joy and you do worse than kill them. Take from me my races, my words, my ability to spread my wings and you fetter me with chains of adamant. I feel alive, I feel nearness to God when I run, climb, swim, jump and free the body to do all it can do. I feel affirmation and confidence when I can write and create. Why don't I evangelize and be more plain with my Christian affiliation in my writing? Because that's exactly what stifled my spirit for so many years. I have little love left for movements of missionary zeal. I still support them selectively but they don't have the <em>carte blanche</em> on my heart they once did.<br />
It may have taken me 3 years, but now I can give my heart utterance. It may have taken me two heartbreaks, and a number of hard journeys, but I know who I am. I know what I'm fighting for -- nothing less than my own soul.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-50313930035853966572011-04-16T08:39:00.005-04:002011-04-16T08:49:16.491-04:00Inspire<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #444444; font-family: Garamond, Palatino, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 25px;"></span><br />
<h3><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size: 60px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 25px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Garamond, Palatino, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<h3><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Garamond, Palatino, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size: 60px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 25px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><h3><span style="float: left; font-size: 60px; font-weight: normal; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 1px;">Q:</span>As someone who has walked through museums with you, eaten with you, heard music with you, I know firsthand how creativity in all areas lifts your consciousness. Do you feel that as a cultural figure of importance it is part of your responsibility to share what inspires you?</h3><div style="color: #444444; font-family: Garamond, Palatino, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 25px; text-align: left;"><span style="float: left; font-size: 60px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 13px;">A:</span>I think it's every human's job to inspire others, to feed one another's senses. Inspiration begets inspiration times infinity. Imagine if the person that was inspired to create the phonograph didn't share it with the world.</div></span></span></span></h3></blockquote></h3><br />
The above comes from Gwyneth Paltrow's interview with Jay-Z.<br />
<br />
After having struggled to write for some time, I've learned some truths.<br />
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Genius is love.<br />
Hard work beats talent...<br />
... until talent works hard.<br />
Inspiration begets inspiration.<br />
<br />
As I've written more, it becomes easier to write more. As I talk about what I write more, I meet others who write, sing, run, dance, paint, sketch, shoot, lift, and above all, play. Everyone I admire creatively played like children exploring wonderlands and their joy invites me to begin my own expeditions.<br />
<br />
But yet, it was not always so.<br />
<br />
Not so long ago, the darkness drove me as much as the joy. I feared losing my soul as I once did so I held it back. I tried to love defensively, tried to force creation from my soul like wringing blood from a stone. It wasn't until I was called out on my own hypocrisy - if I thought of myself as a writer, why did I not write to the one I loved - that I began to change.<br />
<br />
And the change accelerated upon meeting others who created. I looked back upon the past, at all the authors whose works I consumed... did I ever pause to honor the works I received or did I simply devour without awareness, without gratitude. I look at the friends that I've surrounded myself with. Aren't the ones I admire the ones who seek solitude to create and produce, the ones who aren't consumed with addiction to crowds and opinion? See how they live and find encouragement in their example. Why are you writing, Stanley?<br />
<br />
Write because the stories yearn for expression, the way my muscles, my flesh yearned for expression. The level of physical activity I have today would've killed me several times over in high school and college. If someone told me that 10 years out of high school, I'd have half-Ironmans, marathons, double-bodyweight deadlifts, and double-digit pull-up numbers under my belt at the same time, I'm not sure I would've believed that any human was capable of such feats. But from where I am now, I'm not sure that there aren't ten thousand, a hundred thousand people around the world who can right now do all that I can do to a far more impressive degree. And even now, my body is telling me "Keep going, keep going. You haven't begun to scratch the surface of your potential. You owe it to me to keep going." The ceiling is so high. I owe it to my soul to work these mental faculties of creation. Who knows what may happen in 5 years time, in 10 years time? Who knows the people I may meet, the lessons I might learn, the joys I might find if I continue to put my full heart into my work. The gospel lesson bolsters my heart - to whom much is given, if stewarded faithfully, even more shall be given.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-49662596342551743612011-04-14T23:53:00.005-04:002011-04-15T00:15:02.785-04:00Anthem<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/HAfFfqiYLp0" title="YouTube video player" width="640"></iframe></div><br />
Kanye's "All of the Lights" has been my personal anthem this year.<br />
<br />
I listened to it when I first began going out with my girlfriend. Accept or reject me, I want her to accept or reject the real me. I wanted to end the posturing, the pretension. I wanted to end a lifetime of thinking that who I was, was not acceptable for reality.<br />
<br />
I listen to this song when I write. Accept me or reject me, I want to give you the real me. I want to overcome the years of literary criticism I've studied, coroners who cannot handle the text without murdering it. I want to redeem the years of hiding my love for works that others sneered at, belittled, demeaned as unworthy of serious analysis.<br />
<br />
As I was walking to my girlfriend's apartment last night, I thought about my ex-girlfriend whose letters I still open and read now and again. Her words echo in my chest, "Stanley Lee, go and conquer the world." I think about the woman I pursued before her. Could it be that she could not be with a man she believed in but could not believe in himself? Could we have been different, had I been different? And I think about the first woman I gave my heart to, the one who compelled me to take my first step forward, to brave the unknowns of the universe. How ignorant might I still be if I hadn't ever had my heart broken?<br />
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All of them have been lights along my path, the joys and the sorrows lighting my way to a deeper knowledge of self and my creator God. I cannot begin to express the volume of gratitude I owe to all of them. I am not a star. I am a constellation of all I've seen.<br />
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I think about my brother-in-arms best friend and the example he sets for me in his honesty and purity of heart. I think about my sister-in-arms best friend whose spirit and discipline always pushes me. I think about my mentors and the hopes that they had for me, the potential they saw in me. To deny their belief would be to call them fools and who would admit to having a fool for a mentor? How else can I honor their belief in my potential than to drag it into reality?<br />
<br />
I think about my girlfriend the radiant soul whose words resonate with me like no one else I've ever met. Her life frees me to live my own. Her light grants me the courage to live more truly. I think about the support she gives me, the wind in my sails, the strength of my right arm, the driving force in my legs.<br />
<br />
And beyond even her, I think about the God under whose sovereignty I shelter. I think about how for so many of these lights in my life, I would not have met them were it not for a chance occurrence, a decision I could not understand at the time, or an impulse I didn't expect. I think about his ordering of my life and I cannot but feel small, a fisherman safe in the tsunami, a feather nestled in the hurricane.<br />
<br />
I won't hide these lights any longer. They're the ones who've brought me here. I'll do my part and carry them with me everywhere I go.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-8730382093175458222011-04-12T23:30:00.002-04:002011-04-13T06:49:53.097-04:00Motivation"People often say that motivation doesn't last. Well, neither does bathing - that's why we recommend it daily." -- Zig Ziglar<br />
<br />
I believe that everyone should be their own greatest critic and their own greatest supporter. Those who are only one or the other live ineffective caricatures of lives. To be only a critic to yourself is to consign yourself to cynicism and emotionally vacant living. Refusing to nourish their souls, these starving artists waste away gnawing on self-loathing. To be only a supporter to yourself is to glut yourself with cookies, big sweaters, fuzzy slippers and spiritual diabetes. A soul insensitive to insulin, it has overwhelmed itself with saccharine sentiments and can't differentiate between useful help and useless wishes any longer. The spiritually obese and anorexic alike are malnourished.<br />
<br />
This is personal experience.<br />
<br />
My parents sheltered me from the pain of failure as I grew up. Don't take risks. Hide behind the aprons of big organizations. All you have to do is not make people angry. Tell yourself things to feel good. If something bothers you, don't think about it. And especially don't think about dating pretty girls.<br />
<br />
My religious mentors left me with a faulty understanding of Total Depravity. The doctrine proper states merely that we are all with some sin and therefore guilty. The doctrine as I received, it declared every intention malicious, every action blasphemous in every possible way. Stanley can do no good unless it's done in a church-y way.<br />
<br />
But the scales are falling from my eyes.<br />
<br />
I know who Stanley Lee is. Perhaps not perfectly, perhaps never perfectly, but I know who he is and what he's worth. I know that I'm capable of so much more than what I am now. I can be smarter, stronger, kinder, more generous, more understanding, more disciplined, resolute, wise, audacious, joyful. And because I know that there's no ceiling to how far I can grow, I am my own fiercest critic. If a Picasso... screw Picasso, I know nothing about painting, if Murakami or Roth told you that they were satisfied teaching Catcher in the Rye in high school until the waters turn to blood and the sky rains fire, if Frank Sinatra was OK with playing Rock Band and watching American Idol, how could you keep from howling with red-eyed rage? If you only could glimpse the grandeur of your own souls, how could you keep from destroying everything you are now?<br />
<br />
What I've done in my life thus far pales in comparison to what I will do. If it doesn't, I'm better off dead. If my best years are behind me, then slit my wrists right now. It doesn't matter if I'm 27 or 97 - I refuse to believe that my life can ascend no higher. The critic in me is above all, passionate. Ardor for life inflames me, fans my anger; impatience for the world to come, the world I know I can see.<br />
<br />
And yet, with wisdom, I have learned that frustration accomplishes nothing. The audacious words, the braggadocio, it's a life-ring, a buoy to cling on to in a sea of people who feel that my life and my beliefs are an indictment on their choice to watch television and wear sweatpants. It's not. We all make our own choices. I don't have any power beyond that which you give me. You can take it away at any time. It won't make me sad. I believe no one shines their brightest when watching T.V. and wearing sweatpants. The night is long, the sky is dark. If my light can kindle a light within your breast, then I will smile for having done so. Please don't hide your light because shining takes effort, takes work, takes heartache. Throughout my life, I've yearned for the love and support of others. In so many dark moments, I had no one's voice with me, so I had to claw my way out tooth and nail. I don't want that to happen to anyone else. I'll speak life to my own soul and hope that it can reach your soul too.<br />
<br />
Motivation doesn't last. People who dwell in pits, who believe that the stars above are of different substance, who sneer and laugh at those who reach out their hands to grasp them, these will gnaw at your legs and snatch at your feet when you climb. Your hands will bruise on the hard rock and some falls will hurt a lot. Motivation doesn't last.<br />
<br />
But neither do rocks. The slow flow of water carved out the majesty of the Grand Canyon. The patient work of tree roots opens up the hardest rocks. A motivation that renews itself day after day will wear down all walls and free the light to shine.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-82705572992897757622011-03-28T11:52:00.000-04:002011-03-28T11:52:11.504-04:00Offering<div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Am I loved?</strong></span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Am I pleasing to you?</strong></span></em></div><br />
Those two questions from last night's sermon circled above me my whole life, specks in the sky, vigilant, patient. I answered the needs beneath those questions for 20 years by hiding myself beneath obedience. I'll be the guy you want me to be. I'll study hard in school. I'll get a stable job, marry a girl who's not too pretty, not too fancy. I'll contribute at church and write up new bible studies. I'll show up for all the prayer meetings and head up committees. I'm good, right? I'm acceptable, right?<br />
<br />
I prostituted my soul for over two decades but I don't blame the buyer. I blame the victim. No one took me by force. They couldn't deceive me had I not wanted to be deceived. I wanted to be accepted and I chose my path. Because I knew so little of who I was, I could not defend myself against who I was not. <br />
<br />
There once was a peasant who grew his carrots and turnips on his farm. This plebeian loved his king with all his heart and from the overflow of his heart brought the king the largest, biggest carrot he ever grew. In response to this pauper's love, the king bequeathed land to the peasant, doubling his territory. <br />
<br />
Seeing this, a well-to do lord wondered to himself. If the king was so generous to the peasant for a carrot, what would he give in response to a cow or a horse? So with expectant eyes the lord came before the king and gave the king a fine steed, a mighty steed, tall with lithe muscles and shimmering coat. The king thanked him absent-mindedly and waved the lord away. <br />
<br />
Flummoxed, the lord dawdled confused. As the guards came to escort him away, the lord stammered about how excellent the horse was, surpassingly so, peerless. And indeed the horse was, said the king. So excellent this beast was, that you wanted to give it to yourself. You see, the peasant brought his carrot out of the love in his heart, expecting nothing in return. You however, seeing the peasant's reward brought the horse hoping to win something in return. Now, begone. <br />
<br />
Others gave their souls to God from a genuine desire to minister. I gave my soul in service and in ministry hoping to find acceptance and approval. I do this, you do that. That's the deal, right? But God loved me far too much to accept those terms and conditions. No, he brought me through several hells. Lonely nights, hard fights, punching my knuckles bloody against boulders, throwing trash cans into lakes and destroying public property, screaming my anguish into the thunder. He gave me everything necessary, even if those necessities drew out tears and screams. My reward has been a mirror. I can see who I am now. Never in my life have I been so confident in my knowledge of self. <br />
<br />
I haven't worked out the details yet but there's undoubtedly a connection between knowing yourself and dimming the need for approval, acceptance. Do I still battle it? Surely, but for the first time in my life, I've been finding victories. So, no, I don't blame the church for what it did but with my life I hope to light a way for other misfits, for those who refuse to settle for quiet lives of meek obeisance.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-91354096762049583172011-03-27T12:13:00.008-04:002011-03-28T10:56:27.917-04:00From where that pavement is...<div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">"...'cause there's no parachute that they can make for this</span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">'cause I put my pain, my heart, my soul, my faith in this..."</span></em></div><br />
<br />
My spiritual infancy brimmed with missionary zeal. Every faithful Christian should eventually find their way to missions and ministry. Christians who simply gave financial support and prayed were just ducking the hard work.<br />
<br />
Did anyone ever say as much? No, not once. <br />
Was this the overwhelming impression that I was left with? Yes, I and very many others. <br />
<br />
As adamant as these zealots might have been in saying that there was no two-tier Christendom, they never realized that their works and words created such a world. They scoffed and laughed at the charismatics who segregate the faithful into those who've spoken in tongues and those who haven't, but they then frowned on those who elected to pursue a dream apart from third-world countries or clerical collars.<br />
<br />
Two tiers? No, never. It's just that some people love God more and some not so much. Not being in ministry meant you either didn't love God or you didn't love people. <br />
<br />
Unacceptable hypocrisy. <br />
<br />
God cannot be God of all creation and God of only those who are in ministry. <br />
<br />
Creation, so great and so wide and God's name is writ large over it all. And yet, I believed, I followed those who would confine Christendom to church walls, literal and otherwise. The otherwise refers to the begrudging concession that Christ may be loved outside a church building. But a discomfort plagues them if the love is not covered in crosses, soft lighting and tearful conversion stories.<br />
<br />
But now, day by day, the glowing upswell in me burns brighter. I know where I'm going. For so much of my life, I feared that my teachers were right and that God was a petty Asian bureaucrat who wanted to lock me inside a church. No, far more powerful, far more gentle than I could have imagined, he beckons me towards a life I was trained to believe could never be mine. <br />
<br />
There has never been a moment of greater rebellion and greater obedience for me. Throwing my hat in the ring, I'm going to be a writer. An echo from years past rings in my heart "If you won't take a chance on this, what will you take a chance on?" I'm not going to write for Christian media. I don't have the stomach for trying to be awkward and impish, skirting family-unfriendly realities. Screw that stupid shit. It's not going to be for academia as if I cared about impressing them and acquiring for myself their distinctions and honors anymore. I won't have a big organization to hide me. My parents taught me that security lay in size. There is no security in size. There's only security in the hollow of God's hand. And I believe that's exactly where I am. Throw away so many of the beliefs I've been taught, so many of the doctrines that finger-wagging reverend faces have instilled in me. Throw away the fears, the false needs, the empty materialism. Throw away the useless practices that no longer serve me. Rebel, reject and return to the naked freedom of knowing that God wants you to be yourself.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-40935487537413370512011-03-25T13:32:00.000-04:002011-03-25T13:32:48.047-04:00EasyThroughout the uproar of the Tiger Mother book, a part of me quietly cheered on the mother. While I disagree with a tyrannical leadership style and social deprivation, she affirmed two of the deepest truths I learned. <br />
<br />
#1 It's not fun until you get good. <br />
#2 You won't be good if you don't put in the work. <br />
<br />
Those thoughts ran through my mind as I put in my 5 miles this morning. As it usually happens, I got frustrated going too slowly during the run and let my feet really fly for a few stretches. The joy, the exhiliration, the sheer uplift, my feet thrilled. Barking, chasing, and the dog tired before I did. Better luck next time, kid. <br />
<br />
My youth was never like this. I hated running. I especially hated basketball because it required both running and jumping. I felt the fat jiggle on my unsightly breasts, around a too-large midsection, rippling across the thighs. Could there be a worse sensation in the world? Yes. Worse still was the sensation of other humans seeing your shambling, porcine form lope down the street. Running is embarassing for the slow and ugly.<br />
<br />
So stop being slow and ugly. <br />
<br />
Work. <br />
<br />
It hurts. Forget your muscles, forget your weak, aching back. I know that hurts. You can withstand that. You're having trouble with how much it hurts to show other people you're fat. <br />
<br />
Battle your fears with reality. Taking refuge in delusion invites disaster.<br />
<br />
They know you're fat. They see it. I see it. You alone refuse to see it. They knew I was fat. You saw it. I alone refused to see it. Until I had my heart broken. Until I overheard a girl say "Him? Ew! Never!" I'm forever thankful for "Fight Club" teaching me to embrace "rock bottom." In the earliest posts here, in the oldest posts there, I wrote about immersing myself in the reality bath. Acknowledging the cruel reality, a hundred, a thousand knives piercing your every inch of skin, every acre of soul, the freezing waters of the arctic killing your flesh, awakening your soul. Come alive and wake up. Things are bad. <br />
<br />
And they'll stay that way until you change them.<br />
<br />
Until you put in the work.<br />
<br />
Work first to acknowledge truth. Work next to change what's true. I think soon, you will find the work become beautiful. It has for me.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-68431481604125100992011-03-23T07:36:00.000-04:002011-03-23T07:36:54.940-04:00Daily"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit." -- Aristotle<br />
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15. Finish the <a href="http://www.badwater.com/">Badwater Ultramarathon</a>.<br />
16. Finish the <a href="http://www.nxtri.com/">Norseman Triathlon</a>.<br />
19. Have 100 works published in major media.<br />
28. Bench press 2x bodyweight.<br />
29. Deadlift over 500 lbs.<br />
43. Clean and jerk a 175 lb. (5 pood) kettlebell.<br />
56. Run the <a href="http://www.bostonmarathon.org/">Boston Marathon</a>.<br />
71. Receive an invitation to a State Dinner.<br />
<br />
Many of my bucket list items cannot be done at the geriatric end of a life. A great many of them require years and years of sustained effort, sacrifice, determination and guts.<br />
<br />
That's why it's on my bucket list.<br />
<br />
I can't achieve them as I am now. I would have to change. Personally, I would find it an utter tragedy to leave this world barely changed from how I entered it. The change, the drawing forth of effort, the discovery, the growth of courage... these make the goals matter. It's less important that others recognize me than I recognize myself.<br />
<br />
If I found a shortcut, if I cheated on a race and lopped off 100 miles or took some substance to enhance my performance, or if publishers suddenly came to me and wanted to take my blog posts and plaster them everywhere, I'd fall into a deep depression. If that actually happened, I'd prefer death than to take them up on their offer. A shortcut would not achieve my goals. That would destroy any possibility of accomplishing them. The real heart of my goals lies in the belief that what I am right now is not what I want to be. To acquire the fruits without the labor would utterly destroy me for the personal, spiritual labor is what I desired the most. The fruits just acknowledge that I invested.<br />
<br />
I'm going to make mistakes. I'm going to suffer heartache. I already know this. I don't mind those pains. A pain I could not withstand is a loved one telling me "Slow down. You're <i>fine</i> just the way you are." Life is too short to just be fine. Life is too short to just settle for enough. From the moment I was born, I began to move closer and closer to death. I want to hand him an autobiography worth reading when I finally meet him. Slow down? Not fast enough.<br />
<br />
Today, I made the realization that this investment has to be made every day. Overly simplistic? Glaringly obvious? Yes. I think so. So obvious that I neglected it until this point. Monday night I went to a concert with a friend. I didn't just lose that night to work and grind, I lost the day after as well as my mind recovered from the music and the late night.<br />
<br />
One of the things I discovered in changing my life was to increase happiness, do less of the stuff that makes you kinda feel good and do more of what truly satisfies your soul. I watched a lot of TV as a kid and enjoyed a great number of shows. It was pretty good. I'm not settling for pretty good. I'd like to watch Firefly, the Wire and a whole lot of other shows people have told me about. I have Total Recall from Netflix sitting on my table. These things are pretty good. But they're not really good. How many TV shows was last year's Half-Ironman worth? Innumerable. Does not compute.<br />
<br />
It's like trading for baseball players. Giving a team 3 or 4 legitimately good players does not equal having 1 extraordinary player on the caliber of an Albert Pujols, Manny Ramirez or A-Rod. The things that are pretty good could never come together and be more than something that's truly great.<br />
<br />
The concert was good. I enjoyed spending time with a good friend. But I have begun to realize pretty decent moments will cost me the great life affirming moments if I do not manage my time. There's a good reason I'm fasting gmail, facebook, manga and other social media between 8 and 5 for Lent. I want to demolish my addiction to these time traps. Even determination, the quality and virtue which I've cultivated in myself for years now, cannot grow when distracted. Determination also means focus.<br />
<br />
That said, less blogging, more doing.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-35048732730803872112011-03-20T09:00:00.001-04:002011-03-20T09:00:32.486-04:00New BeginningsMy blogs stay fresh for about a year (or one relationship) before they go bad.<br />
<br />
I don't believe in coincidence. Thus far, I've measured out my life in relationships, marking out my personal growth by what I've learned and how I've matured through each. From inception to separation, massive changes occurred and this fills me with satisfaction. It would be an insult to my former partners if our time together produced no change in either of us. I consider myself honored to have met the women I have and shared part of my life with them.<br />
<br />
When my previous relationship began, I stood at a crossroads in my faith. I hated where I came from, but I couldn't find the words to tell you why. I wanted to leave everything I knew but I desired to know God more. I was so angry, so embittered at God yet longed for Him. Did I then self-identify as Christian? Yes. But with many qualifications.<br />
<br />
I was disgusted by the white Jesus draped in an American flag standing amidst Ground Zero wreckage, red-state Christianity. I couldn't help but be embarrassed by churches as diverse as Hillsongs (though I still quite like their music) or Joel Osteen's or Fred Phelp's (each one for very different reasons of course). I no longer felt the same fervor for Passion ministries that I once had. I was a Christian, but not *that* kind of Christian.<br />
<br />
Yet, I wasn't the Sunday only kind of Christian who looked guilty when confessing the fact of his faith. I refused to say "None of us are perfect." with a tired resignation and no conviction to turn. Fascinating, how a confession of guilt has so often left open the door to a repeat trespass. Neither did I desire to be a morally upright person who just happened to affiliate himself with this tradition or that lineage. Faith is more than preference.<br />
<br />
I was a Christian, but I only knew what I was not, and the negative space was still insufficient for showing me who I was. Little by little, I've been learning.<br />
<br />
I'm glad the sovereign plan of God subjected me to that period of my life. Though I don't believe that time is over, I have crested that hill and see the lush valley before me. I don't know what I'll find down there, but I'll go there anyways.<br />
<br />
I hope that with my last blog, I can, for myself, turn the page on that previous chapter and explore what lies ahead. I hope to work on new ideas and play with new concepts here. Epistemologies, ethics, and a universe of other life facets besides, I hope to investigate them here.<br />
<br />
New beginnings for a new day.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-90897065670722766892011-03-19T20:58:00.000-04:002011-03-19T20:58:43.614-04:00Today Is Practice For TomorrowAn action becomes a practice. Practice becomes a habit. A habit becomes a life.<br />
Today is practice for tomorrow.<br />
<br />
My mother was a chef in AIG's cafeteria for about 20 years. In those years, she brought home leftovers beyond what our family might've afforded otherwise. Mountains of filet mignon, cornucopias of cutlets, pounds of pork chops, and the like. I loved them all. I remember many a time sneaking downstairs for another slice of filet mignon.<br />
<br />
The taste wasn't the same but my appetite for burgers, pizza, fries, pies and fried chicken continued to grow like a tumor of the soul. In high school, I was well over 200. In college, 300.<br />
<br />
A small action led to a life and quite nearly, the end of a life.<br />
<br />
It's not easy to treat a cancer of the soul.<br />
<br />
I had to summon up a lot of willpower to decide to spend my money on a salad that was the cost of a Popeye's meal and a Chinese lunch box combined. It's just green rabbit food! Why's it more expensive!? But I did. And I yearned for golden fields of chicken skin, rivers of black bean sauce.<br />
<br />
Actions become practices. Practices become habits. Habits become lives.<br />
<br />
I ate salad one day. And then another. And now I can't imagine ever going back to a fast food restaurant. If I were driving on a road, I might grab a banana and a bottle of water from a rest stop instead of a burger. Habits become lives but lives change.<br />
<br />
I find myself holding onto this truth these days as I'm excising another tumor.<br />
<br />
A lot of my blogs draw a lot of questions. "Stan, are you talking about me in that post?" No, I'm far too self-absorbed to think about others. I'm talking about myself, to myself. When I talk about hating a life watching TV, watching American Idol, eating potato chips, I'm trying to apply chemotherapy to myself. I want to change. More than anything else, I want to change.<br />
<br />
For decades, I believed a painting on a mirror was my reflection. The oils have dried and chips are falling. I'm beginning to see myself. But it's not someone I recognize. Why should I recognize him? I'm getting to know him for the first time.<br />
<br />
I can't go back to watching TV. I can't stay at a job where I have to wait for assignments. I can't ever settle for good enough. Maybe it's enough for someone else to have a safe job at a big company and wait for the weekend, but that's dishonest living for me. I don't want to spend 40 hours a week hiding my values because I'm too scared to step out on a limb. I don't want to spend any more time watching TV or movies or doing things to kill time. I'm dying.<br />
<br />
From the moment I was born, I began my journey to death. I can't stop and linger here on the couch with you. If you think this means I believe I'm too good for you, I'm too haughty or I'm just an arrogant asshat, I'm sorry you think so. I don't have enough time for more explanation than what I'm now giving. I know how I want to die. Do I know if I'm going to get it? Not a clue. I do know what it'll take for me to die happy. If you had a choice between stuffing your coffin with regrets or treasured memories, what would you choose?<br />
<br />
If I spent my life serving in church ministries up to my ear, chained to a desk job, welded to a couch, or around restaurant tables talking about gadgets... I simply do not love anyone enough to fill the grave with that many sorrows.<br />
<br />
Actions become practices. Practices become habits and habits become lives.<br />
<br />
Writing this blog post memorializes an action I took nearly 3 years ago. I refuse to live somebody else's life, by somebody else's values. I sought my own and found a remarkable parity with God's values. It has been a slow realization that I'm where God wants me to be. I just do not care if no one else is doing this. (For the record, I think there are a few who do something similar. I think that of all of them, I am the one most sensitive to criticism.) I don't know what the path will look like 2 or 3 steps down the road. It's like running through twilit Peruvian jungles with a flickering headlamp. The future is vague, and the present is just clear enough so stay in the present.<br />
<br />
And at the end of all these presents I look forward to the life I will have left behind.Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261488431860109218.post-86578714285278827342011-03-13T09:50:00.000-04:002011-03-13T09:55:52.011-04:00Update<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">An e-mail I sent to a good friend of mine, updating him on my life.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span><br />
<blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hey X,</span> </blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am glad to hear that you have been flinging your cat around. If you wish, I will show you advanced cat hurling techniques and if I deem your skills acceptable, even cat annihilation techniques. Despite the name, these techniques also work on pigs, bears and humans. You may have already intuited this knowledge.</span> </blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In response to your question, my life has been rather fulfilling of late as I've been learning a lot (though I always wish I had more time to reflect on these lessons!). I guess I shouldn't be, but I was rather surprised that the martial arts gym I've been going to for the past two months has been the source of my insight. I absolutely LOVE this gym. It's always packed, but that's OK because the gym isn't your traditional gym where you get on a machine and flail away. No, entering this gym feels like entering a hipster military bootcamp. Tattooed patrons are doing jumping jacks, pushups and squats. Others are doing kettlebells, still others are doing yoga or stretching. </span> </blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But you can find that at almost any gym. What separates this gym is the intensity with which many of the parishioners are approaching their workouts. See, what makes this gym special is that there's at least one professional fighter and about a dozen amateur fighters. If they're sloppy in their workouts they risk broken bones, concussions, even death. They train like their life is on the line because it is. </span> </blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This has been one of the most invigorating times in my life. I only took the basic membership which didn't allow for participation in the fighting classes but I was inspired just by training next to these warriors. Even the girls had spirits which pushed mine. One of them I might have passed on the street or in my daily routine and never given her a second thought but she came to the gym sporting massive bruises, green and purple on her shins. Others, men and women, had tape wrapped around broken toes, bruised ribs and yet they continued to train. </span> </blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My membership ended this past Tuesday and I've been feeling a bit listless as I've rested. Going back to training alone will be... well, lonely. I can find other teams to train with but I don't think it'll be the same. Distance athletes are too laid back. They may compete in 100+ mile races but many of them are mellow, married with kids. I miss the fervor and the intensity of a person who trains knowing that his own life is at risk. That's when I realized that I take this attitude into every area of my life, physical and otherwise.</span> </blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I grew up believing in certain truths. If you don't get a job at a big corporation with benefits, your life will be miserable and no one will want to marry you. If you don't go to the right school, you won't get such a job. If you don't get all 100's, then you won't get into the right school. The purpose of life is to have kids. People will get old and weak. As an adult, you have no time to enjoy life. Asian men will never be attractive to, nor respected by, Caucasian women. Whatever you do, don't date the white women. </span> </blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I could go on. But the most painful one was that getting steady pay and coming home to watch TV and go out to eat at restaurants was the best life had to offer. Play softball in the summer. Go to some island somewhere for vacation. I howled in the prison of that belief system. In all my ambitions, in all my training, I've fought for my release. I work so hard because I'm still trying to escape that prison. Perhaps others may find joy and God in such a life. Perhaps. But after a quarter century and change of living, I realize that <i>normal</i> sort of life numbs my sense of divine proximity. I sense God most truly when something great is being risked, when something audacious is attempted. God seems the furthest away when things are soft and safe. I long to live at the very fringes of existence, the places you can't bring a lawn chair, the places where iPads, iPad2s, iPhones and fancy cars look laughable. </span> </blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes I wonder whether it's my youthful vigor speaking and whether this attitude will flare out with age. "To hell with that!" I say. A Christian brother, parroting conventional wisdom, said that a guy like me couldn't do marathons and triathlons many years ago. Well, I got 2 of each under my belt with more to come. Conventional wisdom says that we grow decrepit and laid back as we age. Yet there are 80 year old power lifters and 90 year old marathoners. Those who say something is impossible should not interrupt those who are doing the impossible.</span> </blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mmm, if this email seems a bit harsh and stringent, please forgive me. I am writing to answer your question but also as an exhortation and reminder to myself. In James, the author writes that a man who listens and fails to act is like a man who looks at his own reflection and then goes away forgetting what he looks like. I'm trying hard not to forget who God made me. For so many years, others drew my identity for me. Only lately have I begun scratching away the faded paint from the mirror and finding myself underneath. The reason I am so adamant, so unyielding, so contemptuous of those who lived the life I formerly did is because a big part of me hurts to be away from them. I desire community. Long for it. But I just can't have anybody. Five Points helped me realize what I need. I need people who train with their lives on the line. My soul is on the line, X. I find myself thinking like a man released from prison. "I can't go back. I'll do whatever I have to not to go back." </span></blockquote><div><br />
</div>Stanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02744611628375476156noreply@blogger.com0