Picture in the Paper

This picture was taken the day I was sworn in as an attorney, and made the front page in the local newspaper for lawyers. My good friend from high school served as my sponsor, making a motion before the court on my behalf. As you can see, one of us is 5'6, and the other is 6'5. He had quite the growth spurt after ninth grade. I remember asking "What the hell did you eat over the summer?" If I had been more savvy, I would have asked, "Can you get me some?"

Seize the Day

Sometimes I feel like my life is like water in a cup, slowly being poured out, bit by bit. It is a painless process, but it hurts to find that there is less water in the cup. Time flies by quickly. Yesterday was Christmas, only it wasn't yesterday. It was six months ago. One half of a year has gone by ... less water in the cup.

I wholeheartedly embrace the concept of living in the "now." It is wrong to let our eyes dwell longingly on past events, and it is equally wrong to always look forward as if better days are always ahead of us. Those who can live their lives now, embracing today with enthusiasm ... those are the folks who've mastered the art of living.

I know without a doubt that I'm right about this. Failing to embrace the present is a mistake, and a horrible one. No problem can be solved, no joy can be fully embraced, unless it is addressed in the present. This does not mean it's wrong to have fond memories. This does not mean it's wrong to look forward with expectation (check out the name of this blog). But it does mean that life is meant to be lived, not wished for, or remembered. Past and future are secondary aspects of life; the present is primary, and always with us. It must be handled with care, in much the same way that one must keep his eyes on the road while driving.

But I find it so difficult to embrace the "now." I am always looking forward, or always remembering. I find that my days slip easily into the past without having been lived with enthusiasm. Shame on me. I hope this is not true of you, but if it is, shame on you too.

Carpe diem, and damn your lethargy, your regrets, your unjustified inhibitions. Carpe diem, and live your life. Live it today, with certainty and well-founded joy. Tomorrow will take care of itself if you live today as it should be lived. And you'll see yesterday more clearly, for what it really was.

Carpe diem.

Saturday

I'll share a slice of my life. On Saturday, I ...

-- Spoke to S via phone about studying for the LSAT; he said he will definitely take it in the fall.

-- Sat alone at the dining room table for a long time. I was depressed, and couldn't concentrate on the letter I was drafting.

-- Ate lunch with J and E at Fiddler's Hearth. I had Bangers and Mash, and a Coke with a slice of lime.

-- Took a walk around campus, and ran into Bill Kelley at the Grotto. He currently serves as Deputy White House Counsel, but he used to be a law prof at Notre Dame. I'm pretty sure he could not remember my name, but that's okay ... I take solace in the fact that I can say my former teacher works at the White House. I think that's super cool even though I am not a Republican.

-- Did research on sentencing law in Michigan for an article I'm writing.

-- Watched a chipmunk scurry across the parking lot as I walked to the mailbox.

-- Walked past V without saying "hello" as he planted flowers. I am tired of always greeting him first, and then having him reluctantly say "hi." Sorry V ... today you get the middle finger. I'm tired of the passive-aggressive shit. And quit looking into my living room through the window.

-- Killed a spider that was crawling on my pants as I sat on the couch.

-- Got into an argument where I started yelling and stabbing the table with my index finger for emphasis.

-- Ate chicken & garlic pizza for dinner as I watched the last episode of Big Love.

So there you have it ... a slice from my life, labeled Saturday, June 10, 2006.

Discipline

Do you remember when you learned to color inside the lines? Can you recall what it felt like to remove the training wheels from your bicycle? What about the first time you sat down at the piano, or with your guitar, and sight-read a piece of music with some measure of fluency?

These moments of mastery are almost always the result of discipline. You sacrifice time and energy, working toward a goal, often without a sure promise of success. You concentrate. You study. You train your fingers, your eyes, your ears to work in concert with one another. You persevere. Your dismay at repeatedly failing matures into a genuine and abiding appreciation for the art or science or craft.

One morning, you awake and realize that you have become a master, and yet you have so much more to learn. You realize that you can learn by sharing your knowledge with others, and helping them reach their potential. So the beautiful process of discipleship ... embracing discipline as a means of discovery and mastery and fulfillment, continues.

This has been my experience with writing and music. The more I learn, the more I begin to see that others are far more gifted than I. My learning enables me to recognize (and appreciate) the gifts of the prodigy. When I see a child with the gift of wordsmithing, or a man who has never taken a music lesson in his life, but still plays the piano beautifully ... I feel obliged to share what little knowledge I have. I want to say "I can teach you to read music, not because you need it, but because the world of music needs your gift. We need you to put the music in your head down on paper."

I wonder if the Twelve had this sort of exerience with the Teacher. Matthew was probably able to tell Jesus about taxes and accounting. Simon could tell Him about fishing. But when they saw who He was, did they feel an even greater sense of appreciation for their own disciplines? Did Simon think "Ah ... so God is a fisherman!"? Did Matthew realize "Caesar can have his, while God can have His, and neither is robbed!"? Did God use the discipline of following, listening, teaching, and learning at Jesus' side to enlighten them? I think so.

True disciples are humble, not through their own efforts, but because they are able to see things for what they really are. They experience things as they are. I can listen to Rachmaninoff's work, and I can appreciate it to a certain extent. I think when I have the discipline to teach myself how to play one of his pieces, I will appreciate it so much more.