Mr. A.

When I was in grade eight I wrote a short story/book called, "The Man and His Glasses".  I dedicated it to my dad for his(at the time) incredible unwillingness to give up his ancient and outdated glasses.  At first, it was supposed to be about my dad and how I imagined he had come about his ancient glasses.  I even named the main character after my superhero of a father.  Very quickly, however, the story turned into a complete, unbridled-imagination-fueled fabrication.

Not a lie by any means.  It was a story.  A beautiful story that didn't at all fit the requirements of my assignment.  Or at least, it wouldn't, if the assignment had had any requirements.

Grade eight was an interesting year.  I was experiencing my first year of public school, and I was in an all boys class.  Before January, our class had gone through three teachers.  All of whom ended up in tears before quitting.  In short, our class was a teacher's nightmare.  The school was desperate to find a teacher who would teach our class and actually help us learn something.  When myself and my fellow classmates got on the bus to leave for Christmas break, we had no idea who our teacher would be when we returned.

And when we did return, we were greeted by a small man wearing skate clothes.  A small man Mr. A.  Until we learned that the, 'A' stood for, 'Atkins' most of us just assumed it meant, 'awesome'.

There are many, many reasons that Mr. A. was--and still is--the coolest teacher I and most of my classmates have ever had--the fact that he stays so memorable after a mere five months is testament enough--and I would love to share them all with you, dear reader, but my time is limited and so is yours.

Mr. A recognized that I had a talent/love for reading and writing.  He recognized that it wasn't something I did because it was a requirement for school, but because I enjoyed it.  When the school library didn't have any books that interested me, I was allowed to bring a book of my choice for reading time.  And when it came time for english assignments, Mr. A. handed me a blank, 80 page Hilroy notebook and told me to write about whatever I felt like writing about.  The first story was about a conspiracy behind the San Diego earthquakes and their true cause being due to the experiments of a crazy scientist.  And after that came, "The Man and His Glasses".  A story about a young german genius who bought a pair of glasses and turned them into a massively advanced multi-functioning technological device whose primary function was still to improve vision.

I'm not exactly sure how Mr. A's marking system worked, or how he went about grading an assignment that had no requirements, but I essentially aced grade eight english, and I learned a lot more about english and writing than just how to form a grammatically correct sentence(I still don't know how to do that).

Mr. A. did what teachers are supposed to do.  He recognized a spark, threw some fuel on it, and fanned it into a flame.  And he didn't just do that for me.  Everyone in our class had special assignments for certain subjects.  Mr. A let talents flourish by giving them the resources to do so.  When I received a, "marked" and completed copy of, "The Man and His Glasses", I found the following note scribbled in to the last few pages:

"Dear Isaac,

Every now and then a teacher comes across a student who decides that normal and ordinary are not good things to be!  Then the teacher panics and says, 'That's is--the GIG is up!  I'm going to be found out'.  So the teacher desperately tries to create a new task to keep that student from discovering the truth about teachers.  That truth, by the way, is that teachers--but that's another story.  Let me return to the task at hand.  Obfuscation!

The teacher, determined to continue the process of denying truth to the student, suggests to the student that he, "pursue that talent" "attempt that independent study" "create.." "design.." and pretty soon the student is sidetracked and forgets that he was on the brink of discovering the truth that the teacher--but that's classified information!  Should it slip out, then this book will, in five seconds, (give or take a century) self destruct. (run very quickly away!  Now!)

If you are still here and reading this, I obviously have work to do to scarify you!  By the way, scarify is a legitimate word--and a very convenient sidetrack to finish this page without telling you the real truth about teachers--they are all crazy!  (well, except me)"

"The Man and His Glasses" was, and still is, dedicated to my dad.  This blog, however, is dedicated to Mr. A, for his heroic efforts to recognize my passion, and grow it beyond anyone's control.  Not even my own.  Thank you.

Drug Addicts

Everyone is a drug addict.  Every single person who has ever laid foot on this plane is--and was--a drug addict.  The more knowledgeable and experienced reader may assume that I am about to embark on the well-worn path of brain chemicals related to enjoying ourselves.  I am not.

I am not about to dote over dopamine, get silly over seratonin, or turn nostalgic over norepinephrine.  The world has enough semi-poet's turning the thought of naturally created brain chemicals into romantic drug addictions. 

I will not deny that all humans--including myself--have a subconscious, uninterrupted, and determined desire to feel good.  Some of us fulfill that desire with foreign chemicals, while others simply do things they enjoy.  If thought about long enough, one begins to realize that the majority of human existence has been spent pursuing our addiction to those brain chemicals.  Everything we do--whether intentionally or not--revolves around our desire to feel good. 

At this point it may appear that I have killed my position of not writing about brain chemicals, and if I were the reader, I would assume the same.  But I am not the reader, and I am not done yet. 

If the story stopped here, it would be on a quite pleasant note, would it not?  Most modern brain chemical poetry does.  We romanticize the idea of being a, "drug addict".  And there we stop.  On the very edge.  For if we were to venture one step further we would find ourselves questioning the nature of drug addicts.  We would ponder the physical addiction: the body's need for that special substance--whatever it may be.  And if we had not yet bored ourselves with the biology of the matter, our mind would wander into its own realm. 

There would be a brief moment of confusion, as the mind is not one to fancy examining itself, and then our train of thought would continue.  Within the mind we may find ourselves stumbling across the attitude of drug addicts.  And after we pick ourselves up off the ground to look back at what it is we have stumbled upon, our first reaction may be one of disgust.

Whatever the thing is that our wanderings brought us across, it is certainly not attractive.  But as most know, things that visibly disgust us have a funny way of locking our gaze at least long enough until they have shamelessly burned themselves permanently into our memories.  So we will continue to stare at this object of revolt, and just as our mind has mustered the strength to look away, we may find our eyes withheld by the faintest hint of recognition.  Then, slowly--ever so slowly--the deformities of the object mold their way into a very familiar shape indeed. 

Some may be refilled with horror, some may flash a welcoming grin, and some--if there is any hope for the world--will run in the other direction.  Whatever our reaction, selfishness will continue to lie there in its own filth, patiently waiting out the next chance to strike.

More of Less

“Nothing ever happens to me.”

These are the morbidly honest and depressing words spoken by Dr. John Watson shortly before he has the incredible privilege of meeting—and doing everything with—Sherlock Holmes.

This particular Sherlock scenario falls under the modern version. It is during a counselling session, and through the course of the session it is revealed that Dr. Watson is supposed to be writing a blog about everything which happens to him. He replies with the formerly quoted statement.

Despite its minuteness and flippant delivery, this statement says a great deal about humanity and how our interactions work. I suppose the phrase, “Less is more” suits this situation perfectly, but I find myself hard pressed to use it as I am not one to do what most people would or would not do in certain situations. Nonetheless, it is an undeniable fact that in those five words, there is a great deal more waiting to be unpacked.

For example, there are a great deal of assumptions drawn here by our friend, Dr. Watson. Most of which I believe to be far more true than even he may have realized. When asked to write, Watson responded by saying that nothing ever happens to him. As a writer—and I am sure most authors would agree—this is the most valid reason in the world to refrain from writing. If nothing ever happens to you, what in the bloody hell have you got to write about?

If nothing has happened to you; meaning that you have neither participated in any action beyond surviving, nor have you been effected by the lives of others participating in actions beyond surviving, then any fool can clearly see that you have nothing to write about. Not even the musings of lovable characters on excellent tv shows.

Less is more.

Intelligent Observations of Intelligence.

I like to think of myself as an intelligent person.  Not exceptionally intelligent, for I think to call myself such would be to step into the realm of haughtiness and pride, and that is a realm completely void of any intelligence whatsoever.  Neither would I venture to say genius, for I consider geniuses to be the least likely to call themselves such.  If one is a true genius, would one not be intelligent enough to realize what true genius is, and therefore be far from the notion of their own status falling into such a category?

Nay, I am perfectly content to think of myself as intelligent.  For this infers that--according to the general population--I am level-headed, I am not stupid, and I observe and/or think before I act or speak.  The dictionary defines intelligent as, "someone or something that is bright, informed or shows sound judgment".  I like to think that most of these are qualities which I, as a human being, possess.

Not just myself, mind you.  I like to assume that the greater majority of human beings I interact with on a day to day basis are, more or less, intelligent.  And so for the reader who is assuming that I have set out to write an article which sets my intellect far above that of my peers or fellow man, please know that those are not at all my intentions.

On the contrary, I believe it to be a quality of an intelligent person to rarely--if ever--set out on such a mission, and certainly never intend to do so myself.  As an intelligent person, I like to think of myself as one of many, and abhor the thought of living a life where I constantly look down upon the majority of the people I interact with.

And so I reiterate, dear reader: I do not consider myself to be exceptionally intelligent, genius, or anything of the like.  Simply your average, every day, intelligent being.

So the reader will then understand why I find myself quite conflicted when I hear many of my, "intelligent" friends asking questions like, "Obama or Romney?" when it is a public fact that between the two of them, the candidates have spent an average of six billion dollars on nothing more than their election campaigns.

I've got a bar of soap.

Life plays dirty.  Life doesn't play by the rules.  Life lets you do what you please, and doesn't tell you the consequences until you're smack dab in the middle of them.  Life lets itself happen to you without letting you realize it.

I've been playing with life for the past little while, and I thought I was being quite clever about it.  I thought I had the upper hand.  I thought I knew how to play the game better than life itself.  I forgot that life has been playing the game for a considerably longer time than I. 

The above paragraphs are my attempts as a writer to say in the most clever and metaphorical way possible that I have been learning a very hard lesson of late.  Following those paragraphs one would traditionally have some sort of follow up explanation, carrying the original thought with exquisite grace and ease, letting it float from the page to the reader's mind, and--if the writer is really good--into the depths of the reader's very soul.  I would love to do that, but the honest truth is that I am far out of practice of late. 

My last genuinely entertaining, thoughtful, inspiring piece was written almost two years ago(in my own not-so-humble opinion).  Since that time, I have written when it is convenient or when it fits into my ever-busying schedule.  I have written more poetry than my heart can handle, and I have found that satisfying to an extent.  I have told myself that I am simply growing, and that the writer in me was only a phase.  A moment in time.  An insignificant enjoyable experience. 

The past several months(and my incredibly heart-stoppingly beautiful and inspiring girlfriend) have taught me otherwise. 

I write.  It is something that I do.  I enjoy it more than almost any other activity I have ever done in my life.  It brings me joy.  It brings me peace.  It nourishes my soul.  It is when I feel God's pleasure.  It makes me feel alive.  And I'm damn well good at it. 

And if I am damn well good at something, then any sensible person would say that I should damn well do that something.  And I say that that person is damn well right.

So it has come to pass that I have made a pact with myself--which I will no doubt regret on many occasions--that I am going to write.  Often.  At least once a week to be precise.  Even if my hand feels like a block of wood and my brain like a blob of baloney.  If my mind feels empty and my soul drained--still I will write. 

I will not set out to recapture or relive the glorious moments and feelings of writing in the past--though they were grand moments indeed--for that would be to spin in circles.  I will not write to make myself feel good--though the reader may think that contradicts previous statements--for that would be to serve none but my selfish desires.  I will not write to make others feel good--though I sincerely hope that at least one will enjoy the scribblings of my thoughts--for that would be to allow others to dictate my art.  I will write because I need to write. 

And so, dear reader, it is my sincerest hope that you will join me on this new journey, and that the process may somehow inspire you to set out upon an adventure of your own.  For if there is one thing that life has taught me since I put down the pen, it is this: Our minds were created to travel.

Life plays dirty, but I've got a bar of soap. 

The Hunt

Space is a most peculiar place.  Mostly because a lot of it is just that—space:  A whole lot of not-a-lot.  Granted, it is far more than just nothing, for any fool could glance up on a clear night and tell that there's quite a bit going on up there.  But the problem with it being, “up there” is that we can't really get to it just yet, despite the fact that we'd really, really like to. 

    We'd like to learn a lot about how little of not-a-lot of activity is actually happening in the eerily quiet universe, but so far everywhere we've gone it appears we've been the only ones who've gone there!  This proves one of two things: either we really ARE the only ones looking out into space thinking, “So where're the others?” (which unfortunately may prove us to be absolute lunatics) or that if there are other chaps out there, they really don't seem too concerned with meeting their neighbours.

    Regardless of whether or not there is a lot going on in the not-a-lot around us, there is certainly a lot going on in the tiny little dot we've got called, 'earth'.  At first glance one might say it's a whole lot of nothing, and at second glance—if one is rather intuitive—one might say the exact same thing.  Yet on a third glance—if one is a rare form of intuitive—one might say it appears as though we are doing an awful lot of searching. 

    Like a tumultuous yet well-oiled machine hurtling through the galaxy on a relatively small rock at disconcerting speeds, the human race is seemingly trapped in a perpetual scramble to find something.  The only problem is that we're not really sure what exactly it is we're looking for.  That's not to say we're completely clueless; this thing does have a name, and a select few of us have had glimpses of it from time to time.  It is not so much the question of, 'what' this thing is as it is the elusive content which makes up the very nature of this thing.  We haven't got much of a clue as to how to find or create it, and yet the moment we come across it, we recognize it.  We know it.  It feels oddly familiar and perfect, and somehow we know in the deepest recesses of our search-weary souls that it is exactly what we need.  Even if it lasts no more than a few seconds, that recognition and experience is enough. 

    We are hooked.  Mesmerized.  Breathless.  Addicted.

    Our entire being screams at us that, “That” was what we've been looking for, and that it's all we need, and we need to spend the rest of our lives dedicated to finding that. 

    And so we do.  We stretch and strain and scramble and scream and shoot and shout and sip and slop and slap and scribble and serenade and sniffle and sing our hearts to shreds as we desperately seek out the fleeting feeling so many have come to know as, “love”.

    We are destitute.  We are distraught.  We are banking our entire existence on finding that which we know little to nothing about.  We have paradoxically fallen in love with the pursuit of love.  Some of us kill for it.  Some steal for it.  Some give all they own for it.  Others think to have found it, and proclaim so to the rest of us in hopes that some will agree and validate their ridiculous theories.  Some find it in others.  Some find it in money.  Some find it in themselves. 

    Four letters, and an unfathomable cavalcade of implications.  We see others experiencing it.  We remember the times we've felt it.  We long for times to feel it again.  We believe in it.  We wish it was alive and searching for us as hard as we are.  He is.

Love Stoops

This is a book report I had to write for class here at YWAM. Enjoy!
******

Love stoops. Yet even out of the deepest pits of love in my heart I can't bring myself to write an analytical report on this book. I will not for a second deny that Ian Morgan Cron more than captivated me with his sacred and beautifully emotional life story—but that's the problem.

When I began reading, “Jesus, My Father, the CIA, And Me” I took notes like my life depended on it. I read the first few chapters like I was back in grade ten and eleven reading, “Life of Pi” and, “To Kill a Mockingbird”, analyzing and criticizing every single sentence structure until I had exhausted the very nature of the words themselves. I dug for metaphors, clawed at simile's, and nearly cried out in frustration as I tried to find some sort of literary divination hidden in the cleverly written words and phrases of this book.

High school trained me well. By the time I arrived at chapter three I was so exhausted with reading the book that I literally dreaded picking it up for fear of causing myself a brain aneurysm. I did what God is patiently teaching me to do every single time I reach a situation like this; I prayed about it. I had hardly even begun praying when God reminded me what books were created for.

Reading.

I sat down with, “Jesus, My Father, the CIA, and Me”, and I read it. Suddenly, I had finished a chapter. So I read some more. Twenty minutes later, I had finished three chapters of the book, and I had to force myself to put it down so I could make some sort of notes on what I had just devoured.

By the end of the book I realized that Ian put absolutely no effort into making this book a best-selling, multi-layered novel. He simply poured out his life's story with an exceptionally trained writing hand, and I'd be lying if I said God didn't speak to me through Ian.

My mother grew up with an alcoholic father, and so I have heard the horror stories of that childhood multiple times. I haven't been indulged in them until now. The first way God spoke to me through Ian was a way that He has been speaking to me for several months now. God reminded me how blessed I am.

As a teenager, I don't think even the greatest of memories can recall how many times I hated my parents. My parents were the manifestations of the devil himself, and their sole purpose in life was to make mine miserable. They made rules, they set curfews, and they—in retrospect—gave me their car a lot more than I deserved. I remember nights when my mother and I would argue over the finest details and specifics of why I wasn't allowed to go to my friend's house on Friday night, and by the time we were done it was Saturday morning anyway.

But my parents loved me—and still do, thankfully—and if I could see that teenage version of myself with the eyes God has given me now, I'm pretty sure I would create a rupture in the space-time continuum by beating myself to death to try and knock some sense into what I sometimes call, 'the idiotic Isaac'. Thankfully one of the virtues of love is patience and self-control, and my father is blessed with both.

I can tell millions of stories about my parents when I was growing up, and all of them bring a smile to my face and warm my heart! I was—and am—supremely blessed with parents who love me so passionately that I won't understand it until I have children of my own! Reading about Ian's roller-coaster of a childhood only added to the understanding which God is creating in me; I am blessed beyond belief without absolutely amazing parents whom I love and cherish.

Which brings us to the second way God spoke to me through Ian; love stoops. When I read the chapter about Ian's first encounter with Jesus Christ, I was in tears.

Every kid who has grown up in church knows the crucifixion story backwards and forwards and inside and out. Sometimes I wonder if this is a good thing due to the numbing effect it has on our comprehension of how incredible the crucifixion actually is, but then God reminds me He's God and He'll worry about that. And God made it evident to me that He does handle that through Ian's encounter with Jesus.

Jesus stooped to the lowest of the low to die on the cross, and I know that in my head, but my heart has been so desensitized to sacrifice and love by hollywood, that it took Ian's testimony for me to get perspective on what Jesus experienced.

Jesus Christ apologized to Ian Morgan Cron. WHAT?! God doesn't need to apologize to anyone for anything! We don't deserve that at all! God has absolutely nothing to apologize for! He is perfect and unblemished! He has done no wrong! You can't apologize for being perfect! But from the same unfathomable love and compassion that drove Jesus to the cross, came a personal apology from Jesus Christ to Ian for all the hurt and pain that Ian had to suffer in his life. Wow. When I read that, something clicked in my head, and I had to put my book down and spend several moments in prayer to God praising Him and thanking Him for this crazy love!

If love stoops, and we are to love our brothers because Christ first loved us, I've got some stooping to do.

God spoke to me in many, many other ways through Ian's story, but the one that sticks out the most and will not leave my head, is the sacredness of Ian's story. Out of that, I understand the sacredness of everyone's story.

I was completely and honestly prepared to sit down and analyze Ian's book like it was as fictional as the green unicorns that interrupt my train of thought every now and then, but God slapped me across the face—lovingly of course. Ian's story is not just a story. That book contains a very honest recounting of his life! It's sacred! “Jesus, My Father, The CIA, And Me” is not written for our entertainment and enjoyment! I can only imagine the numerous times Ian may have stained the pages with tears as he penned the first manuscript. Sure, some of those memories are pleasant and lovely, but some of them are horrid and awful! But they are Ian's, and because Ian is a real-live human being, that makes them sacred.

I'm not going to give a brief summary of Ian's book, because that's identical to trying to make a brief summary of Ian's life. In my eyes, that is disrespectful. How would you feel if someone told you they could summarize your life-story—and only the important moments at that—on a three page book report?

Ian took roughly two-hundred and fifty pages to share some very sacred, significant, and delicate memories of his past, and I won't dishonour that by quickly brushing over them as if they hardly matter. They do.

Just as Ian's story is sacred, everyone's story is sacred. Almost every time I have heard someone's testimony, I have thought two things: “Cool” or, “Boring”. People's stories aren't boring. They may have boring moments, but they also have funny moments, sad moments, horrible moments, beautiful moments, scary moments, happy moments, goofy moments, loving moments, hateful moments, caring moments, and every other moment the human brain can comprehend. Through Ian's story, God has taught me the sacredness, and the honour that every single one of every single human being's stories deserves. My prayer is that He keeps that revelation ever-present in my life. The end.