A Lifetime of Adventure

When I opened my eyes, the cow looked nearly as surprised as I was. She stared down at me with a look of bovine puzzlement before leaning down to lick my frazzled hair. I escaped the slimy tongue and climbed shakily to my feet, inspecting the red mark on my elbow. The last thing I remembered was climbing up the cabinets and hot water heaters to the cubby I had found, where chickens and cats liked to hide their young. A live wire came out of the wall near where I climbed, feeding power to the electric fence. I had touched it with my arm and the jolt knocked me off my perch and across the aisle.

I sighed in disappointment. I didn’t even get a cool new scar.

Now, almost twenty years after that adventure, my younger sister said something that I would like to repeat here.

“In the last twenty odd years, we’ve had more adventures than most people have in a lifetime. Sometimes I look back and wonder how we got out alive.”

I sometimes wonder that too. Growing up on a farm was an endless series of adventures and we all left more than our fair share of blood and hide behind. With all the hours we spent romping through the woods and fields and playing with animals and machinery, it’s a wonder we didn’t make it out with more scars than we did.

One of my most memorable adventures actually never happened, though if it did, history would be quite a bit different for all of us. I have no idea how the battles of World War Two spilled onto my farm in rural Pennsylvania, but one night it did. I had defended my barn against all comers, from barbarians to aliens, and the German invaders were no different. Bullets snapped and pinged off of the concrete walls as I ducked into a machine gun nest and returned fire. The battle lasted for hours, until charred husks of tanks and planes littered the ground beyond the walls of my farmyard fortress. I was winning too, until the Germans unleashed their secret weapons

The sight sent me bolt upright in my bed, with cold sweat pouring down my face as I grabbed for my non existent weapons. Let me tell you, a mechanized T-Rex with rockets and cannons snaps you out of a dream quicker than just about anything.

Expecting Murphy

Two things happen every time someone tells me to expect the unexpected. First, I have an overwhelming urge to get a gorilla costume and hide in said person’s closet. Second, I spend the entire day looking over my shoulder with a nervous look on my face. One time I was taking a walk and someone thought I was being chased by a bear. I expected a bear, but I was worried about Sasquatches, because no one expects to be chased by a hungry Bigfoot. Later, because I was expecting a Sasquatch, an angry stump nearly killed me. By the time I realized it was a tree and not a bear, it had already gnawed five years off my life and sent my heart on a tap-dancing tour across my lungs. Apparently this happens to outdoorsmen a lot and is probably why people decided it’s safer to stay on the couch. It’s hard to stumps to sneak up on you in your living room. They can’t open doors.

Expect the unexpected. Most of the time I think this is a variant of Murphy’s Law: Everything that can go wrong will go wrong. My wife counters this with another phrase. Prepare for the worst but hope for the best, which is a pretty stark contrast to my preferred method of giving Murphy a four-leaf clover as a peace offering. I like the hope for the best part, but when you have an imagination like me, you will usually be prepared for the wrong worst.

Situation # 1: I plan a trip to my grandparent’s cottage in Maine. Since alien invasions and sea monsters can’t really be prepared for, I decide to take it simple and pack for thunderstorms and power outages. Candles, flashlights, batteries, bottled water, non perishable foods, everything I would need to enjoy a vacation without access to electricity. By the time everything is packed and I’m on the road, I’ve forgotten my wallet and my cats have bought 2,000 toy mice with my credit card.

Situation # 2: I have always wanted to go bear hunting. I already own all the big game hunting equipment I need, so I go out to the store to purchase a license. As I drive, I remember that bears have teeth and claws. Big ones. I can’t outrun a bear, I have a bad knee. Deciding that the best way to avoid a bad hunt is to not hunt, I use the money to buy a pizza and head back to my couch and notebook. When I get home, a bear scares me back into my car and eats my bird feeder. Murphy is mean.

Aliens, Imagination, and Never-Never Land

A dear friend of mine was recently told to grow up, to leave Never-never Land and to come into the real world. I was instantly indignant. If they were in Never-never land, why didn’t they visit me? I’ve been living in Never-never Land for years!

Somewhere in those strange teenage years between twelve and twenty three, people lose interest in games, stories, and imaginary adventures. Instead, they start doing sports, going on dates, working jobs, and going to college, all the while leaving their imaginations behind. They leave Never-never Land, usually for good. I say, booorriiiinnng! I think aliens must sneak into their bedrooms at night to catch stray imaginations, kind of like a fisherman tossing a bait and line into a pond.

Maybe it happens a little like this.

One summer night, two aliens, Glorp and his son Ned, park their spaceship outside the window of my thirteen year old self. The night is perfect for fishing, with a sky full of stars and the air warm enough for my window to be standing open. The frogs and toads singing in the nearby pond cover the sound as Glorp opens the screen. It’s Ned’s first fishing trip and he’s so excited that he almost knocks his father off the window sill as they climb inside.

“Ugh,” says Ned. “It’s so hair and weird looking!”

“That’s a dog,” Glorp says with a yawn, still tired from being woken up for such an early trip. “The human is the pink one.”

“Ugh, he’s even weirder looking!”

“Shh!” Glorp warns as he takes out his tackle box and pole. He pulls out a hook and stares at the line, trying to remember how to tie a fisherman’s knot. “Your mother wants me to mow the asteroid today, so if you want to learn how to catch imaginations, this is your only chance. If you spook him, you’ll have to wait until next weekend.”

“Can I hold the line dad?” Ned asks as Glorp baits the hook and drops it into a likely part of my head. Glorp relents and the little alien rubs his green fingered hands together in glee. His enormous eyes grow even bigger as he takes the pole and feels a sharp tug on the fishing wire. “I’ve got a bite! I’ve got a bite! What do I do?”

“Reel it in gently N – “ Glorp is cut off as the overexcited Ned gives a mighty tug, whipping the piece of grey matter through the air, where it lands with a splat on his father’s head.

“I caught it, I caught it!” cries Ned as Glorp unhooks their prize and stuffs it in a cooler.

“Good job son,” he says, putting an arm around Ned’s shoulders as they return to their spaceship. “Now, how would you like to learn to drive an asteroid mower?”

I don’t know what kind of bait they used, but my imagination didn’t bite. I think they took the part of my brain that understood algebra instead. Thankfully, the little shreds that the aliens leave behind can be regrown, though I’ve never quite figured out how to regrow what I need to understand algebra.

Imaginations on the other hand, are relatively easy to regrow. My favorite method is to sneak up behind the subject and shout “Boo!” thus restarting the imagination through sheer shock. You do however run the risk of stopping and restarting several of the subject’s other organs at the same time. Depending  on their temperament, you may put a few of your own organs at risk too.

Now, since my imagination is fully intact, no scares needed thank you, so I’ll be in my office (blanket fort) with a good cup of coffee (hot cocoa), working on a very important essay (ridiculous story about a dream I had once).

Inspiration

If you are looking for Inspiration, I think he’s at the blog next door. I spent long hours chasing him the other day, and I almost caught him, but Writer’s Block jumped out from behind a dumpster and stole my wallet. He also hit me over the head with a lethal cocktail of distraction and Youtube.

Even without help, Inspiration is a tricky little monster. Almost as tricky as his cousin Ridiculousness. One of Ridiculousness’s favorite games is to dress up as Inspiration and lead me on a wild goose chase, gobbling up my paper and drinking all my ink. He’s everywhere too, and shows up in lots of places at the same time, which is one heck of a superpower if you ask me. Everyone is a little ridiculous sometimes, some people more than others as my wife is so fond of reminding me any time I try to sing along with Arch Enemy.

I think Ridiculousness might have an evil twin too. Sometimes he’s just funny, spreading mirth and laughter wherever he goes. A few minutes later I see him leading an outraged mob waving phones and social media posts. The twin thing would certainly explain why he can be in two places at once. I think I’ll call them Funny Ridiculousness and Scary Ridiculousness. If they invite Inspiration along and I can keep them away from other people, they are actually pretty helpful. When they are alone and running rampant it’s another story. If you get lucky though, you can sometimes nab Inspiration as he sneaks back in to watch the chaos. Then you can turn Ridiculousness on his head and turn his trouble into something good, at least until Inspiration pulls the fire alarm and jumps out the window.

An open letter (kind of)

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything that wasn’t fiction, and almost as long since I’ve posted anything on this blog. I would have put this into a story I think, but I don’t have the time or the spark to write what would amount to a broken dialogue.

For the first time in my life, I’ve found a church that believes that God still moves as he did in the early church. Or, I’ve found a church that acts upon this belief, welcoming the broken with open arms and fully offering the love of God and the renewal of the Holy Spirit, believing that God can and will heal both body and spirit, making his children anew. Less than ten hours before this writing, God used a Pastor I had never met, never spoken to, as a mouthpiece, laying bare my fears, doubts and pain and binding them with prayer as a physician binds a wound. His hands on my shoulders, this man of God’s prayers touched scars that I’ve never told anyone about… and what’s more, told me for the first time that God truly loves me and that his love holds no requirements. He told me that, in spite of the flawed followers of Christ that so bitterly wounded me in the past, the church would be a part of the restoration of my soul. Not the same people in the sames buildings, but this little piece of the Body here in New England. The wounds are still here, the pain and the loss of trust. Yet for the first time, the guilt is gone, replaced by the realization that a thousand small scars can be just as damaging as one great one. Where the wounds come from doesn’t matter, the God of healing love wants to restore each and every one of his children.

Such a different face than the God I had always seen in the eyes and actions of the people around me before. So much like the God of the pharisees, the God of Law and Wrath. I’m sure this wasn’t the intention, at least not always, but love and acceptance became something to be earned. They became something that I could never quite seem to attain.

Maybe to understand this, you should know a little bit more about me. First off, I’m a writer, and writers are notoriously odd creatures, often seeing the world in a different light than those around them. Pain is remarkably easy for me to see and the moment I see it, it becomes a part of me as well. This powerful sense of empathy is hard to describe and harder to understand if you’ve never felt it. I’m sure there’s a great many that would scoff at this notion, but I assure you that it’s real. This empathy alone can be isolating, for no matter how easy it is for me to relate to others, those that can relate to me just as well are few and far between. I don’t mean a casual rapport, but a true friend that understands the depths and breadth of my dreams and passions.

Add a voracious thirst for stories, books and, gasp, video games, as well as a love for, double gasp, heavy metal music and magic tricks, to my innate empathy and you’ve got quite a character. According to several churches, employers, coworkers, classmates and professors, quite a dubious character. In the rare times I’ve opened up fully in the past few years, I can’t help but remember the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, a sonic masterpiece filled with sorrow and fury. I’ll only subject you to two lines:

Every time I try to open up my heart, I’m ridiculed and torn apart

And

There’s something inside me that I know is good, I’m not evil, just misunderstood

There’s at least one church that would have kicked me out, irony and all, if I dared to play that song openly. Oddly enough the singer professes her own faith, though the band itself may not.

On a similar but different note, I was once handed a test designed to, ahem, gauge the quality of your faith. I only remember one question, the question that failed me. Do you hear God in a thunderstorm or in a gentle drizzle. Both wasn’t a choice, I asked.

None of the attitudes I saw seemed to match the Christ I read about in my Bible. From the young woman excommunicated for a pregnancy, to the girl ridiculed and shamed for depression and doubt, to the young man ostracized for having tattoos, two different congregations, I began to lose my faith in the love and goodness of the God we claimed to serve. College and work were little better and I quickly fell into a depression that still hides in the darkest corners of my mind today. I came within one argument of leaving my faith behind. If this was the church and the face of God, I wanted no part of either.

My faith shaken and my trust and self esteem shattered, I found myself in New England. There’s a joke, it’s not funny, that New England is cold and dark and it’s not because of the weather. I guess God likes irony as much as I do, because it took moving to New England for this particular writer to find a warm, safe, caring home. It’s taken nearly three years, but it seems my scars are finally beginning to close.

This has been rambling and disjointed I’m sure, but it may well be the closest thing to a testimony that I’ll ever write. That hasn’t been hidden in a fictional character at least.