48…49…50!

It was a moment of elation recently when I did my 50th burpee in a row. Putting off the need to do any sort of physical exercise had taken its toll and I was working at something physical to counteract the measure.

The interesting part is 50 was the rep number for my warmup as a martial-artist when I was younger:

50 burpees, 50 push-ups, 50 sit-ups.

It was an easy baseline to keep because it was consistent.

And now, it’s taking a lot longer to work back up to the baseline I once had for myself.

As the laws of physics remind us, an object in motion is easier to move than one that is at a standstill. The challenge is getting that object in motion in the first place and then, the hard part, keeping it in motion until there is no force to stop it.

Because once it stops, it takes a lot of effort to get it going again.

And that effort only increases as we get older.

I was the slowest eater growing up.

My mother threatened to record a tape of herself yelling “Mangia!” (eat) on loop for an hour and just have it running every time I sat at the table.

My dad would joke that I should start breakfast the night before so I would finish at the same time as everyone else in the morning.

It took me forever, but I did eat. It was slow… painfully slow… but the food eventually disappeared. This would continue until the illustrious time of puberty when a plate of food couldn’t be inhaled fast enough.

And now, I have to force myself to slow down.
Pay attention.
Join the conversation at the table.
Take my food one bite at a time while being present to the world around my plate.

It seems the slow pace of life I had as a child is really the life I long to bring back as an adult. One bite at a time, I suppose I could.

“My my Vito. You’re very industrious.”

It was the comment from my roommate during my graduate degree as I came back from the weekend and saw the sink piled up with plates. They were stacked high, almost falling over and I realized they will probably be left there for another day.

Putting my bags down, I went to work right away at clearing out the sink, eliciting the comment and amusing the people who knew me in my early twenties:

Consummate procrastinator, full of excuses and never willing to just do the work. Big dreams full of shortcuts that never pan out.

That kitchen sink was my kitchen sink at one point.

The issue is I had run out of excuses and time was not moving any slower. I had to do the work because there was no other choice. That particular year was a busy one with me living in two cities, working on the weekends, school during the week, teaching twice a week and planning a wedding.

And yet, I still managed to finish my thesis ahead of schedule, with plenty of time to enjoy a summer trip with my fiancée.
(Side note: You know what’s harder than writing a thesis? Everything.)

It took many years to get to that point (and another decade after that for it to really settle in) where you realize how you do one thing is how you do everything.

Outcomes in life are based on attitudes and actions.

It may not be the outcome you want, but it will be the one that represents who you are.

You listen because you don’t have anything to say.

You speak because you like hearing yourself.

You speak because you think you have something important to say.

You speak because you think other people care what you have to say.

You speak up when you actually have something to say.

You only speak when prompted.

You stop speaking because people aren’t listening.

You stop listening because you’ve heard it all before.

It starts with the recognition of joy in your own heart. This involves learning to look past the misery others want to drag you into and rising above the level of immaturity of the culture around you.

True joy is not a feeling to be chased, but a way of being in the world. It’s not miring yourself in the minutia of petty daily nuisance, but appreciating all of what life has to offer.

It’s also a bigger vision of the world.

In fact, it’s a vision that extends beyond this world. It’s a vision that extends into deep time and putting yourself into the river of cosmic history—we are merely at one point in a 13.8 billion year history.

It’s a vision that is hard earned when the passage of time you have here on Earth comes frighteningly close to its end.

Once you see it, you recognize how foolish we must look at items we consider to be issues.

You recognize the joy in each moment.

And then you can’t help but pass that along to others.

There was a world where only those given permission by a self-proclaimed monarch with divine rights were allowed to rise and be noticed.

As civilizations morphed, fell and formed again, the one granting permission changed forms. There were emperors, lords, rulers, military leaders, nation leaders, government officials, professors, CEOs, agents, directors and now, social media influencers.

Although there is still the lingering of the past embedded in our consciousness, willfully giving power over to those we deem necessary to impress for our own validation, the story has changed.

The illusion is disappearing.

The only validation we need is the one that comes from within.

All we need to do now is give ourselves permission to accept that, then push ourselves to move forward.

One day, people will discover I am not a real writer.

They’ll discover I’m not a good teacher…

or speaker.

It’s also the same day my kids discover I don’t know what I’m doing as a parent and I’ve been making it up as I go along. Doing my best.

One day, somebody will find footage from my old shows and discover I wasn’t a real magician.

And then, people will know my entire life has been nothing more than a façade.

But—

they haven’t found out yet.

So I’ll keep the illusion going, the imposter that I am, and hope I make it to the end without anybody finding out.

Sitting down on the pillowed chair, supported by a solid wood frame that is painted black and purchased from the surplus warehouse, the house is quiet for a moment. The curtains are shut and there are only a few lights on; dimmed just enough to see. In front of me is a blue journal with the matching ribbon sticking out of its pages to indicate the blank page that will stare me down this morning.

Sleep is still in my eyes and the brain is foggy. It’s barely 6am, but my daughter is happily enjoying a glass of warm milk while watching cartoons. She will be appeased for the next fifteen to twenty minutes until her stomach hangers for breakfast.

Beside the book is a fresh cup of coffee, cooling just enough to take a few sips and get my system working. A grey canister pen, specially ordered from Japan with accompanying refills, makes its way into my fingers.

The book opens to the blank page and before the resistance every writer faces to shutdown at seeing such an empty canvas, I put the date at the top and immediately write:

“How am I going to be a better person today than yesterday?”

Then it’s time to be honest and see where the first thoughts of the morning take me. All the lingering threads of yesterday flow through the ink and onto the page. My hand works hard to keep up with my mind, but since it cannot, some thoughts disappear and my brain is forced to hold on to others. It’s getting a morning workout in focus.

Thoughts flow, the pen writes, the paper fills and the coffee cup empties.

At the end of the page, I offer up a simple prayer.

I click the pen shut, close the book and drain the last few sips from the mug. Suddenly, my disgruntled morning has transformed into an energizing part of my day.

It’s time to open the curtains to the world and make some breakfast.

Few people know the background as to why I got into teaching. It’s something I rarely talk about and almost feel embarrassed by it because… well… I still question it.

It was evening and my mother was driving me home from a karate lesson. Sitting quietly in the front seat of her blue Ford Tempo, mindlessly looking out the window of the houses streaming by with the street lights pouring down, something strange happened:

I heard a voice echo in my mind that I need to teach Religion.

It threw me off guard and I was confused.

Sure, my mom was a very religious person and we had “our pew” every week at Church, but many of my Sunday mornings involved me borrowing the car to attend Mass, then skipping to eat breakfast with my friends.

We all feel a calling to something at some point, but I was a clueless teenager. What the hell did I know?

First, I had no desire to teach. My goal was to leave high school and get as far away from it as possible.

Second, I was good with computers and there was a better future in it. Almost everyone recognized that in me at the time.

So, I did the only logical thing a person could do and completely ignored it. Ran as from it as possible. Chalked it up to some kind of mental psychosis. Jumped headfirst into computers.

Hated it.

By what seemed like divine providence, all the stars lined up for me to spend a year doing missionary work. I was far from the ideal Catholic, but the opportunity to see my own country seemed too great to pass up.

A memorable experience… for many reasons. Not all good.

Came back with the certainty that I shouldn’t be pursuing a career in computers.

Jumped headfirst into videogame programming.

Hated it.

Decided to spend time revisiting that ‘call’ I received as a teenager. I couldn’t shake it off, but I seriously doubted it was real. However, the idea of studying Theology seemed to give me peace and I checked into Universities who would accept me with my lack of high school university credits and experience in college.

Only one did.

Moved to Ottawa. Fell in love with the city. Fell in love with the school. Discovered in my first year there was a working agreement with the local teacher’s college that graduates from the Theology program had a guaranteed seat there. It almost felt like I was being pushed along a path.

And here I am.

But, every year I question whether I’m actually sane. Life has worked out really well and I wouldn’t trade where I am for anything… but the entire seed that started this was due to a moment that I still chalk up to a hallucination.

You’d think being a graduate and lifelong student of Religion and Theology, I would be convinced that was a moment of God. However, it’s because of my formal training I am more skeptical about it now than as a teenager. I’ve read countless essays and papers on the neuroscience of hearing voices to see if there’s some explanation… but the decades between the moment and now make it harder to scrutinize.

And yet, it still feels right.

Then I look out into the world and see the exponential rise in mental health issues among young people, the complete isolation people have been feeling (even before covid) and the existential cries for some kind of meaning and think–maybe there’s a bigger classroom to teach.

All this from a moment that I don’t think was real.

Like I said, it’s embarrassing.

Not so much a law, but an idea for writers as suggested by Kate Wilhelm:

Throw away your first three ideas.

The first is low-hanging fruit that anybody can figure out (or already know). The second is something still a little obvious. The third is something few can figure out… but the fourth… that’s the gem you need to dig up.

It’s this law of writing that plays out in the back of my head every time I sit down to the keyboard. Whether I’m writing on this site, gathering my thoughts for the day, my journal in the morning or even a simple tweet, I’m always asking how hard I’ve had to dig to get at it.

The harder the dig, the more honest the writing and subsequently, the more vulnerability that is shared.

We can all engage on the surface (small talk) and while it has its uses, it’s not where the conversation needs to be. I try to get there, but sometimes, there are places I fear to tread.

Perhaps that’s why Wilhelm’s law is such a powerful idea–it forces you to come to terms with yourself.