Are you looking through a peephole?

“You’ve got to help James.” Is what I heard from a mom and sister last summer.

“I’m intrigued. What’s going on?”

“He’s not doing anything. He’s picking schools because of other people. He has no plan, and he’s just not doing anything.” Sister’s voice is tinged in annoyance and disgust. I mean really, why can’t he just get it together, her tone conveys.

“O.k., we’ll sort him out; send him to me.” I reply.

James was cajoled, bribed, or threatened; I know not which but eventually, he arrived to me. All he knew in the way of direction was that he liked math. That was it.

We completed his Assessments and I produced a list of colleges that would be a good fit for him – ranging in selectivity, so he had a range of possibilities; but each would be a good fit for him in its own way.

James took his list and went on his way. “How is James doing?” I inquired. “Nothing is happening.” Mom replied.

“Send him back to me”.

Now, we sat down together and did virtual tours of the schools on the list. I explained why I thought each would be a good fit for him, what they offered and how the school related to his personality type, skills and interests. James provided his feedback, and from there we got a manageable list of 8-10 schools for him to apply.

James really really liked one school in particular. He liked it so much he asked his parents to take him to see it.

Now, this is a big deal because prior to this, James was only looking at schools in his backyard. This school was 5 hours away. Up until this point, he hadn’t considered this school or even knew it existed.

His parents, sensing his interest, took him on the 5-hour drive to visit the school, and guess what? James loved the school. It became his # 1 choice.

James developed his own ranking system, a chart on his wall, with little notes to help him remember why one scored high or low. One prestigious university near him had a garbage can notation on it. (This is a very personalized process).

Fast forward a few months and applications, James got into his # 1 choice and got scholarship money to make it a real possibility.

Here’s the thing:

We all get comfortable in our self-created little worlds. We build them, we construct them, and we convince ourselves that we know all we need to know. Knowing that we don’t know things is an uncomfortable feeling. It’s like standing in your well-appointed apartment, looking out the peephole and thinking, everything is right in your world, that you know everything. You don’t.

Sometimes, you give yourself the nudge to ask for help, or to look for information beyond what you can see. Sometimes the universe or another person pushes you to. But ultimately, it’s up to each of us to always be looking for what we can’t see on the other side of the peephole, to not be afraid to look and to ask others for help when we can.

I don’t know how it will work out for James, but I do know, even now, his world is broader and richer merely by knowing something exists that he didn’t know before. How can that not be a good thing?

Living in a Polarized World?

We went for a hike on Saturday. We go every weekend. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. We are, well, at least two of us are – destination hikers. We hike for the reward at the end, which is snacks and drinks of some kind. (It changes depending on the season – ohhh a seasonal menu! Who new hiking could entail such delights.)

Strangely, our hiking spots are situated in close proximity to biker bars. Not cycling bars, because let’s face it, there is no such thing. What would they serve, wheat grass and almonds? No, these are Harley Davidson biker bars. The real kind.

We hike in different areas, not near to each to other, but both start and stop with biker bars. Serendipity, it would appear.

One spot in particular is a combination though. Combination biker bar, horse bar, hiker bar, mountain biker bar. If you were designing a bar for desired demographics, this would be a tough one to conceive of. I’m not sure which group was by accident. The horses, mountain bikers and hikers all use the park, and the bikers just like the bar, so who knows.

And yet, I hear constantly by the media that we’re living in a divided country. We’re polarized beyond belief and comprehension with no way forward or out of our current condition. Our only choice it seems, is to wallow in it, and talk about it continuously on TV, 24 hours a day.

And I suppose it’s true that if you asked these groups their particular political party, you’d get very different answers among them. (I secretly suspect the political parties themselves are responsible for the polarization, because it ensures their survival, but I digress). But I also think if you were to ask people in general their views on any issue, there would be lots of disagreement. It’s human nature to hold differing thoughts and ideas.

So, it stands to reason that the bikers, horse people, mountain bikers and hikers probably belong to different political parties and that they don’t share common political thoughts on policy or ideology.

I’d even suppose that the only common thoughts they share is they like being outdoors, they like food and drink and they like the company of other human beings. That’s probably where the commonality ends. And yet, there we all are, together, in our deeply polarized world.

The biker clubs, 2 or 3 tables full, all decked in leather with their club patches. The women with their fashion touches – a splash of bright color, and silver jewelry popping in the sunlight.

The horse people – 3 generations riding together – grandma, mom, and young daughters. Braids, flannel shirts and Wellington boots, are all they need.

The hikers with their wool hats, waterproof jackets and designer boots, all tucked in and organized, hiking in pairs or with friends.

And lastly, the renegades. The mountain bikers. Covered in mud, always outside, because they’re too dirty to go in, always underdressed for the weather, impervious to the cold. A mess really, but truth be told, the happiest group among them all. They’re there by themselves, in couples, families, friends – whoever’s dumb enough to do what they do, is welcome. And if it’s just they dumb enough – well, they love their own company just as well.

And then there’s the waitstaff. Floating through this maze of cliques. Treating them all the same. Appreciating or at least making a gallant effort to appreciate each group’s ethos, and what they care about. Serving them Orange Crushes, honey fried chicken sandwiches and nachos. (One of the benefits of demanding outdoor activity, btw, is you get to reward yourself with a lot of calories. Hence the destination hiking).

Often the groups interact, exchanging pleasantries - comments on the trails, conditions or equipment. The group that gets the most love are the horse people. They have the best equipment. And they’re tied to the hitching posts (the horses, not the people) by the bar, so everyone gets to see them, and the horses are part of the community too. Usually, we’ve seen them out on the trails early, or at least their poop anyway.

The bikers’ equipment gets a lot of love as well. All the chrome and bright paint jobs lined up in formation outside with such pride. They are a beautiful spectacle to behold, each one unique. No one takes better care of their equipment than the bikers and horse people.

The mountain bikers? Yeah, not so much. I mean they may have great equipment; they probably do. But who would know? It’s covered in mud. They are covered in mud; their bikes are covered in mud. Did I mention they are the happiest of the lot? Correlation? Hmmm….

No one cares about the hikers’ equipment. They really don’t have any, and what they do have isn’t interesting.

And so, it goes until it’s time to go. The horse people mount up and ride off. The bikers all collecting together, rev their engines to signal their departure. The hikers hobble back to their cars. And the mountain bikers load up their piles of mud into the bed of their pickup truck, leaving half the mud in their wake.

All back to wherever and whatever they do, until we meet back again next week. The waiters will be waiting. What a polarized world.

Happy Birthday!

It was my friend’s birthday the other day. He’s getting “up there” as the saying goes, and while he seemed to have a good day, he wasn’t exactly shall we say, thrilled about the whole affair. How do you feel about your birthday?

For a kid, it’s easy and clear, it’s like a mini - Christmas with the celebration and presents. Very straightforward, no one is going to object to that. It’s only the size and contents of mini-Christmas that matter to a kid. Was the celebration large enough? Were you allowed to invite all your friends and have it where you wanted, or did your Mom do something dumb like make it just family and combo it with your little cousin? Did you get the phone you wanted or did you get a bike instead? Another dumb Mom move.

So, yes, there could be some misfires here and there, but certainly every kid looks forward to their birthday with the hope of a mini-Christmas. Whether their mother misses the boat is another matter.

But somewhere along the line it shifts. I imagine it starts in your teens when it’s no longer cool for your parents to host a party for you. Then your 20’s your friends are responsible for the celebration (with mixed success), and then it kind of fizzles out altogether - except for the obligatory milestones all featuring black as the primary color.

And then we get into this weird relationship with the birthday. You know social decorum requires you to act like you like it, but really you resent it. Some people do a better job of faking it than others.

My dad is one of those who’s not great at faking it. Although he likes a nice orange sponge cake (his usual birthday request for the resident baker) and he likes the cards and the sentiments, he’ll slip into a bit of a funk every year. I say “a bit” because my dad is a committed happy-go-lucky guy. His go-to song lyrics are “you’ve got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, don’t mess with Mr. in-between.”

That’s probably why I noticed his reaction so acutely. It was out of character and threw the equilibrium of the house off. Then it would pass. I think he didn't like the whole higher number thing. If you notice the number at all and let’s face it, you’d have to be dead not to - you could view each birthday as a step on the ladder to the sky or the ladder down into the dirty, depending on your orientation.

It’s more of an escalator, rather than a ladder though - it moves you along whether you like it or not. I suppose that’s what he objects to. The forced part. Now, we all know that we could get hit by a bus tomorrow and it would all be over, so even the idea of the escalator is a fiction - somehow, we’re entitled to 90 steps, which of course, we’re not. But even so, we resent the escalator, pushing us along.

We should stop it. Stop the stop the escalator. But where? Where’s the best place to stop it? Our 20’s? God, no. How dumb were we then? 30’s? Still dumb. 40’s? Frazzled and gaining weight. 50’s? Straight up losing the mind, starting to sag and still gaining weight. No, none of those will do.

And so, it marches on. And every year the little reminder. Just in case we’re getting complacent, too comfortable, too entitled. Happy Birthday! Oh yeah, that. The alarm clock went off again in the middle of the night and scared the shit out of me. For whom the bell tolls.

Isn’t it a celebration of the miracle of life? You ask? But then come the inevitable questions. How did I get here? Why am I here? Am I making the most of it? After all, that escalator is still moving….

Maybe this is the day we allow ourselves go deep. Maybe it should be existential day. Maybe Happy is a suggestion. Look on the bright side, you’re still here, kind of thing. Want some cake? I think I’ve lost my appetite.