Is it quitting time?

So I'm watching this show where there's an interview with a man I only knew as an actor. Turns out he's actually a singer and songwriter too. I was impressed and admired him all the more. He isn't an 'A-Lister' so to speak, but I always thought he had a strong screen presence about him. At the end of the short (and poorly conducted) interview, it is announced that the singer/songwriter will perform a song after the break. 'What a treat,' I thought.

I thought wrong. So very wrong.

It was painful to listen to. My heart hurt for him. He may have just been having an off night, but the sour performance, complete with missed notes on his solo acoustic guitar, made me think about how we sometimes hold on to who or what we were long past the prime. For some, it might be a sport they use to play exceedingly well. For others, like my friend on the tube there, a musical instrument. And then I wondered something that made my heartache a bit more personal; what am I still holding on to?

I know I've had my revelations about poetry so I'm not worried about that. But what about my abilities as a designer? Will those skills wane as visual languages and creative tools evolve? Will there come a point in my career where I'll have to bow out of the design arena making room for a new generation of artist? Most alarmingly, will I know when it's quitting time?

Taking a closer look at my buddy on stage there, I observed the special connection he had with his soulful lyrics, his stealthy black guitar, the 'folk' in his voice. There was no sell-by date on his ability to put life to letters and sorrow to song. He's always done this. He'll always do this. And it doesn't matter if he's performing for a sold out crowd, or a intimate audience of what must be his adorable grandchildren. It's in him. It is him.

Thinking better of my woeful wonders, I decided not to concern myself with the struggles of holding on to that which should be let loose. I can't lose love for something that has enriched the line of my life no more than I can lose the chocolate pigment of my skin. I love expressing myself through design. I love it beyond a mastery of design tools or fluency of visual languages. And if I lose my seat at the world's table, discarded as irrelevant, then I'll put my own t-shirt on my back, hang my own illustration on my wall, and recline to twenty pages of my own book of poems.

For who I am is design and rhyme. And shall be long past quitting time.

I am the human Segway

Often times I serve a specific purpose for my seven-month-old son, Caleb; transport. This is especially true when picking him up out of his crib. He'll settle himself in my arms then, as if I were a Segway, lean in the direction he wants to travel, which is toward his bedroom door. Sometimes I'll take him from his mommy and he'll twist his little body around until I'm holding him in the 'flying position.' Then he'll have his transport vehicle seek out his sister, Cadence for a game of 'Super Caleb' or 'Dribble Cloud.'

Yes, I am Dad; a human means of transport. And I am okay with that.

Mostly for the benefit of hindsight. Caleb is our second child which means that some of this was experienced six years ago with our daughter. As a first time dad, I can remember being devastated when Cadence seemed to show more love for her mommy than for me. I would be crushed at the sense of self-worthlessness around my daughter. Even though I was a man of logic, I found no comfort in the thought that my daughter was just a baby, wouldn't be like this forever, and had a stronger bond with her mommy because of nursing. None of that mattered at first. I loved her dearly and I wanted reciprocation. But it was rarely had.

Fast forward through the weeks, months and years and things aren't the way the were with my daughter and me. As she got older our relationship saw changes. There were roles that I played different from Mommy's. There were similarities found and forged in our personalities. And somewhere along the timeline, an unbreakable bond was formed between us. In name, deed, love, I became "Daddy" and there was none like me.

So I'll be the human Segway for my son today. I'll pick him up out of his crib and watch in amazement as he searches the common locations where Mommy can be found, or where his sister is excitedly awaiting the start of a new game. I'll read carefully his leaning and twisting as he relays directional commands. We have our one-on-one fun times besides. I know he loves me. And I know that, as with my daughter, the 'because' of his love will one day be made up of an innumerable list of reasons. Today, the list is short and begins with 'Transport.'

And that's okay with me, for all things now great began somehow small.

About being 'youthful'

Early last month, the weather here in Georgia was as my mom would put it "mad cold" (yeah, she'd put it that way). It was pretty brisk for Georgia standards. Even in the dead of winter, it’s not unusual to enjoy temperatures in the mid 60’s. But for a strange string of days, the thermometer bobbed anywhere from 30 degrees to as low as 10 degrees Fahrenheit. So naturally, most comers and goers sensibly donned multiple layers of warm clothing to shield themselves from the frigged winter air.

Most, mind you, but not all.

One frosty Friday evening during this seemingly nation-wide cold spell, my father, a New York City resident, and I were talking about how we tend to notice people wearing shorts in the dead of winter. For most my life I looked upon such acts as—how should I put it—dumb. I saw it as a senseless attempt to try and force the season to a quicker conclusion all the while losing feeling in their frostbitten legs with each passing yard. I think I even wrote a poem about it.

I had issues, but I’m better now.

We talked about how each of us began to see shorts in the winter as a more youthful decision than an irrational one. Still, it was a choice we admired from afar with neither of us being brave enough to try it. My father went on to share a recent observation of a mature man exhibiting this youthful behavior and how it instantly inspired him. With me as his witness, he made a personal declaration saying "I'm going to do that one day." Laughingly, my father added "and it might be tomorrow."

Unfortunately, that Saturday in New York meant snow, and lots of it. So my father thought better of the idea. Declaration withstanding, he was disappointed.

That Sunday morning, I was preparing for church and found myself staring frustratingly at my limited wardrobe...again. I didn't know what to wear and felt like I didn't really have much to choose from besides. Suddenly, a thought of Friday’s conversation with my father sprang to mind. In the same instant, I noticed the one pair of summer shorts still hanging amongst the winter cloths and all at once it hit me—I'LL DO IT!

I figured one of us had to try the shorts idea at some point. So before my brain could catch up with my heart, I grabbed the shorts, thought through an outfit and readied myself for an experience. To my surprise, my wife wasn’t opposed to the idea. In fact, she was supportive. She was probably just a curious as my father and I had become about what people think and feel when putting themselves in a summer state of mind. And so, off to Church.

I honestly didn’t notice the cold right off. We were running around getting kids and things in the car so that we weren’t late for service. Maybe I was just too distracted to feel anything. It wasn’t actually until after Church when I really noticed the cold. But I was so deep into a liberating mindset that I truly wasn’t bothered by the 36 degree cold. In a sort of euphoric way, I felt at one with the world. Can’t really explain it, but somehow I did.

I sent a couple photos of my experience to my father, mother, sister and brother after we got home that afternoon. My father’s motivation level received quite a boost at the news and he was absolutely amped to make good on his declaration the following weekend come what may. And he did. Exactly one week later, he threw on his shorts, went out to the front yard of his Saint Albans home and shoveled the snow in 32 degree weather. The man.

In this, I learned a few things about being youthful; it is a state of mind not a fact of age; it is liberating in its defiance of logic; and it is certainly, contagiously, inspiring.

Thanks for the inspiration, Dad.

It ain't all random. Some of it's planned.

Recently, I was changing my son on his changing table and partook in what I think was something rather remarkable. I needed a toy or something to occupy his hands so that I'd have fewer obstacles in my way as I attempted to change his diaper. Finding nothing better nearby, I handed him a fresh diaper saying "hold this for a second." I added: "and don't put it in your mouth."

A feeble request, or so I thought.

Promptly, my 6-month-old son put the double fisted diaper on a slow but deliberate path to his mouth. Offering him a stern eye and tone I said "No. Don't put that in your mouth." Now, I didn't yell at him and there was hardly an inflection to my voice, but amazingly, this kid begins to slowly lower the diaper back toward his chest. I put a poker face on trying my darndest not to look impressed. Did what I think just happened happen?

I'm not the flash like my wife when it comes to changing my son's diaper, so I'm still working on him a few moments later when I began to notice the diaper leave my periphery. Yeah, it was once again headed to that dribble-soaked tool with which my son explores the world and all in it; his mouth. I repeated my command much in the same manner as before and was again surprised by the reaction. The diaper was lowered and this time without a repeat attempt. No way was this random.

There are a number of ways to explain away what actually happened. He may have simply thought the words I was saying were at the moment slightly more interesting than the diaper he was about to sample. Who knows. But the profound thing it reminded me of as a dad was that we as parents should underestimate what our children are really capable of. There is little doubt that he hadn't a clue what exactly I was saying, but I probably wouldn't have thought that he would at this point in life be able to fathom what I was "meaning." I think that's just what he did, twice.

Just today I saw a commercial featuring Magic Johnson. In it he mentions that he was trained as a child to earn his spending money as opposed to being given an allowance. By the age of 10, Mr. Johnson continues, he owned his own business cutting lawns. Fast forward to the business smarts he seems to benefit from today and you can't help but to attribute that to a foundation set in the concept of earning a living. Someone in his family (mother, father or both) saw that this kid was capable of staying on task and working toward a goal, something many adults still can't get right today. And by the age of 10, a little entrepreneur was out there earning his own.

My son's little show of understanding was a clear reminder of the potential kids hold. It was a reminder of the responsibility I have as a parent to help them appropriately measure that potential in attempts to map the innumerable paths of their future.

Indeed, even with an infant, it ain't all random. Some of it's planned.

The guy in the mirror

I look in the mirror sometimes and find myself asking, who are you really? What are you into? Where did you come from?

What are you made of?

Surprisingly, I like that I'm at a point in my life where I'm really trying to find answers to those questions. Surprising because growing up in the Bronx, we kids prided ourselves on "keeping it real" and "staying true to ourselves." Questioning one's own identity was like a sign of weakness. But we had no idea who we were, where we were going, where we even came from. Most of us barely understood where we were in the world; the cultural richness of one of the five boroughs that comprised the famed New York City.

We were just kids trying to make our mark on the tiny piece of land that was our world. Our block. Our 'hood. But I'm not a kid anymore (well, for the most part I'm not).

Today, as a husband and a dad, my wife and daughter have bestowed upon me many flattering labels; wonderful, awesome, fun, so cool, creative, even the occasional 'brilliant.' For a long time it was hard for me to accept those bestowments. Then I began to appreciate the fact that these people undoubtedly know me better than anyone on the plant. Add to that the natural tendency we have to always be openly honest with each other—if I sucked for some reason at some thing, my 6-year-old daughter would politely make me aware. So all things considered, they probably know—and mean what they're talking about.

I believe it true for many people that we really do become the influences with which we surround ourselves. Think about how similar people can sometimes be to their closest friend or relative. Consider the demeanor of a kid that listens to nothing but Hip Hop, Country or Jazz. Whether consciously or subconsciously, be it friends, family, movies, co-workers, or music, like the old adage states, you are the company you keep.

So maybe in trying to figure out the guy in the mirror, I should consider that he's made up of a little of everything else that mirror reflects. My faith, my wife, my daughter, my son, my home, my profession, my Xbox (yeah, definitely my Xbox). I am a bit of all the influences with which I choose to surround myself.

And they are a bit of me.

Pardon me, but does this suck to you too?

When I was younger, I use to write poems galore. Every day, every place, every moment was worthy of a portrait of poetry, and so I wrote like mad. I don't know if I had a lot more to say then than I do now, but I admire those times and am occasionally tempted to review a few old poems and wax poetic for a bit.

That old temptress came around again recently. I blew the dust off the medium sized cardboard moving box and cracked open one of the first notebooks I saw.

As I snuggled up to the tattered, spiral bound little book of treasure, I began to get this strange feeling. It took me by surprise. I knew I'd be feeling something when I started to revisit my works, but not this. To my dismay, I was...underwhelmed.

In fact, after the first 15 poems or so, underwhelmed devolved to a rather deep disappointment. I thought I was better than what I was reading. At times I wondered "who wrote this crap?" What happened? Why didn't anyone tell me I sucked?

It took many poems and pages and notebooks (and days) later for me to come to my senses. So I wasn't some master poet like I might have thought all these years. But I was young, inexperienced, open, curious, ambitious. Back then, I worked into each poem what life offered at the time; age, friends, school, girlfriend, work, wants. I wrote from the prospective of someone who has seen little in life yet, but was looking for so much. I realized that, in essence after all, I was a poet.

Then I had a most important revelation; I am who I am because I was who I was. Sounds simple and hardly profound, but when I examined the thought, my underwhelming poetry became as important to me as the fruitless doodles of the most famed artist.

I realized that because of my poetry, I began to take an interest in writing lyrics for songs. That lead to the pursuit of a career in the music business while in high school, which landed me a number of paid internships in New York City, which meant I never had to work a day in my neighborhood supermarket in the South Bronx like many did.

Because of my poetry, I tried my hand at graphic art, attended trade school at night for visual communications, and worked hard to be one of the best future creatives in my class. Because of my poetry, I learned early in life how to express love for someone, how to tell the difference between good and bad relationships, and made the decision to leave the comfort of the relationship I knew for the one I knew was meant to last.

Indeed, largely due to a dusty box of underwhelming works that never stood a chance to uphold my high expectations, I was fortunate enough to have lived a life that would likely have only been a dream without the gift of poetry. In that revelation, I found new respect for who I was and what I had to say.

I'm looking forward to the next tattered notebook.