Unfinished Men

This post has been long in coming, one that I wanted to write ever since I finished Wild At Heart by John Eldredge. I first started writing it sometime last year, around October, but never got around to finishing it, not because I don't have much to say, but because I feel unqualified, and I write now, not because I am qualified, far from it. I just know that some out there will be having the same thoughts and doubts that I do, and I hope in some small way, this helps.

But, to the point, what right do I have to talk about being a man if I am barely one? I am mostly still a boy and parts of me are still stuck in Neverland. In so many ways, manhood is a blessing, a gift that is bestowed by another man, or a fellowship of men. I've not been blessed with the gift yet.

I used to think of myself as a self-made man, that I figure things out on my own and that I need none or minimal guidance. I needed no one, and I was proud of it. In hindsight, it was probably the most heart-wrenching statement a man can make. To have to grope about blindly looking for masculinity and try to understand what it means to be man with no mentor is a painful and ultimately, crippling way to grow.

What you need to understand now, as men or boys, is that masculinity is bestowed by another man, or a group of men. When we as boys grow without guidance in this area, chances are great that we grow wrongly. We are unfinished men. Think about it. When was the last time you had absolute confidence in making a decision?  I don't remember a single instance. Granted, life will be full of doubts, but there is a difference between standing stock-still in uncertainty and choosing to fight even with doubts, knowing that you have what it takes.

Masculinity, the original one designed by the Creator, is powerful. It is a wild, untamed thing. The version we see in the media is skewed somehow. Think about it for a moment. What does the media portray masculinity to be? It's no better in the church. Men are taught from young to be overly gentle, to speak in hushed tones and always compromise and be peaceable. There are times for all that, I don't disagree, but have you ever wondered why is it that we were never taught to use our strength and our passion? It is sadly emasculating.

There's so much to say on the matter, but there's one aspect of masculinity that I want to touch on. In Wild At Heart, John Eldredge wrote that femininity arouses masculinity, but it can never bestow it. Based on my own experience, I can vouch that most men I know look to femininity for their masculinity. It doesn't just stop at the superficial oh-look-my-girlfriend-is-so-hot; it goes deeper than that. A man cannot make a girl his whole universe; she can't be the only battle he fights. Both will be painfully bored, and a man ought to fight for more than just a girl. His is an adventure that she would gladly go for, but there will never be an adventure if she was the bottom line. In his book, John Eldredge said as much, and again, this proved to be painfully true.

I am reading Rumours of Another World by Philip Yancey now, and he said so as well, though in different terms. He wrote that the problem is that we think of a gift, as just that, a gift, but we never see beyond that, that the gift is about the love of the giver. In this case, the gift is someone God has placed in your life, but all you see is the gift. She is the bottom-line.

I don't have any answers to this, and I am still just trying to be a man, and trying to bend my strengths to proper use in this world, trying to do my best. I'll probably never be a fully finished man, not in every sense of the word.

But then again, a man who can claim to be wholly complete can only be either one of two things.
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Easy As Pie

Someone told me recently, and I quote, "You writers (flattered that I am considered to be one, though I think all of us are writers, just that most haven't found their story) have it so easy. All you do is move a few fingers and you get a check in the mail."

Ouch, not entirely devoid of truth, but still, I disagree.

Edison said "Genius is 99 per cent perspiration and 1 per cent inspiration."

I think, writing, like genius and every other thing in life, is a truckload of hard work and a brief flash of a inspiration. God know's how much paper and ink I've wasted, not to mention the massive amount of electricty consumed to write with a keyboard.

Hemingway said "There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit at the typewriter and bleed." It's nice, you know, to bleed. Not hard at all. Like tofu.

But sometimes, I think that, for all the bleeding, you get a nice story and at the end of the day, you get (maybe) a check in the mail. Yay.

Because, if there is a certainty, it is that I write better when I am emotionally involved in a situation, and to reproduce that feeling into words I will have to relive a particular memory. Or a particular emotion.

At times, it means reopening wounds, but at other times, it could mean the healing of another and in some cases, to reset a broken bone would require re-breaking it. That pretty much sums up the darker side of what I do, but that's only a side of the coin. Writing is also hopeful, and it brings joy. Writing is inspired, and in turn, inspires.

Regardless, I do know one thing, though, that anything that is worth anything is never easy. It is only when you have to bleed for it that it becomes something.

Your bleeding will dictate its worth. And no one ever said it'll be easy, just that it will be worth it.
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The Road Trip

If our arms aren't strong enough, we'll rip the roof off with our hearts. If the road is dark, our dreams will light the way. If there isn't space in the back, we'll make space in our hopes. Pack a bag with everything you want to keep and leave the rest behind. Because I'm coming to pick you up.

I Wrote This For You: The Road Trip 

Stuff I Need To Do in A Month and A Half

1. Work regularly.

2. Learn shorthand.

3. Learn German Latin

4. Finish my book.

5. Learn to flip and roll properly (parkour).

6. Pack a proper six.

7. Master the art of being a percussionist.

8. Project One Picture a Day.

9. Meet a random stranger everyday.

10. Compliment someone everyday.

11. Live.

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I'mJustAboutButNotQuiteMaybeSoon

There is nothing quite as therapeutic to a man than to leave everything, even if it is just for a day, and go on the road. I've learned that sometimes, it is nicer to drive yourself, dictate where you want to go, and actually, sometimes it is nicer just to be driven. It is with the latter that you can really let your mind go.

So I did just that yesterday, I sat in a four hour car-ride (to and fro) and had some time to myself, just thinking. Not even writing, because then I'd be focused on shaping words.

And a few posts back, I wrote about trying to be more than who I am. About removing myself from an equation, about deleting myself. I honestly thought I couldn't do it.

I tried so hard to believe that everything, all of it was a lie. Because to believe that would have made it hurt less. It's easier to believe that love was not real than to try and understand that it just changed. But I can't.  So where does that leave me?

In that car ride, I realised that, yes, yes I can delete myself. I can just want her to be happy and to be fulfilled. I just want her to have a reason to have that goofy grin on her face, even if it wasn't me who put it there. Yes, I want all of that for her. I can, and I do want that. It was quite... liberating.

And from somewhere, a voice told me, it's time. It is finally time to heal.

So here I am, writing about it. Because that's part of healing for me.

Three years ago, the way I dealt with all this was self-destructive. I smoked. I disappeared. I drove like a mad man (I won't tell you what speeds I did). I turned to pornography. In short, I went quite berserk and I lost myself for a little while.

Pain is part of growing-up and it'll most probably always be hard, because the choice will be between what is easy, and what is right. I'm not saying that I don't have the urge to just go out and go crazy again. It's there. It's a battle to not want to suck on the end of a burning stick, or to stare at a screen where people copulate like animals. It is difficult.

In a way, I think it was a cry for attention, but that was what passed as 'healing' for me, back in the day.

It's just the way it is, and life, like it or not, will go on, and now it's time to go make new mistakes and learn new ways to deal with pain.

It is finally time.
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God Loveth Adverbs

courtesy of bits and pieces

Lately I have been struggling to find a reason for writing. Don't get me wrong, I love it, but sometimes, loving it seems inadequate and small a reason.

And then I read this:

This God liked elegant sentences and was offended by dangling modifiers. Once you believe this, where can you stop? If the Maker of the Universe admired words well put together, think of how he must love sound thought well put together, and if he loved sound thinking, how he must love a Bach concerto, and if he loved a Bach concerto think of how he prized any human effort to bring a foretaste, be it ever so small, of his Kingdom of Justice and peace and happiness to the victimized people of the world. In short, I met the Maker of the Universe who loved the world he made and was dedicated to its redemption. I found the joy of the Lord, not at a prayer meeting, but in English Composition 101.

Philip Yancey, Rumours of Another World.

God loves what I do. He loves that I try to make a difference through written words, and He loves that I try to string words together to form legible sentences.

It brings tears to my eyes, knowing that what I do matters to Him, and knowing that He loves it is all the reason I will need.
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Comfortable

"Hi."

Yeah, you too.

The air was clean, sharp. Lightning rumbled in the distance. In the distance a dog was barking. It was perpetually gloomy here, an ever-present cover of clouds that show no respect to the sun.

A whiff of liquid sanitizer. Shampoo. Make-up. Moisturizer. Bare skin. Exactly how I remembered her to be.

Comfortable.

Nonsensical conversation only I would understand.

Nonsensical laughter, because no one else understands.

Silences that say everything, silences that are as we were.

Comfortable.

The floor creaks, the bed is too small, the drift of white outside, the sound of a washing machine working overtime.

Peaceful breathing, eyes closed to darkness, lips singing silent symphonies.

Shivering against the cold, because there was no cover.

Still, it was comfortable.

A gentle touch, palm to palm in a holy palmer's kiss.

One last stolen glance, one last smile.

"Goodbye, Lionel."

and I woke up.
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My Story is Not About Me

So I really tried to leave this place and only write on Mondays, but maybe I need to rethink my plans. Can't seem to get away from here for too long. Like my coffee, I need my daily dose of written words, and my journal can't seem cut it.

This past month or so, I've been quietly self-absorbed in my own troubles, quite oblivious to the world outside and the troubles of those around me. I won't apologise for that; I think everyone is entitled to a little self-pity here and there. Hey, I'm only human. What made me slowly wake up was the people around me. The people who were there, not so much in body but in heart and soul. Strangers who tell me I'll be okay, just because I looked sad. Readers who i.m. me to ask me how I was. Friends who listen quietly. You have no idea how much it meant to me.

And all this made me think. I know you've probably heard this hundreds of times, but your story really isn't about you. My story isn't about who I was, who I am, or who I'll be; it's not about my search to be the best I can be. My story isn't about my mistakes and my triumphs, not about my tears nor fears, not about my brokenness nor my faithlessness.

My story is not about me.

My story is about people. My story is about the hearts I touch. My story is about the change I've wrought in the lives I've met. My story is the joy I see in the eyes of friends, the laughter we share and the times we challenge each other to be more.

My story is the people who go out of their way to make me smile, people who have touched my life indelibly. People who leave little fingerprints on my heart. People who cry with me, people who give more than a listening ear. People who've held my hand as I walked blindly.

Your story is about the smile you share with a random stranger on the train on the way back home from a long day's work. It is about taking a burden that is not yours to carry, and then sharing your load with them as well. It is about sharing your joys with people, because we could all use a little more sunshine. It is about finding that one person, and knowing intuitively that the search is actually over. It is about making music in the rain, about unadulterated fulfillment, about nonsensical ramblings at 3 in the morning, about smiling through the tears. It is about believing in something greater than yourself.

My story is written when I hold out my hand and help write another's. My story is written when I hold out my hand and you reach out to hold mine. My story is written when you reach out and write mine. My story is not about me.

My story is all about you.

courtesy of thegingerbrain

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The Greatest Romance of the 21st Century

Day 7
Location: Portland, Oregon

He said: How can you love someone you’ve never met?

Can you hold a heart if you’ve never held the hand it belongs to?

When you’ve never had the chance to catch a glance from across a crowded room?

Highway miles and desperate hearts keep you apart, but she still keeps you together.

Simple beginnings.

And perfections through silence.

A casual compliment.

A simple acknowledgement.

Knowing there was something different.

Something different about her.

About him.

A smile that wrecks the heart,

Breath you’ve never tasted.

Just minutes counting down to a new start.

She doesn’t have favorites,

He doesn’t have a home.

Open roads and payphones,

He wakes up in the car,

And she wakes up alone.

In a Godless world,

In a faithless society,

He grabs the keys and goes.

To find the very thing no one believes,

That no one sees.

Because he believes in her.

And she believes in him.

And this is the way their story begins…

from Make it Mad: The Greatest Romance of the 21st Century

Editor's Note

I've finally finished a book that I've started since September or August last year.

Sometimes, it is kind of crazy, how simple words can cut and make you bleed.

I'll write something here when my thoughts are more articulate.

Also, I am pinching an idea from a friend, kind of sort of but not quite making my blog a little more interactive with you, my dear readers. We'll see.

Till then, may the sun always shine on you and may your sails always catch the wind.
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