A Solemn Reflection, and and an Attempted Resolution

When I was growing up, I aspired to become a writer. This aspiration persisted even into high school and beyond, where most of one’s dreams usually die out in favor of practicality. However, I kept at it as a hobby, believing that if I worked hard enough at it, I could some day make a success of the profession.

However, I found out later that my being a writer required something—well, two things—of me that I found it incredibly hard to give: persistence, and the ability to write and write and write and write, and then go back and edit later. My general lean toward new experiences took care of the first, and my perfectionism took care of the second.

The second is easier to remedy: I just have to force myself to keep going no matter what; I have to force everything out until I can’t write anymore, then go back and look at it later. That way, it might not take me an hour to write a well constructed blog post—yes, some of those previous gems on the website took over an hour to write, and they’re not very long.

The former issue, though, is the one which has killed nearly every major effort I have undertaken, including some rather important projects and life choices

I am incensed—even captivated—by new and interesting experiences. I latch onto new ideas and concepts with reckless abandon, and I explore every depth and facet of them … for about three weeks. Then I get bored and move on to something else, and the old hobby, along with its equipment or expectations, goes by the wayside

Keep writing, Ryan. Don’t stop to edit until you’re finished.

This is not a bad thing if your hobby is something like politics, where people don’t really care if you’re a guru or not—and in fact, being a guru can even get pretty annoying sometimes. (I have reason to know, as I used to be enthralled by the issues that came up at Hudson Bay. Sorry Randi.) However, when I drop $300 on Sound Forge so that I can record books, but get bored of recording books after the third chapter of my first one; when I decide to go out and buy a nice slow cooker so I can make many delicious hot meals while at work; when I spend an undisclosed amount of money on a gym membership, but tire of going after only a few weeks because the adventure has gone out of it; when I promise people I’ll update the blog on a consistent basis, but cease to update it once I start spending an hour on a simple post, I realize after some reflection that I have a real problem.

I want to be a better cook, learn more advanced guitar skills, try my hand at beer making, write a book, build something myself, learn home repairs, lose weight, and any one of a number of other things, but unless I can learn to start completing things I begin, I’ll never make headway once the going gets rougher.

You’ll be pleased to know I at least abstained from buying the slow cooker, which turned out to be a good thing, as the slow cooking phase lasted about a week. You might also like to know that I’m still going to the gym, though I don’t want to as much as I did before. Tough. I’ll keep at it.

I must not reread this yet. I must not reread this yet! I WILL NOT REREAD THIS YET!

I realize I have a problem. I understand that I need to learn to stick to a thing for longer than a few weeks, because I know that if I can get past the perceived tedium of a thing, I can discover the joy in it—and who knows? I might even be able to finish something I start.

I would not be surprised in the least if nobody is reading this blog anymore. After all, you’ve been promised and promised, but have only received a scant few updates, and the last of these was over six months ago. If you are still reading this, thank you. Thank you for believing in our ability to stick to a thing even when our track record is so shotty. If you’re not still reading our blog, I don’t blame you, and further, I don’t know why I’m even writing to you; you’re not reading it in the first place.

So here’s the point—the whole reason I’ve rambled so much: I understand that I need consistency. I understand that I need progress. I understand that I need to work to overcome this major fault of mine. Some day, I would like to accomplish so much more—both in my career and personal life—and I need this self-diagnosed therapy to do it.

So this is my therapy—this blog, among other things. I have set myself a reminder, and I have told myself that I will write an update once a week, and I will not sleep until the writing is accomplished. If there are any of you out there who are still with me in this venture, welcome and enjoy. If I’m talking to myself, and my words are lost somewhere in deep web, at least I’m doing it, and growing as a result.

Here goes … something.

You know you’re in Hawaii when…

The other day, we were having a retirement party for one of the ladies who works here, and someone chanced to make a delicious pan of golden-brown, lovely, nutricious … spam and cheese squares! Sound strange so far? (they were actually kind of good, but don’t tell anyone)

Here’s the crazy part:

We’re talking to the PHM (personal home management) teacher about the recipe later, and one of the staff asked her where she obtained the recipe; the staff member thought they were delicious. “Well,” says the instructor, “I actually got it out of a boy scout cookbook.”

“No way,” I replied. “They actually even take spam so far that it’s in church and boy scout cookbooks?”

“Sometimes,” she told me. “But this one is actually a recipe for spinach and cheese squares, but I looked in the freezer, and I noticed that we had no spinach left, so I just substituted spam.”

…

That’s all you can really say to that.

Houses and Homes

It’s a surreal experience to be leaving behind a place in which you lived. Leaving a dorm was one thing–I had time to prepare for the move. All of my friends had left for the Summer, and I was ready to be out. Leaving my first apartment was that same sort of thing; I didn’t really mind moving away, but mainly because I didn’t much like it there.

Leaving 1301 Lincoln Mall was something altogether different, however, and I can’t think of quite how to describe it. When I came into the empty apartment on Sunday after Randi had taken almost everything, I found it comical, but as the days went by, I found myself growing more and more melancholy. As mom and I were emptying everything today, I kept getting an odd feeling about the whole experience. I suppose it’s because this isn’t just a move across town; we’re actually leaving the continent for a state to which we’ve never been before. The first time we see Hawaii, we’ll be residents.

I had a place I really loved (well, except for that lady upstairs with her squeaky pipes), and I had to leave it. I know it’s something that everyone goes through, but this may be the first time I’ve felt such a parting so acutely. Sky Park, you will be missed.

But how do you define that difference between what is your home and what is just a house? When mom and I got back to Fremont tonight with all the luggage and such, I was struck by the sensation that my house isn’t really my home anymore. It didn’t make me sad, but it sure was a weird feeling. The place smelled different. The carpets were all torn up. Mom had a dog. All the upstairs doors were closed. My room had been stripped. I knew about all these changes a long time ago, but seeing them tonight struck a strange chord in me (a French augmented sixth, I think).

I used to run around the backyard all the time as a kid, and I knew the place like the back of my hand. I could navigate every inch of it in the dark without flinching an eyebrow, and did so any number of times while taking the dog out or just going out to take in the night. Mom built the deck after I left for college, though, and now the backyard is different. I know the deck is there when I pace the nighttime yard, but I can’t sense it. I have to feel along it for the steps in order to climb it. A big deal? No, not really, but it certainly makes one think.

I can’t quite put my finger on what I’m feeling–not depression, certainly. I think I’m just naturally contemplative as a result of being on the cusp of a major life change. What is your home? Is it a place where you live? Is it a place that invokes a certain emotion or other? Maybe I should read that Edwards book about home (Home, I think it’s called). That might explain the matter.