Archive for warrior

Working Class Heroes, Their Boomsticks and Their Dreams

Posted in The Flow and Rhythm of Life, The Writing Process (How do I Come up These Beats?) with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 05/12/2013 by Angel D. Vargas

What happens when you try to fly solo?

I start my blog entries like that these days.  The above question looks very straight forward. I want to know what happens to the person who decides that they’re going to make a go of life on their own. I want to understand how an individual functions when they try to pull themselves out of mediocrity and live their dreams.

We live in a curious time in American History. Western culture demands that the average individual seeks guidance as a youth. A person is supposed to depend upon their parents for warmth, shelter, wisdom and love. Moms and dads nurture their children by providing the basics as well as opportunities for their education.

But children grow up. Expectations change. Life becomes high school (or is it the other way around?) Children are taught to believe that they are supposed to broaden their minds with books and technology. Yet they are also supposed to round out their learning experiences with intense athletic pursuits or “extra curricular activities.”  Meanwhile, if adolescents succumb to the bombardment of commercials, internet ads, or peer-pressure situations in which they find themselves, they learn that silence is no longer golden. To survive, one has to be a social butterfly, not just in real life, but on the internet. Social Media websites commit younger and younger people to creating a secondary persona that either modulates or inhibits their popularity in school or in other social situations.

A self-reflecting adult might scratch their head at the contradictory messages they received  about life. I was raised as a child of the eighties. Adults of our generation were taught that education was the key to financial success. I used a have an enormous, light-up  picture on my wall with three fancy sports cars in a three car garage by the beach. The motto that was emblazoned at the top of the picture screamed “Justification for a Higher Education.”  Enough Said.

Except not everyone who gets a higher education automatically get those sorts of things. Even going to a top tier college in the country guarantees nothing if you don’t get to know the right people and you don’t focus on the things you love. Anybody who tells you that time is money hasn’t had to look for a job for the last five years in this country.

“The economy is in the crapper.” Those were the words of someone who interviewed me for a sales position years ago. They still pretty much hold true.

Somehow despite all the contradictory forces screaming for our attention, we’re supposed live our dreams. We’re told that we’re better off pulling ourselves out of mediocrity by our bootstraps. We’re also reminded by oversimplified hallmark moments on television shows and food advertisements that we somehow can’t do it alone.

We have to do it by ourselves, but we can’t do it alone.

That includes living our dreams, doesn’t it?

I’ve been sick for the last week and a half. This is the cold that never ends.

Major illness tends to sharpen one’s focus when they begin to recover from it. I, for one, will make it through a major cold like this one and begin to take stock of how well I’m doing living my dreams and meeting my personal goals. Since my largest one by far is writing, I have to remind myself that I can and will write every day.

But like the rest of this story, I’ve come to learn that I can’t really make my dream a reality all on my own. While I try to get my name out there by submitting more and more of my work to various publishers for consideration, I’m getting to the point where I spend a lot of my time with my nose to the grindstone. I push so hard to get more and more writing done, it feels like I’m only picking my head up to notice that everyone else walked off to some social gathering. I’m perfecting the swing of my samurai sword, and everyone else walked to the river to drink beer and sake.

From a professional standpoint, my current solo method seems like a piss poor way to garner real opportunity. From a personal standpoint, I feel more and more like a lone warrior. What happens to warriors who stay alone for too long?

They go nuts and start saying things like “This is my BOOMSTICK!”

Now that I more or less know where I am from a professional and a social standpoint, the question I have to ask myself is “What now?” It’s one thing to understand how much one misses social connection when they’ve been ill for more than a week. It’s quite another thing to realize that this uniquely Western notion of “independence” is not quite all that it’s cracked up to be.

Nobody ever really meets their goals without help, even on a minute level. I’d love to sit here and tell you that I got my first short story published because I woke up one day and inspiration struck me like a bolt of lightning. But that isn’t even close to the truth. I got that story accepted by a publication only after my first attempt with them flopped. I never even asked the editors why I was rejected. I got really annoyed and decided to up the ante. I thought I was a warrior recovering from wounded pride.

But this isn’t about revenge, proper action or silt. I would not have even bothered to finish the story had it not been for my friends, writers or otherwise, who were there to encourage me from day one. My friends are still around, though it’s been a while since I’ve been willing or able to talk with them.

It’s also been a while since I’ve felt like I was a part of a real writing community. I don’t know if I need that feeling again so that my writing can reach the next level, or if I want to be a part of a community so that my social skills don’t fade while I write my next manuscript.

At any rate, here I am world. I’m not quite recovered my from my eternal snot fest. And yes, I know that that description of my illness will make everyone want to stay around me. I’m going to start small and post this blog entry. I’m reentering my former social media sites. I’ll keep on writing, of course. Maybe I just won’t use all of my words to add to the chapters of unseen stories and manuscripts.

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Warrior of the Word.

Posted in The Flow and Rhythm of Life, The Writing Process (How do I Come up These Beats?) with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 04/03/2013 by Angel D. Vargas

Sometimes a warrior just has to come home, throw their weapons in a corner, sink their tired, broken bodies into a chair and cry their eyes out.

 

Countless soldiers throughout history have probably done this. I know what we all see in the news when war heroes come home to their families. These survivors hug their spouses who’ve lived without their touch for years. They hug their children though they’ve missed precious milestones. Many people have moved on in their absence. Most have gone through their own trials and traumas. Still, everyone big and small feels that their story is the important one.

 

That’s just the human condition.

 

I’m guilty of this too. The good thing is I’m not alone. I’m about to tell you a story.

 

I’ve become a warrior of the word.

 

I know what you’re thinking. I sound like one of those nut jobs who quote the Bible and hurl Molotov cocktails into abortion clinics. If you’ve read some of my writing, you might think I’ve snapped and begun channeling one of my favorite characters.

 

“Pleasure to meet you. My name is Ezekiel.”

 

But that’s not the truth either. The reality may be just as difficult to fathom.

 

I moved back to New York two years ago. I had little money, a soaring credit card debt, and the wisp of a hope that I might get a job through a relative.

 

Time has a way of revealing one’s destiny. While I was putting interview clothes I couldn’t afford on a credit card, I was searching. I was waiting. I was hoping that I hadn’t wasted my time coming back home. I didn’t want a repeat of the six months I’d spent in Illinois trying to figure life out. That stretch of time saw me spinning my  wheels and not knowing how to make ends meet. Opportunities were few and far between. Though my best friend from college reached out to me and tried to help me out, I just wasn’t prepared for life in a Midwestern suburb. I didn’t even have a driver’s license. I failed.

 

Mental note. Don’t ever live in a suburb without a car or a license.

 

I came back home hoping that I wouldn’t go insane. I was a thirty something and living in a tiny apartment with my parents and my grown autistic brother.

 

If you’re doing a double take after that last statement, don’t worry. You won’t be the only one.

 

But times are tough for “thirty -somethings” these days. I’ve heard it all before. People in my generation with college degrees can’t even get into entry level retail work. I won’t even get into that hot mess. People have tough choices to make even though some of us just paid off twenty five thousand dollars in student loans. Sure, one could go back to school if one could somehow pay for it. Being out of college for more than a decade might mean your college credits mean nothing for all those associate’s programs.

 

There’s just one other hitch. Assuming that there are affordable school programs to attend, it pays to know which jobs aren’t being whittled down to nothing in this economy.

 

I was applying for a job in Portland, Oregon to work at a Sears as a clerk.  I applied online, landed the interview, and was asked to come in during a Thursday afternoon. The human resources recruiter seemed nice enough, but very sad and distracted throughout the conversation. After telling me that the original position was being whittled down from twenty hours a week to twelve due to “a major oversight,” he older woman turned to me and laid in on the line.

 

“There are thirty, forty, even fifty year old people applying for entry level clerk positions with this company. We’ve got people with Masters Degrees and PHD’s who need this work, and we can’t do much for them. Let’s face it. The economy is in the crapper.”

 

After 14 months in the city, I was able to land a part time job as a book seller at a local Barnes and Noble. Since then, I’ve not been able to attain anything else.

 

I think it might be safe to say that for some, the economy STILL looks like something a toilet bowl cleaner ought to erase.

 

Life is funny. Promises are broken, constant effort feels more like the definition of insanity, and broke people start to quote musicians and philosophers as though looking for a reason. Life can feel like a cruel joke. Of late, it leaves me feeling a bit like those broken warriors.

 

Is there a reason to it all? Is life what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans?

 

I’m still struggling with that question.

 

On one hand, I would officially call myself an underemployed janitor for the local Barnes and Noble. I just happen to know a thing or two about a book.

 

Perhaps that’s because I’m writing them.

 

Writing has been an anchor for me since I reclaimed it more than a year ago. I might never be a real estate tycoon or win the lottery, but writing is something that I will be able to do no matter what my financial or family status. I won’t put the computer down unless it breaks. Even if that happens, I used to use a little something called a pen, and I used to put that object to another handy object called “paper.”

 

The things one learns in school really can make a difference.

 

Nobody talks to me for more than a few minutes without realizing I’ve got more sarcasm in my pinky then most have in their entire bodies. But I shudder to think what my life would be like today if I hadn’t started to write. I’m not always going to write short stories or books. I can’t imagine I will always show my words to people. But I’ve made a few good friends along the way. People have read my words. More will read them one day, and I may even be able to make a decent living because of it.

 

Life seems to be split down the middle of chaos. On the one hand, I don’t make enough money at my current job to scratch my testicles. But on the flip side, I write because I have the time and the imagination to come up with the stuff. Real life might not be glamorous, but it offers me a chance to experience love, hate, anger, euphoria, and all the other emotions that I can pour with such realism into each and every one of my made up characters.

 

Fate doesn’t normally interest me. I like to think that I am always in control of my own life. These last few years have been like a huge dose of humble pie. I’m not powerless, but curious things do happen when I allow myself to engage in what matters to me. In the last year, people have come to me that I did not expect. People have read my words, and some have been able to relate. A special someone has danced their way into my life.

 

Philosophical discussions of fate either annoy or terrify people like me. Maybe that’s why fate sneaks up on so many of us. It probably happens despite everything I believe, and all I can do is the best that I can until God or the universe reveals my purpose.

 

Until that happens, I’ll write, I’ll love, and I ride on the roller coaster that is my life. I can’t be the fatalist, but I can sure as hell strap in. Let other people deal when someone releases the fucking Kraken. I’ll write a book about it when it’s over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A New Day, A New Chapter

Posted in Short Stories (Some Wicked Little Beats), The Flow and Rhythm of Life, The Writing Process (How do I Come up These Beats?) with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 12/21/2012 by Angel D. Vargas

Ladies and Gentlemen, Friday is upon us!

No more school, no more books, no more teachers, dirty looks!

And here is the chance for you lucky escapees to read a new chapter of my Serial, Unbreakable. Chapter 14 has  been written, edited and posted for your reading pleasure.

And here is the part where you ask, “but Mr. Callido (please, call me Angel), what happened to posting on Thursdays?” The answer really won’t surprise you. I was one day late for posting because my best friend was coming into the city, and what should I discover but that more people seem to have more time to read my serial and cast their votes on a Friday! What a goose I’ve been! So for now,  I will be posting new chapters of Unbreakable on Fridays.

In all fairness, folks, it’s a psychological thing for me as well. It feels like I’ve got one more day per week to come up with something dynamite for my readers. That may not technically be the case, but like so many of us, I too succumb to the temptation to take it easier on a Friday. I’m lucky if I even sign a check that day, let alone write an email. So come, enjoy the fruits of my labor, thank my best friend for helping me to edit this chapter as she does so many others, and enjoy the read! Kenshiro’s waiting for you, and we all know how crazy HE gets, right?’

Don’t forget to vote on my chapters. You, my loyal readers, know this. Bring others along for the ride, and don’t forget to tell them to sign up and vote! Logan needs to hone his powers, doesn’t he? He can’t if there’s no reason. Think of the children! Even if they are somehow … different.

 

New Chapter!

Posted in Drum Roll, The Flow and Rhythm of Life, The Writing Process (How do I Come up These Beats?) with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 10/04/2012 by Angel D. Vargas

Hello all!

I just thought you would all like to know that a third chapter to my serial is up and ready for your reading pleasure! Check it out at Jukepop Serials! Look for the Serial called ‘Unbreakable’ by Angel D. Callido and click on the link. The white form in the forest is the temporary cover for my story. It’s that easy!

Just a note, I try to edit my own work as closely as possible. I know it doesn’t always turn out perfectly, but I try to keep a  sharp eye to my writing. I wince when I read mistakes in others’ writing, especially if I happen to like the material.  Feel free to point out any mistakes you DO find, but bear in mind that once I publish each chapter, I can’t go back and revise it. It’s kind of a final post each time, since each chapter needs to garner enough votes in order for me to stay in the public eye with this serial.

If you haven’t submitted votes yet (and you actually think my stuff is worth it), please cast your vote for me on the website. Your support is needed and appreciated, but only if I earn it. This warrior strives to hone his craft, always.

Enjoy! 😉

Writing Samurai

Posted in Drum Roll, The Flow and Rhythm of Life, The Writing Process (How do I Come up These Beats?) with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 06/17/2012 by Angel D. Vargas

I’ve become a writing samurai.

The samurai part is what happens to me when I’m told I’m not good enough. I fight to reclaim the honor that  I feel was stripped from me. I do it fast, and I try to be as efficient as possible.  No motion will be wasted. No time will be spared for excuses from myself or from others.

You can all guess what the writing part refers to.

But the reason for my change of attitude is more complicated than I thought it was.

I thought I was making this shift because I’d submitted my writing to one publisher and had been summarily rejected.

“Thanks, but no thanks.  We’d be happy to have you try again.”

If  I hadn’t been so shocked at the rejection, I, like some of you, would have noticed the last words of the previous sentence.

I decided to try again anyway, to show these bastards what they missed the first time. (cue maniacal laughter!)

I wrote with a vengeance. I edited. I wrote some more. I had friends read and edit my work.  I read it aloud to myself.  I read it again to two of my friends when I thought I was ready.

And then when that was done, I edited some more.  I read it aloud one more time.  I even had a friend read it back at me in her voice so that I would not miss a beat.

All told this weekend, I put something like 14 hours into this project, and that was after I’d finished writing it on Friday.  The story that I worked on and submitted tonight by the way (yay me!) had become more than just a quest to reclaim my lost honor.  It had become an obsession.

That’s not to say that I didn’t have my supporters.  J. Marie Ravenshaw and Edward Lorn will always have my gratitude for their assistance in bringing madness to my method … I mean method to my madness.  Muahahaha!  They have both read and reread this piece.   Both have offered words of encouragement, constructive criticism.

Both have actually spoken to me without asking me to be their therapist.

Neither has asked me to put up with their problems on a daily basis.

Neither has proffered lame excuses for not dealing with any of the problems they may face with their lives.

Both will continue to be with me when others have long since abandoned me as mad. They will share my journeys as I dive into my fantasy worlds and resurface with stories to share.  Perhaps some of these stories will make it to the general public.  I hope so.

I’m sure as I move along in this world, I will discover others for whom this is true.  And there are some other people in my life already with whom I share the deepest parts of myself.

But I am going to be honest.  Most of my closest allies on this planet right now may not be blood related.

None of the people with whom I currently live know that writing is my passion.  They hear about it as we talk of other things, but I have shown them nothing of my work.  I have not shown them the sword with which I slay Ninja Dragons and impress the winged ladies of my life.  What they know about me is constantly drowned out by the vicissitudes of regular life tinged with a madness that I cannot bare to put into words.

True madness can be brought about by several things, in my opinion.  I have learned about severe mental illness thanks to my forays into the mental health professions.  There is nothing quite so shocking to me as watching a person lose their ability to function in the world thanks to something that is beyond their control and affects their brains.  When your mind becomes your own worst enemy, nobody has to wish you harm or physically intimidate or abuse you.  You do it all to yourself without even realizing it’s being done.  I would not wish something like this on my worst enemy.

Sometimes just waking up and facing life itself can leave me feeling about as useless as an asshole on my elbow..

But there are other forms of madness that can arise, over time, from other things that are self inflicted.  I have had the unfortunate necessity to learn of this too in the last few years.  I won’t go into details now, but there is something to be said about watching someone else on a certain narcotic or other substance.  There is a journey to be undertaken by the observer as they watch someone they love destroy themselves and the family and friends with whom they are surrounded.  It is a fascinating and alarming trek to undertake when the person you once knew as the light of your life has immersed themselves in a darkness from which they refuse to be pulled.  I will only extend my hand so many times when it is repeatedly slapped, burned, or bitten.

And I am not a Pavlovian dog.  I will not lay down and allow myself to be electrocuted because of some Skinnerian principle of learned helplessness.  If I can’t find a way past the electricity on the floor, I’ll piss on the damned floor and watch it sparkle before I start hopping around, looking for the fuckers who turned on the juice.  And you better believe I’d bite their nuts off before I ran off into the sunset with a pretty bitch at my side.

I have to say goodbye to someone this year.

They are not dead in the physical sense.  But they have died to all sense of reality.  They have taken themselves out the world in which we live, and they have remained enshrouded in the fug of their own ignorance and impotent rage.

That is something that I would not wish on anyone, friend or otherwise.  Yet it is also something that I can damned well live without.

The samurai in me has been at war with my inner healer.  My inner healer wants to talk some sense into this person and remind them that it is not too late to get some semblance of a normal life back.  I want to tell them it is not too late to reclaim one’s soul if one will only remember that they have one in the first place.

My inner samurai has emerged though, and all I want to do is cut through this person like a weed, brushing them aside so I can move on with my own life.   I feel  no pity for this wretched excuse of humanity.  I feel no remorse as I draw my sword and cut them down with my words.  I feel no mercy as I slice off their choking hands at the wrists and toss them aside like garbage.  There is ice in my veins when she tells me that I am broken and I simply stare, willing them to look in a mirror.  I want to quote Clint Eastwood at them and ask what happens at night when the demons come.

But I need not waste my breath.  I hear them crying melodramatically in the darkness.  I scoff and shrug my shoulders.

Fuck ’em.

But we are fast closing in on the real reason that I spent so much time on this latest writing project.

Every effort that I make to further my dream to write fiction for a living has taken me closer to my inner bliss.  But it has had another affect.  I am removing myself further from the suffocating miasma of this person’s existence.  I am shielding myself from their sadness, their self pity, and their ultimate rage.  I can no longer be this person’s whipping boy, their Pavlovian dog, their indentured servant, their prisoner, or their anything.  I am not and I have never been anything more to them than a target upon which they could foist their self loathing and inadequacies.  I have never been more than a scratching post when they seek to dig their claws.

But I simply refuse to do it anymore.

If I’ve learned anything from my writing other than how to hone my technique and how to concentrate when World War Three erupts around me in such dramatic, “I am the night fashion,” is that practice makes perfect.  The only thing that people need to understand about following a dream is that it takes hard work.  The dream, in this case, is the journey, and not the destination.  The dream is what you begin to become, the spirit that seeps into you as you invite true happiness in.  And there is nothing on this planet that can take that away from me.

Perhaps personal growth and change  is one of the harder parts of learning to write.  I share my story because I want to inspire other writers who may be struggling with accepting that it is their dream to write, whether it be for fun, for a living, or just to escape the insanity of their otherwise chaotic lives.  As I’ve said countless times, we write about what we know.  I have reminded myself this weekend that I know just as much about seeking happiness and meeting a goal as I do about having the love and happiness sucked from my life by things that may or may not be out of my control.  I realize that the best way to meet life is head on.  Take that Succubus or Incubis by the horns and get the happiness you’ve fought off all those other demons for.  Claim that love that you’ve denied yourself because other self-pitying naysayers and hatemongers told you that you couldn’t do it.  Become merciless your purging of such negativity from your world.  You’re the only one that can do this.  You’re the only one that can heal yourself.

I must once again take up the sword that I laid by the river’s edge all those years ago.  And I do it gladly.

I will take back the happiness I lost.

And by the way, I’m not asking permission.

 

Aikido and Life

Posted in The Flow and Rhythm of Life with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 04/22/2012 by Angel D. Vargas
A young man about 5’8” and a hundred and seventy five pounds enters a Dojo around the corner from his apartment in the city.  He goes in, bows to the Sensei who gives a nod and a smile.  He enters the Dojo, steps into the middle of the practice space and bows to the shrine at the front of the room.  He then enters the men’s changing area and dons a Gi with a top that fits his broad chest very well, but with pants that are one size too big for him at this time.  He finally ties the pants off with a quick flourish, smiles nervously and gets his Obi (belt) from his backpack. He looks at the belt as though he’s forgotten what this fucking this is and why he brought it with him.  With a snap of the fingers of his free hand, he suddenly remembers what to do, and he quickly dons the Obi, tying it off in the way he remembered seeing on the u-tube video just the night before.  He knows his Sensei is nice enough to forgive the new student a few mistakes, but he also knows that appearances matter, and there are rules that all students must obey. He checks himself in the mirror and then turns his head to the left and to the right, checking for other males in the room before striking his best (and most idiotic) street fighter pose.  The top of his newly shaven, bald head glimmers in the light like a cartoon sword just released from a scabbard, the shimmering light moving from left to right.  He nods and then laughs at himself for a full ten seconds.  What the hell is he doing here, anyway?  Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

 

enters the practice space once again, abandoning his flip flops by the rear edge of the tatami mat.  He bows again to the shrine at the front of the room, checks the tightness of his belt (and his pants) and slowly steps onto the mat, preparing to stretch his muscles.  He hasn’t even begun class yet, and his muscles are already aching from work at the factory the night before.  How many boxes did he have to assemble last night, a hundred, maybe two hundred?  Paper cuts on his hands begin to sting, but he ignores all this as class quickly begins. 

 

Before the young warrior fully comprehends what has happened, Sensei has instructed him and the rest of the class on their first practice move of the day.  It turns out to be an offensive move designed to be countered by another person, and the nature of the counter move is such that the attacker is tossed forward at an angle that forces hapless attacker (at least in theory) to roll forward on their right shoulder and come to a standing position smoothly and without hurting themselves.  It looks deceptively simple whenever Sensei plays the role of the attacker and the attacked, and the young warrior does have a history of practicing martial arts.  But it’s been years, and he’s tired today.  Cautiously optimistic, he finally joins a group of his fellow classmates, and everyone is ready to practice the move. 

 

The young man is chosen to play the attacker first.  He nods and smiles, hoping he can still use his body the way he used to.  A young woman stands in front of him, ready to receive his attack.  The young man has seen this woman before, and he knows that she has great command over this martial art.  He also thinks her quite the beauty, though he dares not say so.  She nods, and the young man lunges at her with a short, overhead chop to her head with his right hand.  She grabs his arm and his Gi, and before he knows it, his momentum has sent him tumbling face first toward the mat!  He quickly remembers what Sensei has taught him about tucking his head, finding the mat with his arm and using momentum to guide himself into a forward roll. The world seems to spin like one of the slots of a slot machine where the lever has just been pulled.  So far, so good! 

 

Unfortunately, the young warrior has suddenly forgotten how to stand up from a forward roll without crashing into the wall in front of him, and as he realizes this, his feet are now pointed straight into the air toward the ceiling.  In a panic, he suddenly draws a breath, closes his eyes, and just follows raw instinct, attempting to stop his momentum and stand upright, stance and technique be damned!  His left palm smacks the mat with an echo that seems to reverberate throughout the universe, and he attempts to will his leg muscles to contract and expand at the right moment, hoping against hope that he doesn’t find himself smacking the wall with his forehead.

 

As though the universe has heard his silent prayer, the world stops spinning, and he opens his eyes, and he then feels the cold draft of reality hitting his exposed buttocks.  There won’t be any Matrix-like poses from THIS Neo Anderthal.  There won’t be any magical moments with dazzling smiles, sparkling teeth, and buxom babes in tight fitting Gi’s either.  The bubble of a warrior wannabe’s glory has been burst, and in the immortal words of Bill Hicks, the unfortunate novice has been “sent hurtling back to the truth.”

 

“Hike up my pants, move fast..Oh God, hike up my pants, move fast!” 

 

The young martial artist finally gets himself covered up again after what feels like a millennium and trots to the back of the group, red faced.  Unfortunately, he spends the rest of the lesson essentially getting flipped over, standing up, hiking up his pants, and trying again.  What had this young man had quoted at him recently about the definition of insanity? Oh wait.  He’s crazy!

 

This is what I was like a year ago when I was taking Aikido and rediscovering  that I really do enjoy physical activity, even if I have a learning curve that demands that I embarrass myself in order to learn proper technique.  Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned in all this.  Life is all about risks, some more major than others.  One can risk their hearts as well as the body or the mind.  Some might argue that life does not exist without the risk.  I would argue that it does, but it would be of a much poorer quality than I would like.

 

This is an ordinary world.  I’ve already learned to survive in it.

 

 

But it’s time to really thrive, amigos and amigas.  I want to ask my followers (or anyone else who would like to respond) a question.  

 

What risks have you taken lately in order to broaden the experience that is your life?

 

It’s a pretty open ended question, really.  But life seems replete with opportunities to enjoy happiness if  one is willing to risk their financial situations, their hearts, their very pride in order to reap the potential benefits.  Where do YOU fit in when it comes to taking such risks?  I’d LOVE comments on this.  Feel free to get this discussion rolling with me.

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