I will often tell clients to journal because sometimes when you are feeling something or thinking something, it is very valuable to capture that thought and moment of inspiration. Once it passes, you may never get it back. Most of the greatest minds in history kept some sort of journal, to capture their ideas and develop them.
It often happens in silence. When all the kids have gone to bed, the phone isn't buzzing and the television isn't on, your mind can actually get a chance to really reflect. This is where growth can actually happen... if you let it. So as person who believes with all his heart that prayers are answered, I face life's challenges with full conviction that there is power in prayer and that prayer can indeed change our lives. So when an event happens, and I know that there are many people (many very good people) praying for the same thing, it only makes sense that things would swing in the positive direction. And when it doesn't, I get frustrated and scared, and question, "why?"
Then I answer myself with the fact that things are happening exactly how they were intended to and, just like we sometimes tell our children, "you don't need to know why" because they wouldn't understand, I need to just keep praying... and maybe I'll never understand "why?" After all, why not? Who am I to say how life is "supposed to" go? After all it is happening exactly how it should, just not according to my definition. I don't like it. God give us patience.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Why Are You Watching Me?
"It is freezing out here." I thought, staring down at the yellow and red leaves at my feet. I was trying to keep warm, but also trying to keep my face dry. It was a cold, wet, fall day and as I'm looking down at the wet leaves covering the grass. My brother, who's standing next to me says, "this is stupid." "I know," I say. "We aren't even doing anything."
About 20 minutes ago, my father yelled upstairs to us to get dressed because he "needed our help outside." We got dressed and came outside. He led us into the garage and lifted this old wooden ladder off the two homemade pegs on the garage wall. That ladder always looked so darn heavy. It must have been a 32 foot ladder, and probably at least 32 years old. "Watch it. This thing is heavy." he'd say as he carried it around the back of the house and stood it up on the grass. I just kept wondering why he chose such an ugly fall day to do this. What I realize now, is that he probably wasn't too excited about it either, but he had to do it on one of the only days he had off of work. Then he attached a yellow, nylon rope to a 5 gallon bucket by making some kind of funny knot on the handle. We just stood there watching, "doing nothing."
Then he'd lean the ladder up against the gutter and after a quick tutorial about how to properly use a ladder and how to hold the ladder for another person, he'd start his ascent, bucket in tow. We then would assume the position, right next to each other, with our feet by the feet of the ladder and our hands holding the ladder up against the house. We would alternate looking up to see what he's doing, then back down because the rain was falling on our face. Just as we start to day dream, watching the water drip off our hoods onto our matching, Venture brand gym shoes, he'd interupt us. "Watch it," he'd say, as he lowered the bucket. We'd look inside and see black decaying leaves, often smelling of wet, rotting yard waste. We would empty it into the garbage can and he'd hoist it back up again.
Then, at the moment when we were most bored and most mad at my dad for dragging an 8 and 10 year old out in the cold rain, he'd yell from the top of the ladder, "why are you watching me?" And we would yell back up with that phrase that we knew he was waiting for, "So that we know how to do it when we get older!"
Then he would continue to do his thing, raising and lowering the bucket, and every 20 minutes, repeating our dialogue with him. "Why are you guys watching me?" "So we know how to do it when we get older."
"This is stupid," I'd whisper. "Tell me about it," says my brother.
About 20 minutes ago, my father yelled upstairs to us to get dressed because he "needed our help outside." We got dressed and came outside. He led us into the garage and lifted this old wooden ladder off the two homemade pegs on the garage wall. That ladder always looked so darn heavy. It must have been a 32 foot ladder, and probably at least 32 years old. "Watch it. This thing is heavy." he'd say as he carried it around the back of the house and stood it up on the grass. I just kept wondering why he chose such an ugly fall day to do this. What I realize now, is that he probably wasn't too excited about it either, but he had to do it on one of the only days he had off of work. Then he attached a yellow, nylon rope to a 5 gallon bucket by making some kind of funny knot on the handle. We just stood there watching, "doing nothing."
Then he'd lean the ladder up against the gutter and after a quick tutorial about how to properly use a ladder and how to hold the ladder for another person, he'd start his ascent, bucket in tow. We then would assume the position, right next to each other, with our feet by the feet of the ladder and our hands holding the ladder up against the house. We would alternate looking up to see what he's doing, then back down because the rain was falling on our face. Just as we start to day dream, watching the water drip off our hoods onto our matching, Venture brand gym shoes, he'd interupt us. "Watch it," he'd say, as he lowered the bucket. We'd look inside and see black decaying leaves, often smelling of wet, rotting yard waste. We would empty it into the garbage can and he'd hoist it back up again.
Then, at the moment when we were most bored and most mad at my dad for dragging an 8 and 10 year old out in the cold rain, he'd yell from the top of the ladder, "why are you watching me?" And we would yell back up with that phrase that we knew he was waiting for, "So that we know how to do it when we get older!"
Then he would continue to do his thing, raising and lowering the bucket, and every 20 minutes, repeating our dialogue with him. "Why are you guys watching me?" "So we know how to do it when we get older."
"This is stupid," I'd whisper. "Tell me about it," says my brother.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Wake up, mijo.
"Wake up, mijo (son). I want to talk to you," he'd say. "Meno, Ray, Jeff, you too, get up. I want to talk to yous." It would be about 11pm and we had been sleeping for about two hours. I could hear my mother in the background saying, "let them sleep. It's late." "No, I want to talk to them...just for a few minutes." My dad would say. "Come on guys, get up and come to the kitchen, I want to talk to you."
He used to do this about once every six months when we were little. I look back now and think that it was probably the ten o'clock news that would spark something inside of my father, and get him thinking. He would feel the sudden urge to tell us. Right then. Even if we were sound asleep. We'd all stumble into the kitchen, half asleep, feeling like we were in trouble. The look on daddy's face was not one of happiness. Yep, it was definitely anger. But we didn't know why, until he started to talk.
"I wanna tell yous something." You guys don't know what it is like to be poor. "When I was younger, I had to start working at the age of 11 so that I could pay for my own haircut. Because grandpa would only get us crew-cuts, and I got tired of getting my head shaved." Then he would go on to tell us about the different struggles he had in life. I'd stll be looking at him, trying to figure out what this was all about, trying my hardest not to break eye contact. But it always felt like he was staring at me the most. He would often cry while telling his story, and sometimes we would be crying too. But here is what he'd always end with...
"And don't you ever, EVER, treat anybody differently because of the color of their skin, or the way they talk, or where they are from!" "Do you know why?" And we would stare at him, not sure if he wanted us to answer with a 7 year old answer. If you've ever seen an Arroyo angry, you know that our eyes get really big. And there we were in that 4 seconds or so that were passing very slowly, and one of us would say softly, "No." Then he would say, "because some day it is going to happen to you. And you're going to know what it feels like. And it hurts."
After about an hour and a half had passed, my mom would say, "O.k. Manuel. It's late. Let them go to bed." "Alright, come give me a kiss good night." And we'd all line up and give my dad a kiss and go to bed, still not exactly sure what happened. Now I get it.
He was speaking from the heart. And it had an impact on ours.
He used to do this about once every six months when we were little. I look back now and think that it was probably the ten o'clock news that would spark something inside of my father, and get him thinking. He would feel the sudden urge to tell us. Right then. Even if we were sound asleep. We'd all stumble into the kitchen, half asleep, feeling like we were in trouble. The look on daddy's face was not one of happiness. Yep, it was definitely anger. But we didn't know why, until he started to talk.
"I wanna tell yous something." You guys don't know what it is like to be poor. "When I was younger, I had to start working at the age of 11 so that I could pay for my own haircut. Because grandpa would only get us crew-cuts, and I got tired of getting my head shaved." Then he would go on to tell us about the different struggles he had in life. I'd stll be looking at him, trying to figure out what this was all about, trying my hardest not to break eye contact. But it always felt like he was staring at me the most. He would often cry while telling his story, and sometimes we would be crying too. But here is what he'd always end with...
"And don't you ever, EVER, treat anybody differently because of the color of their skin, or the way they talk, or where they are from!" "Do you know why?" And we would stare at him, not sure if he wanted us to answer with a 7 year old answer. If you've ever seen an Arroyo angry, you know that our eyes get really big. And there we were in that 4 seconds or so that were passing very slowly, and one of us would say softly, "No." Then he would say, "because some day it is going to happen to you. And you're going to know what it feels like. And it hurts."
After about an hour and a half had passed, my mom would say, "O.k. Manuel. It's late. Let them go to bed." "Alright, come give me a kiss good night." And we'd all line up and give my dad a kiss and go to bed, still not exactly sure what happened. Now I get it.
He was speaking from the heart. And it had an impact on ours.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Ask yourself a question
Can I speak from the heart? Do I even know what that means? How many people in my life know me? ...really know me? If I had a traumatic event happen in my life today, how many people do I have around me for support? Isolation, or defensive living is sometimes a quick fix for frustration, anxiety and annoyances, but it definitely does not have long term benefits. Speaking from the heart is necessary to solidify the close relationships in our lives, leading to more peace of mind everyday. In later entries, I will give example of what it means to speak from the heart. I hope that the stories I share will inspire you to connect with the people around you on a level that, perhaps, you haven't experienced before.
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