“I wouldn’t mind the rat race – if the rats would lose once in a while.” –Tom Wilson (creator of Ziggy)
My house is short for time. We are two weeks from putting our house on the market (a month later than I anticipated). This mark seemed like an eternity two months ago. But it was no eternity…in the midst of erosion-paced days and lightning-quick years the two months passed in no time. And now shit has gotten very very real around here. It is quite likely that my family and I are about two months from moving to Kaua’i. Two months? That’s like an eternity from now.
The house has been a whirlwind of activity lately. I haven’t been writing a lot of new content; I’ve been dealing with the to-do list around the house. I plan to journal here a bit about the days leading up to the big move. I know I have only tread lightly on the topic of this move here, but what do you say concerning something you’re trying to avoid thinking about. Not that I haven’t thought about it. It’s more that I’m always thinking about it but never acknowledging it. The whole thing is so over-whelming. Change is something for which I–simultaneously–clamor and fear, a paradox that a young Alanis would call ironic…and maybe it is, in Canada.
The nut of it is: my family and I are selling our house and a large chunk of our earthly possessions (hopefully a large chunk), and moving down to The Garden Island to help start a church community with our longtime friends Jeff and Kim Adams. We are doing this with some of our other longtime friends (I think nine-ish families in all); several of whom have already relocated to the island. While it is exciting to be a part of something to which I believe God has called us, it is also stressful and scary. Maybe it sounds arrogant that I believe God is calling me to something. I don’t mean to be arrogant. I believe the call of God has more to do with His story than the qualities of those called. My greatest qualification in this endeavor is mere willingness. Were willingness a virtue, I’d be sainted. You know…if I were into that sort of thing. My willingness is not really very pure. It is, in large part, born of my own lack of imagination, or an insatiable appetite there for.
On top of the move, this week has its own excitement. My wife and I are celebrating our 19th year of marriage today, June the 4th. Saturday, up-coming, I’ll be celebrating 40 years of being alive. My 4 year old daughter will be starting in her first pre-school class, set to last the duration of June. And my 5 year old daughter will be participating in her first “Field Day” at school. This Field Day thing has given me reason for anxiety. I hated Field Day. I have the physique and natural athletic ability of a person who hates Field Day. Maychance my daughter will do better in these sorts of endeavors…it would be impossible to do worse. I don’t know how they do the whole rewarding superior athleticism thing these days. In my day, it seemed humiliating. Just a lot of other kids with ribbons. I hope that if this is the case for Lu she at least has a better perspective about it than I did as a kid.
I’ve turned into one of those annoying parents that enjoys kids sports where-in no one pays much attention to the score. Not because I think the presence of winners has the potential to hurt the feelings of the losers (of which I generally was one), but because it sends the message that Field Day or Little League or Jr. Soccer actually matters. When I was a kid, I thought that a red or a(maychance to dream)blue ribbon was an identifiable achievement about which I could brag through the summer. I found out that it was much ado about nothing. But I digress…we are a society who places a high importance upon victory even when it is symbolic. And who knows, maybe Field Day is one of those things that teaches us a skill-set uniquely tuned to the pitch of the rat-race. I learned much about the rat-race from my Field Day experience. Chiefly: Fuck the rat-race. It would be a proud moment in my life should my daughter learn a similar lesson. But I digress even further…
So here it is post number one in a series documenting my break-up with the most enduring love of my life…The Olympic Peninsula. I never imagined I would actually leave this place. Now I can’t imagine staying. Not because I don’t like it here, but because I don’t think I’m supposed to stay. Great stories thrive on tension…