Doodle Dad Life

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

On January 17, the year of our Lord, 2023, I took our Goldendoodle to the groomer for a trim. Tucker is his name. Properly, Tucker Scout Mitchell. He has a full three names in his name. That’s how much of a doodle dad I am.

The backstory of why we have a doodle is pretty simple. My wife doesn’t like hair on her pants. Or couch. Or floor. To be fair, neither do I. Thus, the doodle is a genetically engineered dog for people who don’t actually want a dog.

Cute, right?

If you’ve never tried to purchase a Goldendoodle, or a black market vital organ, just know that the process is similar to that of the Hunger Games. There are lists, down payments, and alliances… If someone else on the list ahead of you mysteriously vanishes, it’s not all loss and isn’t your fault.

The etymology of Doodle, it turns out, is German for, this dog will cost you everything.

You see, doodles require meticulous grooming. I am lucky if my three human daughters’ hair gets brushed every day.

I Wanted a Dog the Least

When Tucker does get brushed, it’s usually because I brush him. I pretty much do the most for him which makes sense because I wanted him the least.

And I knew what would happen.

Against my otherwise unbreakable will, I’ve bonded with the bugger. He went to work with me on the daily for a year coming out of COVID protocols. We’re thick as thieves. It’s to the point that I actually felt some anxiety leaving him with the groomer. Granted, I feel anxious 80% of the time, so there wasn’t a lot to be concerned about.

My greater concern was the end of the day.

8 Hours Later

Pickup time.

Like many businesses, the groomer decided that even after Covid the whole not interacting with people was best for everyone. You arrive, call the number posted outside, and they bring your beloved pup out to you.

Waiting in the car on a dreary day, having wondered hour after hour what Tucker would look like, I was strangely giddy and slightly fearful for what I’d see.

The rain falls. I wait.

Sheila emerges from a concrete path lined by hedges. It was as dramatic a scene as my Tennessee Volunteers running through the T in Neyland Stadium.

Then I saw a dog trailing somewhat slothfully behind Sheila. I felt sorry for whoever was taking that one home. Not only was the dog mostly hairless, but I’m also fairly certain its soul had been taken in the process.

Sheila passed by the only other car in the pick-up zone. Oh dear. Clearly, Sheila has made a mistake. This wasn’t my precious Tucker. When Sheila opened the back door and put the animal in my car, it acted like it knew me. At that moment I realized I was going home with this doodle lite version of a doodle.

The part of the exchange I appreciated the most was when Sheila vocalized that she had to shave Tucker. That felt like an unspoken to me since I’d dropped off the likes of Chewbacca that morning.

I joked around a bit about not liking his hair anyways, and she struck back fast.

“Yeah…he’s an every day brush.”

Excuse me?

“You have to brush him every single day. And make sure you work around his mouth to get him used to that so he doesn’t nip at me next time.”

Noted.

There’s More…

Like an aging mother telling her adult child all of the unfortunate things happening with her body, Sheila then informed me that she’d gotten really deep into his ears and cleaned those out. “He’ll be shaking his head quite a bit for the next few days.” Apparently, whatever hair the doodle doesn’t shed just relocates to its ears. Super.

“And don’t worry if he forms some hematomas around his ears, that’s normal.”

I’m not a doctor, Sheila.

One Last Thing

I was ready to say thanks and head on to hear the collective groan of my family, but she wasn’t done. Sheila leaned in(to) my rolled-down driver-side window. Real serious-like she lowered her volume and flattened her tone, “Just so you know, his anal glands were about half full.”

And then she just kept staring into my eyes, as if to say, “I think you know what I’m saying.” 

I did not.

Is 50 a good percentage of anal gland fullness?

How are we keeping score? Is this like golf where the lower number is better, or are we playing basketball and I need to get more into those glands to win the game? What are we even doing at this point, Sheila? What is this dance?

All I know is I dropped off a vibrant, one-and-a-half-year-old doodle who seemed pretty satisfied with his hairiness and his anal glands at the time, and I was going home with the equivalent of a 94-year-old man who needs around-the-clock care and is most definitely going to pass the time by scooting his rear across my living room rug. 

But it’s fine because there is absolutely no hair getting on my wife’s pants. 

Blubber: a story of staying pudgy

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

This follow-up to my non-viral post, the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever written to people on the Internet, is really more of a prequel, which makes this a lot like whatever happened with the Star Wars movies.

How did I get to the point of not loving me? That sounds too inclusive. It’s not all of me, just the physical me, so no big deal.

It took a while to get here, but let me let you join me on the journey.

I wasn’t always pudgy. No. There were pre-pudge glory years of an eon past.

Domination to Deflation

The year was 1990. The place, my hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee. The setting was the Knox County area elementary field day. You can sense the excitement and anticipation in the stands, filled to overflowing with hundreds of kids stupefied by classmates hopping around in potato sacks.

I didn’t participate in an honorable mention event, though, people of the Internet. I was fast. No lie. Like a Nick Cage movie to DVD fast.

My event was the 100-yard dash. I owned it, probably due to the stellar coaching of my PE teacher who was none other than Kenny Chesney’s dad. I never met Kenny. But, add 100ish pounds to the blue chair sittin’ fella holding the pirate flag and chilled rum concoction, and that’s Kenny’s dad.

A slight slip on some loose gravel at the sound of the starting gun meant I had ground to make up. But I already told you. I was fast. I won that race in 1990.

I’d never win another one (until I had kids and totally dominate).

The following year at our school field day/qualifying meet of the now-defunct Giffin Elementary, I came in third place. How did it happen? I didn’t trip or even pull a hammy a la ESPN 30 for 30 style. I was just flat out slower.

The Downfall

So what happened? How was my glory so short-lived? Were my socks too high (not possible, it was ’91)? Was my shirt tucked too tightly into the elastic waistband of my shorts? I need to know why!

It’s pretty simple, actually. Corn dogs.

Corn dogs and mashed potatoes and chicken-and-dumplings and Dr. Pepper and Cheese Wiz and copious amounts of banana pudding.

My heart didn’t quit on me that field day. My metabolism did.

That may not be 100% accurate, scientifically speaking, but it feels right, so let’s run with it.

I was an active kid. Riding my bike around the hood, playing basketball, baseball, 1.5 years of football (apparently it’s full contact, not a fan), tennis. But such activity couldn’t compete with my soul-deep desire for biscuits and gravy and milk…always milk.

Fashionably Unfit

My speed faded as fast as MySpace. But something else happened, an inexplicable phenomenon that was beyond my control.

Silk shirts happened.

Button up silk shirts, to be exact. I was given a couple as gifts, probably along with socks and a serving of gravy at Christmastime.

I wore them. Proudly apparently, since, enshrined evermore in my parent’s house is a school picture of me in the multi-striped silky of fifth grade, rivaled only by that of Joseph’s coat of many colors. That shirt, as fly as it was, couldn’t hide a couple of new features I was sporting.

  1. A less defined chin. Sure to capture the admiration of all lady people, my neck was growing upward. Strange.
  2. A mysterious case of gynecomastia.

In other words, my face was getting chubby. Also, what’s gynecomastia, you ask? It’s serious, people.

Maybe you know this condition by its street name…man-boob. What causes this mystery illness? Turns out it’s the same root cause of slowness.

Corn dogs and mashed potatoes and chicken-and-dumplings and Dr. Pepper and Cheese Wiz and copious amounts of banana pudding. Did I fail to mention that there is no cheese in Cheese Whiz? It’s just whiz.

Some dudes put on weight in their bellies and it never hits their chests. Others carry the excess in their posteriors or thighs–if only, my friends. My stowaway luggage fits nicely into the ever-so-obvious pectoral region, not to mention my face and tummy. Such is the pattern my fourth-grade self experienced for the first time.

Want proof that I’m still pudgy? My lovely, supportive, sensitive wife just professed her love the other day saying, “I’ve never even seen an ab on you.”

“An.” Just one. That’s all the poor girl wants. She isn’t greedy.

I’d like to give her that ab show–just the one. No more, lest I become vain and call down the Lawd’s wrath.

For Better or Fat

To be fair, I wasn’t ripped, as they say, when my bride and I said our death vows. I wasn’t fat, but I wasn’t svelte. I was pudgy…say it again with me – pudgy. Even that word sounds fat.

Early on in our wedded bliss, we moved to California where people tend to be fit. If not they just own it and wear tighter pants. Kudos to you, California.

I was in seminary and working at a church. Seminary is code for, I’m putting on 30 pounds and you can’t stop me. At 6-feet tall, I was a soft 225 pounds. It wasn’t handsome, burly, or any other manly adjective. The buttons on my shirt were sweating, and I was sweating. Lots of sweating.

Something had to give, mainly because my wife had a hard time looking at me. Mind you, when she did look she couldn’t miss me. So I started running and not eating crap. What happened?

I lost 40 pounds. My gynecomastia was cured! It’s a miracle!!

Yes, science is a miracle. Does that make me a doctor? I don’t know. You be the judge of that.

As a doctor, I discovered that the secret to not being fat is exercise and an appropriate diet (not a crazy can’t keep it up diet, just a healthy way of eating and being). **Disclaimer** Yes, there are actual medical conditions that make weight management difficult.** End disclaimer.

But, even after dropping the weight of a 3-yr-old, did Lindsey see that ab?? Nope. Pay closer attention.

What Now?

I’m working on the pudge purge. Persistence is the name of the game. I’ve made so many plans and set so many lofty goals that I don’t care to do either again. Persistence, though, she’s a gift. Show up each day. Say no to the kids’ scraps from dinner and from eating one of everything that goes in their lunch because that’s eating four extra lunches.

I don’t even like the saying “progress, not perfection” because then I feel crappy that my progress isn’t progressive enough. That’s why I say persistence. I’m becoming the guy who shows up each day. Who says no to the doughnut, even after taking a bite and feeling the shame that leads to spitting it out.

Here’s to the journey. Of course, you’ll be at the top of the list of folks I let know when the elusive abdominal comes out of hibernation.

The most vulnerable thing I have ever written to people on the Internet

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

Computer generated depiction of what I’d look like as Chris Hemsworth playing Thor

I don’t know how to say it or where to start.

It’s incredibly uncomfortable to write.

Here goes — body image has been a big thing for me for a long time.

No turning back.

I used to be thin. Yeah, six was a good age.

But something happened. All the corndogs and bologna just stayed around, as is affixed to my body until death do us part. Weird. If only science had been around in the 80s and early 90s.

Since then, I’ve dreaded summer. Pool time. The beach.

Why say it now, Patrick? Why here? Why trust me with it?

Well, trusted Internet blog reader person, putting myself out there will bring accountability. The incomparable Seth Godin talks about the importance of publishing, putting words out there for people to read or not. The important part is hitting the publish button.

So now you have the weighty responsibility of helping hold me accountable with eating and exercise and endurance training and exciting runs and excruciating foam roller sessions.

Not looking for perfection. The goal is to show up each day. See you tomorrow. Not literally. This is the Internet.

How to avoid being criticized

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

Photo by Daniel Reche from Pexels

This post is a follow up of sorts to this post, so you should go read that post.

You want to stay safe professionally, relationally, politically, religiously, creatively?

Simple. Just do the same thing mostly the same way all the time. That’s safe. It’s manageable and tame. Like a declawed, defanged cat. It still won’t love you.

Safe also keeps the critics at bay. Do what you’re expected to do and not much more. You can actually do less and still be looked on with favor. And the best part–you can still criticize others without being criticized yourself!! What is this sorcery magic? How is that possible?

Allow me to allow Seth Godin to explain.

If your work has never been critcized, it’s unlikely you have any work. Creating work is the point, though, which means that in order to do something that matters, you’re going to be criticized.

If your goal is to be universally liked and respected an understood, then, it must mean your goals is to not do something that matters. Which requires hiding. Hiding, of course, isn’t the point.

Hence, the paradox. You don’t want to be criticized and you do want to matter.

The solution: Create work that gets criticized. AND, have the discernment to tell the difference between useful criticism (rare and precious) and the stuff worth ignoring (everything else).

Published on Seth’s blog

Thanks, Seth.

In other words, staying safe is simple. You just do average. Do what’s expected–or less! But not too much less because then even average will make you look really awful.

Go out and get criticized for doing something matters. Shouldn’t be too hard.

Every man’s question

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

Photo by Chad Witbooi from Pexels

Deep down, some deeper than others, every man wonders if he’s good enough.

Good enough at what, for who or what? All of it.

Dad. Husband. Worker. Role model. Single and unashamed. Physiquer–because we all know the dad bod thing is a lie that some sweet wife made up to make her unfit husband feel less bad. God bless that woman.

This question of sufficiency is inescapable. Undoubtedly it’s there for women as well, but my expertise is in being a man. Feeling the doubts and insufficiencies and insecurities.

For some it leads to posturing; for others, it’s retreating. Many lean in and try to get better, be better, do better. But even when confident that I am hidden with Christ and acceptable to the Father, lingering still is that tug on my coattail–You’re not. You can’t. You won’t.

Learning to quiet the voice and imprison the thoughts has been one of the toughest lessons yet. It makes sense that the voices grow in proportion to the level of responsibility one has.

As we seek to show compassion and grace to one another, don’t forget yourself.

Brennan Manning writes of this tension:

They [disciples of Jesus] are fed up with themselves, sick of their own mediocrity, disgusted by their own inconsistency, bored by their own monotony. They would never judge any other of God’s children with the savage self-condemnation with which they crush themselves.

The Relentless Tenderness of Jesus, 152

Manning speaks of Jesus followers plagued by self-hatred, not just in religious matters, but across all slants of life. The word for my brothers is this: Only “to the extent that we allow the compassion of the Lord to invade our hearts” are we freed from “that self-hatred that we are now even ashamed of.”

Open the gate, dear son, that the Lord’s compassion might storm and captivate your soul. His energy is your energy. His sufficiency is your sufficiency.

Enough Sexy, Bring the Romance Back

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

JT, bringing sexy back

When Justin Timberlake brought sexy back in 2006, I was a few weeks away from getting married. That was the perfect time to bring it back since I’d be spending a lush seven days in St. Lucia with my bride. This post isn’t about that trip, or even my marriage, but indulge with me.

While JT brought it back, I sent sexy packing again by stockpiling about 30 lbs of not muscle within a year or so. I was basically a barrel with arms and legs. No amount of sensuous R&B or mood lighting was going to make that sexy.

I wasn’t really romantic in that time either, not like when I was in high school and college. Point of fact, in the years of yesterfar the iconic rain embrace scene from The Notebook was my desktop background. My movie genre of choice was Romantic Comedies. News flash: the love fern is dead.

While I wasn’t always the best human I could be, I cared about romantics. I had the crushes and made the mixtapes (if you listen closely you can still hear K-Ci & JoJo singing ‘All My Life’). I would wait for the daily top five countdown with a blank cassette tape in my JVC boombox (exact model in the pic), ready to hit play and record with Ethan Hunt precision. Your mission, should you choose to accept it–try not to fall in love with the guy who made this wicked tape!

If all went according to plan, the progression of relationship would go as follows:

“I like you.” “We’re talking.” “Want to go out?” “Want to be boyfriend and girlfriend?” “Let’s get married.”

Something formative happens in the midst of hopeless romanticism and being head over heels in like. Something formative also happens in its absence.

Hello Sexy, Goodbye Romance

When sexy came onto campus, she kicked romance out the door. It wouldn’t be long before twerking would be a thing. And with twerking came the end of civilization or, at least, civilized courtship, dating, and age-appropriate romance. Meaningful communication took a nosedive. Kids would never know what it’s like to breathe over the phone for an hour in between spurts of pubescent awkwardness.

Younger generations have been dating digitally way before COVID. It’s why right now there are umpteen teens in passenger seats while mom drives, thumbs flailing across digital keypads as if independent from the body. Swiping, scrolling, sending, sliding into DMs (gross?). Gotta keep the streaks alive, am I right? I’m a savage. You’re a savage. We’re all savages. Screens have yet to make anyone more human.

I’m not anti-technology. I kept it 100 when I courted my wife on AOL instant messenger. I had away messages that made knees melt.

Now.

It feels different. Impersonal. Un-embodied. A massive confusing of attention for affection. Thus, the birth of arched back photos, ratchets, and body counts.

Sensual Death Tolls

If you’re out of the slang game, a body count no longer only refers to casualties of war, terrorist attacks, or natural disasters. No, dear friend. Language once reserved for the worst disasters is now reserved for how many people someone has been with sexually. Every young girl’s dream…to be on Mr. Right’s hit list. A casualty of war.

Why so serious? Because the anguish I feel is deep. It’s like watching Dorian Grays frolicking in fantasy land, as if his portrait tucked away in the attic isn’t externally disfigured as a result of internal decadence.

Young hearts longing for romance are settling for rendezvous. Once hopeful sprites for love now given over to the lowest common sexual denominator because, what other choice is there? This is a bit of a cry for help. I’m crying out to parents and teachers and friends and churches.

A Better Way

Part of why I published this is to make myself for accountable in romancing my girl. She deservers way more. Time to step up. Our kids get giddy when they see dad and mom flirt and kiss, especially when mom “acts” like she doesn’t like it.

It starts with painting an alternative, better picture of romance and relationship. Romantic pursuit, conversation, flirting, dating, notes, and all the things. For those who are married, seriously consider: would you be thrilled if your kids had your marriage?

Selfishly, there’s more to it. Chances are (albeit slim), that someone reading this post has a boy who will one day stand in front of one of my three girls asking if she’ll love him.

So go on. Cast a crazy beautiful picture of romance for that kid.

*** Switch to Side B for the rest of the mix tape.

Lessons from demons

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

Some guy talking

Throughout the New Testament Gospels, it’s rarely the church folk who recognize the true identity of the insightful yet salty carpenter from Nazareth who teaches like nobody they’d ever heard before. It certainly is not the church leaders who recognize the true identity of the incomparable son of Joseph.

You probably guessed from the title. It’s the demons. Those rascally unclean spirits get it right every time. Those spirits from below see him, hear him, know him, and are aware of his nature and power.

In Mark 1.21-28, there are a couple of lessons I think we can glean from one such unclean spirit (Mark’s choice phrase) who inhabited a local from Capernaum.

And they went into Capernaum, and immediately on the Sabbath he entered the synagogue and was teaching. 22 And they were astonished at his teaching, for he taught them as one who had authority, and not as the scribes. 23 And immediately there was in their synagogue a man with an unclean spirit. And he cried out, 24 “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are—the Holy One of God.” 25 But Jesus rebuked him, saying, “Be silent, and come out of him!” 26 And the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying out with a loud voice, came out of him. 27 And they were all amazed, so that they questioned among themselves, saying, “What is this? A new teaching with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.” 28 And at once his fame spread everywhere throughout all the surrounding region of Galilee. (ESV)


These lessons are for those who ever craft sermons or draw the short straw to give the obligatory devotional talk before what everyone else is really looking forward to. Because of my extensive theological training and study, most of which could be Googled, I read verse 22 and know why the people aren’t enthralled with the teachings of the scribes.

Lesson 1: If you want to stand out as a preacher or teacher of the Bible, you have to resist giving into the scribal practice of regurgitating what everyone else thinks about a text. Synthesizing a series of other peoples’ commentary on what a passage of scripture says and calling it your own is not only disingenuous, it’s an ‘F’ in English class everywhere.

Why, then, is it so readily accepted in church?

I’ve done it myself in the angst of feeling like I’d better have something worthwhile to say on Sunday. Or, when I’ve been told to hit a home run with the sermon. I don’t know what that looks like…do people swoon, bark (it’s happened before), stand up and mean mug me while I say something inspirational a la Steven Furtick’s Elevators (I assume that’s what Elevation Church attendees are called).

No, Jesus taught with an authority that first-century women and men hadn’t experienced because he was the author. There was originality, albeit a bit unfair since he’s always existed, to what he spoke and how he connected it to their lives. The point remains. There is a temptation to find what a popular speaker, communicator, or preacher has already said, take notes, repeat that process, and then smush it all together to make it “your own” by adding a dabble of personal stories.

Bottom line of lesson 1–fight the urge to be a grown up smusher together of everyone else’s opinions. Read widely for sure. But make every effort to craft your own thoughts first.

Lesson 2: Here’s is one of many questions to ask when sitting with a passage or idea or topic. As the unclean spirit looked and asked of Jesus, What have you to do with us, so we must ask of the Scriptures before us.

Whether reading in the prophets or psalms or epistles, the question is the same. Jesus, what have you to do with us in this passage? And, correspondingly, what would have us do because of it?

I used to be quite satisfied with spouting off a running commentary of a Bible passage. Here’s what this means and how it connects to history and what so and so has to say about it. Good luck doing anything with it!

Application is more than giving someone an idea of how the Bible is relevant to their life. It’s teaching and showing people how to lay their lives bare before the Lord of the Bible and to find a place in the unfolding story of Redemption. I haven’t done that well historically. I thought I was getting better, but the doubts are always there.

Lesson 3: (though not in the Bible) You’ll probably always doubt whether you did any good with your talk, devo, sermon, blog (wait, what?). Who said anything about blogging? But seriously. You’ll doubt.

What do you do with those voices?

If you’ve really asked of Jesus, what have you to do with us here, and have wrestled with the what do you want from us here, then you can rest after the fact knowing that you were not striving to make something happen in the moment.

Life has lyrics to forget

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

I used to watch Newlyweds. I did. I loved it. I also love that it has a Wikipedia page as well to tag when writing about Newlyweds.

Nick and Jessica will forever be in my heart. Not in one another’s. But mine, yes.

I saw a clip years later of Nick and his brother Drew singing at their grandmother’s wedding (or something like that). For those who weren’t in the coolest of cool groups in the 90s, one of 98 Degrees’ biggest hits was I Do, Cherish You. It was a mixed CD staple.

In the 90s, you could only wear denim and white, in no particular order.

It was also a redo of a country song, which may be the only boy band hit to boast such a genesis. Regardless, Nick Lachey probably sang that song 1,000 times, scientifically speaking.

So there Nick and Drew are, at granny’s wedding (or something like that), rehearsing for the walk down the aisle. And Nick doesn’t remember the words! Oh, Nick, you’re so crazy, forgetting the words to the song you sang for 10 years.

It’s comical how something so familiar can feel so foreign at times.

I have a great friend who is a great singer of great songs he’s written. He used to forget words to his own songs. It was always awkward.

My son loves to sing. In the shower. Doing chores. In the car. Doing chores in the shower before getting in the car. Singing is his favorite. Christmas is also his favorite, which means Christmas songs are his favorite favorite.

A few weeks ago he boldly belted out O Come, Let Us Adore Him. He knew the melody. He knew when to go up and down and when to get softer and louder. That he didn’t know the correct words seemed a non-factor to his ill-formed frontal cortex. As far as he was concerned, he was nailing it.

Ready for what any of that goobly gop has to do with our adult lives?

I can’t help but feel that there are days upon days when it seems I know the tune…maybe I’ve even sung it perfectly before. Marriage, parenting, friendship, conflict, work, finances. We have lots of songs to sing.

We know the crescendos and tempo changes, but doggonit, sometimes I can’t remember the blasted words!!

I know what marriage is supposed to sound like and how that relationship is intended to flow and how my job harmonizes with it all. But I’m singing and just. can’t. remember. the. next. ___________.

Those moments are going to happen. I’ve appreciated when artists have just owned it right there in the moment and didn’t pretend like they were perfect. They laughed at themselves and made everyone feel free to laugh as well.

At 36, I’m learning to own my lyrical amnesia. I’ve been owning it a lot lately.

  • Sorry, children…it’s not you, it’s me.
  • Sorry, babe…it’s the kids, not you. Okay, no, that’s me too.
  • Sorry, teacher at school…that was my fault.
  • Sorry, person struggling to figure out the merge lane…it really is you and you’re the only one who doesn’t know it so I’m not owning that one.

What do we do in those frightful moments when the music’s playing, but the lyrics just aren’t there?

I think we keep singing. Keep belting it out like we know what we’re doing. And when it’s clear–even if only to ourselves–that we’ve forgotten the lyrics, we own it. Name it. Laugh or ask forgiveness or confess or whatever the moment requires. 

And if you’re wondering

I do, cherish you
For the rest of my life
You don’t have to think twice
I will, love you still, from the depths of my soul

 Love, Nick and Patrick (we do share a birthday, so that counts)

This is why you criticize others

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

I’m pretty good at it.

I’ve trained for it my whole life.

Like Rocky Balboa trains for a fight.

Rising before the sun knows I’m up, with a beard burlier than the night before, efforts aimed at capturing a deer I’m chasing up a Russian mountainside in four feet of snow, while simultaneously processing the emotional devastation of what this all means for my wife, kids, and the sequel…and then eating said deer, raw. The metaphor broke down somewhere, but the deer I’m eating is my ability to criticize.

There’s a lot of time for criticizing, especially if you have a poor work ethic, which I’ve had for much of my life.

I feel better saying it. Confession really is good for the soul.

It’s true. My dad tried to get me to work hard. To clean with great detail, build manly things out of wooden materials, “fix” broken stuff.

One attempt on his part to teach me responsibility and work ethic I remember like it was 30 years ago. He pushed our vintage Snapper riding mower out of the garage and onto the driveway.

After driving it down to the field in the rear of our house, the lesson began. Here’s how to start it. Here’s the blade engage. This pedal makes you go. (I nodded, probably overconfidently so as to compensate for my obviously not understanding.) You also want to look back every now and then to make sure the engine isn’t on fire.

Fire? Like the hot kind?

No, dad. I don’t want to do that. The prospect of burning to death for the sake of a neatly manicured 3/4 of an acre didn’t rouse the manual labor muse within.

I didn’t find my work stride until more recently. Part of it is the job. Part of it is the community of folks I’m around. Part of it is my wife–let’s be honest…a huge part. If I have any parts left, another one is what I’m reading now. Not theology. It’s more practical theology–like the be doers of what you’re reading, not just hearers, part.

Steven Pressfield has written novels, screenplays, and non-fiction kicks in the rear. The latter is what I’ve been devouring the last month.

The War of Art

Turning Pro

Do the Work

These are gold mines for me. The principles therein are such that I can superimpose them on the last decade of my life and then wish Uncle Rico’s time machine really worked so I could go back and do a lot of things very differently.

At least I found them at 36 and not 46. Those of you who are 46 know what I’m saying, right?

Here I am now. Learning and growing. Growing and learning. The learning usually has to do with some deficiency deep on my withinside.

In The War of Art, I appreciated Pressfield adding this biographical portion about me –

If you find yourself criticizing other people, you’re probably doing it out of Resistance. When we see others beginning to live their authentic selves, it drives us crazy if we have not lived our own.

The War of Art, p. 38

Thanks, Steve. May I call you Steve?

Translation: We criticize others who are moving closer to becoming who they really are.

They’ve pushed through resistance and done the hard work of doing the work. And when I, you, we see someone do that, we can’t help but be envious. So we find something not to like.

Ah, but what (who) we really don’t like is ourselves. In that way, rather than scratching the itch to criticize, let it serve as a built-in reality check. What am I not doing that I want to be doing? What have I not accomplished? What have I given up on? What resistance am I permitting to keep me from becoming who I really am?

Who knows. Maybe you and I will be criticized one day.