New week, new intention.

About two months ago, I decided to do Yoga with Adriene's 30 Days of Yoga Challenge. I've practiced yoga for about eight years now with some regularity. This seemed like a good way to log more mat time. 

Day 1 started out with Adriene asking me to set an intention for the 30 days. My intention was kumquat, for two reasons: 1) It's a funny word. 2) This is what drives me nuts about yoga. I'm all about the mind-body connection, but as soon as yoga veers in that direction, you lose me.

I was wrong. Setting an intention is a good way to focus your energy on a critical component of your struggle. A big part of mine is clutter, the physical and mental kind. Our two-bedroom apartment is cluttered with stuff I've forgotten that I own. My head is cluttered with ideas and thought patterns that do not serve me. Why hold onto any of it?

My intention this week is simplicity. I'll be setting one every Monday.

What's your intention?

What Latin taught me about failure.

It started out as a requirement. I wanted a concentration in classical studies to go with my history minor. I got more than I bargained for. I got my ass kicked.

Latin I was a bloodbath. I could memorize the declensions and conjugations. But when it came to translation or composition, I crumbled. I had no idea how the pieces fit together. When I looked under the hood of this language, I saw something awesome in its complexity. 

I was defeated. I dragged myself back to class and back to my copy of Wheelock's Latin day in and day out. Nothing worked. I was barely passing and felt like I was holding back the rest of the class. At first, I was ashamed of my failure. And then I accepted it. 

I ground out the rest of Latin I and managed to scrape together a B- for the semester. And I came back around for Latin II. I wanted that concentration. I went into Latin II knowing it was going to be an ordeal, knowing I would fail. And that's when it clicked.

I could read it left to right. I understood the syntax. And most important, I saw the beauty in the efficiency of the language. It had a functional strength that I've since pushed to emulate in how I approach English as a writer and editor.

Why did it suddenly make sense? I accepted that it was going to be difficult. I accepted that I was going to fail. And when I stopped trying so hard not to fail, I succeeded.

I keep my copy of Wheelock's Latin on my nightstand. I put my glasses on top of it before I go to sleep. When I put them on in the morning, it's the first object I see as my eyesight comes back into focus. It's a useful reminder.

What's stopping you.

Right now, there's something you'd rather be doing. Right now, there's something in your life you want to change. There's a job you hate. There's a few pounds you want to lose. There's a room that's begging for a coat of paint. There's a loved one you've been meaning to call. 

What's stopping you? Well, you are.

I know because I'm what's stopping me. I sat on my ass most of tonight, watching the Yankees crush the Mets, waiting for something to come to me that was worth writing about. But that's the writer's struggle, isn't it? Waiting for inspiration to light up the synapses in your brain.

That's bullshit. That's giving in. That's letting me stop me, just like you're letting yourself stop you. 

It's getting late. But as soon as I punctuate this post, I'm going to write for an hour. And I'll get an hour less of sleep tonight. But I'm still going to wake up and swing that 35 pound kettlebell around in the morning (me and the 35 pounder aren't on speaking terms). I'm still going to go to work  in the morning and put out the best Sunday papers I can. And I'm going to come home, open a beer, and write for another hour.

Because if I don't, I'm letting me stop me. And I'm not going to let myself do that. Are you going to let yourself stop you?

Lessons from James Joyce.

It was 2002, my junior year of high school, and I was slouching in the back of my AP English class -- slouching through life, really. We were reading Dubliners by James Joyce. Up until that point, the English language had been as mechanical or automatic as drawing another breath. No room for artistry. I read Araby and it was like someone kicked open a door in my head.

This teacher was one of the best I ever had. Something he said that day early in October sunk into my skin like a splinter, and I've been picking at it ever since.

"James Joyce has done everything there is to be done with the English language. So, what's the point?"

When you're 16, there's a lot of "what's the point?" in your life. Never had I asked myself, what's the point of writing? I assumed he meant the pursuit was pointless, which piqued my interest. It took me 13 years to realize what he meant.

Fast forward to 2009. I'm sitting in a History of Empire class at The College of New Jersey, team taught by two of the other best educators I've ever had. We were talking about Great Britain, and consequently, Ireland. One of them said this:

"The British took Ireland. And naturally, they decide that the Irish are going to speak English. Years later, along comes James Joyce, who does it better than any of the British could. But that's the Irish for you."

In tomorrow's paper, there will be a story about how major colleges and universities are no longer requiring English majors to take Shakespeare courses. I read it, and for the first time, my English teacher's take on Joyce made sense. 

Before there was Joyce, there was Shakespeare. And before there was Shakespeare, there was Virgil. And before there was Virgil, there was Homer. 

My English teacher's point wasn't the futility of writing or storytelling. His point was its progression. Its  process. Its evolution. There won't be another Joyce. But that's not the point. The point, for me anyway, is the calling. The rest will sort itself out.

A life after the war.

This is my grandfather. He's wearing his Coast Guard uniform before deployment in World War II. He can't be older than 19, but he had already lived more than I have in my 28 years. Grandpa Joe would be married soon, if he wasn't already here. His first child would be born while he was at war. His shipmates would get him drunk on Puerto Rican rum. After the Japanese surrendered, he had the chance to go to Antarctica with Rear Admiral Richard Byrd as part of Operation Highjump. Instead, he went home to his family.

He returned from the war and had four more children with my grandmother. He was a postman. Then a teacher. Then a guidance counselor. And somehow, in a tiny cape cod brimming with children, wrote two books on a pad and clipboard while sitting in a bathtub. 

I look at this photo often. It reminds me of how much I love and admire the man. It reminds me to live, work and write by his example.

I've written stories inspired by my grandfather here and here.