Thanksgiving

It’s that time of year again. But before the commercial spectacle that has come to define the coming weeks begins in earnest, tomorrow we are given a brief opportunity to reflect on what there is to be grateful for. And there is always something to be grateful for. Instead of thinking about what I think my life needs, Thanksgiving gives me a societal mandate to enumerate that which it does not. When framed in such a manner, it is very difficult to feel like I have somehow been shortchanged, as far as material items are concerned anyway. The non-material, however, is a much more complicated picture.

It is all too easy to confuse desire with need. It could come from a primal, perhaps instinctual impulse, but often feeling good, or fulfilled, or complete in oneself requires the participation of others. In other words, we are social beings, we need one another to validate who we are… and that can be a very tricky thing if we are not sure who that is. And it could be even more difficult when we do have a good idea of just what it is we are made of. Inconsistencies are more apparent. Compatibilities are more closely scrutinized. Balancing rational decision and instinctive desire becomes much more precarious. Perfection is forever elusive.

Yet my life is still full; it might even be complete. I might even be complete. That I am still around to think about these and other phenomena is a place I can find a certain degree of gratitude in. I know only too well that nothing is constant, nothing is guaranteed and when nothing is ventured – nothing is gained. I can sit safe and secure in my little comfort zone or push the boundaries of what I believe to be possible, and maybe, just maybe I’ll find that what I want is also what I need. If I don't walk out to the edge, I'll never see the other side.


Happy Thanksgiving.

Solicitors

This blog, on rare occasion, receives spam comments. When I receive an email alert to such a comment, I delete it immediately. I do not write and post this stuff for profit - especially someone else's profit. These comments are generated by "bots" and usually appear on a post that is deep within my archives. It is not an issue that has become so much a problem that I feel the need to install measures to block them. Those precautions always inconvenience that vast majority of my visitors who are actually people.

Less frequently, I'll receive an inquiry from a business - one with some sort of web presence - that wishes to advertise by placing a banner or some other kind of link on my blog. The vast majority of these are generated by real people, although their requests were likely written by someone else. Regardless, these are not malicious attempts to hijack my readers, they are going through the proper channel - me. Although I am not philosophically apposed to advertising on my blog, I am resistant. I don't want to endorse anything that I do not believe in and the few inquiries I have received so far have not satisfied that standard.

How do I know? The following is the most recent example. The name of the firm and the contact information is left unidentified as it is not my purpose to harm their business, but rather to identify what I look for when selecting a firm in which to do business with.

Hello!

I am working for a marketing firm and so I spend my day reading and looking at blogs-- I know your site is valuable to you; and I am sure you are suspicious as I would be if I opened this email. But please let me tell you what I am looking for blogs and other websites that may be will to host a text link. In this economy I know that everyone needs some extra money. So I am emailing you to see if you would be interested in hosting a link on 25 year plan.

Also let me say I know it may not be something that you have done or considered in that past; using your site for advertising but I think that this would benefit both my affiliate and yourself. I will be offering you monetary compensation to host a link. And I only would want you to host a VERY small link on one of the internal pages of your site. I can answer any questions you may have. I hope that we can work something out. Let me know what you think. Thanks in advance!

Cheers, M_____

I would ordinarily just hit the delete button and go about my business, but I guess I was looking for a momentary distraction. The firm has a URL that was not identified in the body of the email, but it was in the address itself.

M_____,

I decided to visit p________.net just out of curiosity. You no doubt noticed that my blog contains absolutely no commercial content - that is, I do not advertise anything except my own work and that of those I feel are worthy. I do not receive any financial incentive or income from anything on my blog. This is not to say that I am forever committed to non-commercial content as I have explored the possibility with solicitors such as yourself in the past. So far, however, I have not found anyone that I wish to associate my blog with.

After visiting your site, I must inform you that, unfortunately, my stance remains unchanged. But since you made the effort to explore my humble blog, I will go one step further in your case and identify (free of charge, for these services usually come at a price) what I found on you website that dissuaded me from associating with your firm.

There are a number of spelling and grammatical errors in the text on your site. If you are to be perceived as professional, everything about you must also be professional. You might counter with something like, "We are computer experts, not English majors." Fair enough, but consider this: If your customers are also computer experts and thus feel the same way about the proper use of English, why would they need your services? They are, after all, in the same business. No, you are more likely catering to a large cross-section of the consumer and business market and thus are likely to encounter those, like myself, who judge professionalism on more than just what you say, but also on how you say it.

And speaking of the technical content of your site, I must say that for webpage, networking and computer experts, it is rather plain. And for a firm that has been in business since 2007 and expanding as your site claims, I would expect more than just what appears to be a standard template that anyone could assemble out of a box. Indeed, even my blog, which is nothing fancy, is far more appealing - and it is nothing more than a standard Blogger template with a custom header.

I extend this information to you in the spirit of sincerity. I am not one who is accustomed to wasting my time for no other reason than to tear down the work of an entrepreneur who is just trying to make a buck. I attack when provoked - your's was not a provocation, but an opportunity to educate (which is my profession).

Best regards,

Michael Althouse

New Tricks

In about two hours, my youngest son will be leaving the safety of a U.S. Army base in Germany and deploying to Afghanistan. He will be serving there for the next year, defending U.S. interests by (hopefully) playing a role in bringing stability to that region of the world. Although I have a far different position regarding our presence in Afghanistan than I do about the war we waged on Iraq, that doesn’t reduce my anxiety about my son being placed in harm’s way. The world, it seems, has turned to the U.S. to deal with this mess, but it is far more complicated than just finding and killing bin Laden. However, hunting bin Laden like an animal is at least a mission that has solid justification. That’s all I want to say about this at the moment – I have purposefully avoided thinking about it, but the time is soon to come…

The things that have pressed themselves upon mind recently are still not much more than barely defined abstractions. They are feelings, or thoughts, or perhaps just the bio-electro-chemical firing of synapses… it is either human sentience based on the purely scientific or something more that creates our self-awareness. The coding of thoughts and feelings into words is a process not unlike a picture slowing coming to view while developing; the image is there, but it is not yet fully visible. That image is slowly beginning to reveal itself…

In less than three weeks I will celebrate the 47th anniversary of my birth. About two weeks later, this blog will celebrate its 4th anniversary. Although I am a far less prolific blogger this year than in years past, that does not mean the world has lost its wonder – it does mean I am getting more used to it. This is not necessarily good or bad; in this case, it just is. This "new" life I have stumbled into is not so new anymore, but it is still every bit as profound. I write here about many different and loosely joined topics, but in reality much of this is about discoveries I probably should have made years ago. But I didn’t and if the feedback I get is any indication, I am not alone.

The world is in a rapid state of change – one that will not fully be appreciated until generations have passed – when our culture is under their microscope. We are living through a major paradigm shift such that we are still grappling with huge questions about what it all means and how it affects us. Not unexpectedly, there are good and long overdue changes in attitude, but there are also some decidedly “bad” things that come along with all this “progress.” And it has been like that for at least the last 2,500 years; our time is not the first to experience a period of accelerated change like the one we are in the midst of. Our great grandchildren, their children and their grandchildren will understand it better than we possibly can.

Prior to the turn of the millennium, I lived in blissful unawareness. I was content with the world as it came; I had no real desire to understand it. Or so I thought. In retrospect, much of my discomfort was spawned by confusion and misunderstanding… I didn’t get what we (humanity, life, sentience, cosmos, take you pick) were all about. There had to be a telos, a purpose… some reason other than some happy accident of chemistry. Science has given us so very much, but it could not explain, to my satisfaction, just what the point of all this is. As it turns out, the happy accident was mine, but I had to learn some new tricks.

Which brings me back in a round about way to where I started. These neuro-impulses that have now developed into words are part my telos, that is, I believe my purpose here is simply to understand. As much as I can. I am not a kid anymore – that childhood inquisitiveness has long left me, but my desire to know what we are all about has not faded. Over the years it has manifested in a number of different pursuits, interests, forms and means of education, occupations, vices… and virtues. My wanderlust now embraced, this “old dog” (actually, in dog years I’m not yet seven – middle aged even for a dog) must learn anew what I might have been better equipped to learn in my younger days. But that I did not, and by all I can conclude could not, is in part the frustration I feel expressing what I now want to say. That is, it appears to be as it should be - something else I do not understand.

Perhaps that inquisitiveness never left, it has only grown into something more defined, more disciplined, more… real. C.S. Lewis wrote in The Abolition of Man that if there is not something real about the abstract idea of right and wrong, about beauty, about truth and about goodness, then value is meaningless. Goodness, for instance, cannot just be a matter of opinion. If all that exists is the observable and measurable... the "proven," then how can one judge heroism? Chivalry? Kindness? Compassion? Loyalty? Patriotism? Love? It all becomes stupidity and... weak. Our sentience, our self-awareness and everything else that makes us human becomes nothing but another part of nature – and nature only does, it does not care. There has to be something else…

And there is. What that is and what it becomes is still being discovered, or perhaps as Lewis feared, created.

And what can be created can also be abolished.

Two Worlds

CHICAGO - I live in “the city.” To be precise, I live in the suburbs of a city. But Sacramento really doesn’t rank as far as what many would call a city… and it is most certainly not a big city. This is not meant to be in any way derogatory towards Sacramento; it’s just that after spending five days in the concrete jungle of Chicago, humble Sacramento looks like the cow town it once was. Chicago is all grown up; Sacramento is but a mere adolescent – if that. Although each is charming (for lack of a better word) in its own way, and both are world renown for different reasons, this is more than simply a matter of scale.

Or is it?

That is, do population densities and vertical versus horizontal habitudes really matter? Sure there are distinct cultural differences between living in a big city, a small city (like Sacramento), the suburbs or the country. Modes and means of transportation differ greatly as do social activities, business and education. But when comparing the elements of any two big cities, these and other differences can also be easily identified. Though it is true that we make distinctions categorically between different living environments, that the genus “city” is different from the genus “country,” the same animal inhabits both.

And people are people, everywhere.

For the past several days, Chicago was the host city for 95th annual conference of the National Communication Association. Attending were 8,000 or so communication scholars – those whose passion is the study of how we communicate. Since all human interaction is by definition communication, the study of communication captures pretty much all other human knowledge. This is not meant to open the age-old debate of what it is, exactly, that makes communication studies a distinct area of scholarship, but rather a segue into the sort of writing this blog tends to be focused on – another leg on the introspective journey of life.

People are people, everywhere.

We, as a species, share a genetic makeup that renders each one of us virtually identical. There is far less about each of us that is different compared to what is the same, exactly the same, much to the chagrin of the many and sundry ethnocentrists amongst us. As much as I would like to think I am somehow unique, the truth is a much different story. But my circumstances and history are unique, just like everyone else. Each of our journeys is entirely our own, no matter how much we share with others. But similarities among experiences can be uncanny, almost eerie. As we share our stories we come to realize that we are never really alone.

People are people, everywhere.

I lead a dual life. I have one foot in one world and the other in a decidedly different one. This is hardly unique; many if not most can recount similar experiences. Even in my own past, this dualism has been more or less apparent at different stages of my life. Currently, however, it is far more pronounced and it is causing a certain amount of discomfort. My “professional” life, which is also my academic life, and my personal life have almost no crossover. There are a couple of tenuous links between the two worlds and social elements to each, but for the most part they are separated by something more abstract than even time and space. Until recently it did not present much of a problem, but as the universe expands, so too these worlds drift farther apart.

With one foot in each, balance is difficult to maintain. Each world has a claim on me... and my time; to each I give willingly and as completely as is humanly possible. It is not as though I feel there is not enough time (usually) or that I somehow have to choose one or the other, it is more of an identity crisis. And the culprit is academia. She is the newcomer, the upstart… she has drawn me into a new and exciting direction. It has been a struggle to assimilate, to find my place in what is, in all seriousness, a new world.

But people are people everywhere.

In Chicago, the best and the brightest from my field converged to share what they have discovered. I felt very small. What do I know? What do I have to contribute? Am I just along for the ride? Not much; not much – yet; and ultimately, no. But there is a long road ahead and I am still scrambling to catch up. Chicago has shown me it is not just around the corner or over the next hill – it is a lifetime journey and a lifetime away. The moral? This time, I’m afraid there isn’t one. I live in two worlds that might never get any closer than they are right now. But both are inhabited with the same animal that inhabits Sacramento and Chicago and everywhere in between.

People.

Not That Important

I am not, nor have I ever been a conspiracy theorist. When I put two and two together I always get four, never more, never less. I make observations and ask, “Does that make any sense?” or wonder, “What could possibly be the purpose for that?” The answers to those questions and similar ones will keep me in reality when observations filtered by emotion tell a different story. And I am a believer in the genuine kindness of people; that most people do not purposefully set out to hurt others. I know, the headlines tell us a far different story, but how often does the headline say, “Somebody didn't do anything to anyone today.” The reality is simply that when I feel slighted, it is almost always unintentional, an oversight, a coincidence of unrelated circumstances – nothing more.

That is not to say that I have never been excluded and it is not to say that everybody likes me. I know better and for the most part, today, I really don’t care. I have a large circle of friends that I know like me for who I am and that is enough. I know this. I also know that within intersecting sub-groups of friends, there are some who would rather I was not there. It’s okay, although I tolerate everyone, there are some I’d prefer not be subjected to either. But in the world of mutual friends, there are bound to be uncomfortable intersections where the fondness amongst friends in a given cross-section is not shared by all included in that slice. This is hardly news; not everybody likes everybody. And not everybody likes me - fact and circumstance number one.

Over my nearly 47 years, I have cycled through a number of “friends.” Most were not anything of the sort; they were associates who cared more about what I had than who I was. To be perfectly fair, that’s what I cared about most as well – what I had, I had no idea who I was. It should come as no surprise that if I define my essence in such superficial terms, I would attract superficial friends. I was lucky enough that a few of those friends saw through the façade and are still my friends today. Most, however, moved on when the party was over and the well had run dry. It was not uncommon to be the “odd man out” for any number of reasons ranging from economic (not enough money) to social (too much drama) to logistical (too much trouble) or simply because no one thought of me. I am not referring to just myself, it was a cycle in which virtually everyone had a turn in the barrel. Sometimes, for reasons both malicious and unintentional, we are left out – fact and circumstance number two.

Two facts. Two circumstances. What conclusions can be drawn? What if I throw a party at my house and in my considerably large group of friends, somehow someone doesn’t get the word? It has happened and my response has always been a profuse apology with a reassurance that it was nothing intentional. What else can one say? It has to be enough and in fact it is. There is no conspiracy. Two plus two equals four. What about when the same thing happens to me, when I incidentally discover that I am the only one who doesn’t know about something I should have been in the loop on. What then?

Then two plus two starts to look a lot like five and it takes everything I can muster to stay logically centered. The perceived slight (for, these are the worst) casts a different light on what was, until moments before, the normal intercourse among a close-knit group of friends. Words begin to take on new meanings and that little glance? Nothing innocent about it now, right? But I cannot act on what my emotions and my senses are telling me – it is a lie. What is going on is a simple, albeit unhappy, coincidence and nothing more. To act on these perceptions based purely on what a temporarily wounded ego dictates would sooner or later create the very reality that my imagination, fueled by incomplete information, has.

Finally, now that the smoke has cleared, two plus two is once again firmly rooted in four. The lesson? Even for one who has conquered those demons that kept me away from myself for so long, the demons will not die. They will seize upon every opportunity to weaken my perception and step back into the insanity that they love so much. The truth is far less diabolical, less exciting and brings with it certain humility – I am just not that important to go through any exclusionary effort. Really.

Just Lazy

Okay, this must come first. It would appear that clearing thoughts from my mind, today, is not an idle luxury to be engaged when time is plentiful. Time is not plentiful (a status that is becoming increasingly common) and yet until I clear some space for the work I must accomplish, nothing much will happen. And in many respects it all ties together – reading enlightenment era scholars, weaving their insights with those from the classical period, the middle ages and the Renaissance while dancing with the image of my upcoming thesis... truth, beauty and goodness (oh, my!)… and these two old men chatting at my local Peet’s coffee. But it’s the two old men that kicked this one off.

Studying communication is fascinating, frustrating, invigorating and irritating… often all at the same time. It is impossible for me to listen to any message, especially mediated messages, without taking them apart. It’s almost as though I have been cursed with x-ray vision except when I see though messages, I see the (often ugly) truth. “But what about… Except that… You forgot to mention… You mean like when...” and so on; my usually silent but ever-present rebuttal, my skepticism, is never far away. Sometimes I can turn it off and other times… other times there are two old men sitting near me at Peet’s coffee.

One is doing far more listening than talking because the other is obviously much more knowledgeable about pretty much everything. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. Now I know that in the great big picture, two old men telling lies at a coffee shop doesn’t amount to anything. The “smart” one likely feels some sort of inferiority and his ego has found his passive friend a willing victim. So what, right? The friend has probably listened to his pal boast for years. The fact that his stories are so clearly false shouldn’t mean a damned thing to me. And it doesn’t in the particular sense, but more generally it is a somewhat disturbing sign about who we are as a species.

Why is the truth so unpopular? Even amongst those who ordinarily carry high standards and are probably in fact “virtuous,” the truth is becoming less and less important. It has become nothing more than a means in a world of ends. If selective non-disclosure is of greater benefit or if a flat-out lie will bring instant results, what is the harm if, in the end, the goal is reached? Better that those two North Western pilots were in heated argument – no, now they were engrossed in their laptop computers - than to tell the embarrassing, but honest, truth. But what is more embarrassing, does anyone really believe them? That’s their story and they’re sticking to it because we can’t prove otherwise.

But we know.
I know.
You know.

My thesis will take a good hard look at what we as a species are willing to settle for. There are far more things that cannot be proven than can, but with the power of communication, good reasons can be provided that do not necessarily prove anything, but they can and should determine what we will believe. Some say the human race is more gullible than ever. I disagree; I say the human race is far lazier than ever. At least in the industrialized world, we are not starving anymore, the diseases that used to decimate our populations are historical footnotes, we have manipulated our environment to suite us to the point that we really don’t work to survive anymore, our labor is for our comfort. I’m afraid that comfort is extended to accepting just about anything anyone has to say – without question or regard.

No, we’re not gullible, we’re just lazy.

Hearing Voices

I hear things. Not just occasionally or under certain conditions, but all the time. And I’m not talking about inanimate objects or things that are not real. These are not just voices in my head, but rather those that come from others’ heads. These are not figments of my imagination; they are real sounds. And I hear them. Furthermore, as I am becoming increasingly aware, I have little choice but to interpret them. It would seem as though it has always been the case, that at some level I have always been interested in deconstructing messages to try to figure out not necessarily what they say, but what they mean. And I often don’t like what I hear.

I am not unique; most people have heard something sometime that just didn’t feel right. Sometimes it is a bald-faced lie, but usually it is a far more subtle approach… the snake oil sales pitch or the get-rich-quick scheme. The vast majority of the time, however, there is nothing for sale, no money changing hands and nothing tangible at stake. Most often it is an exchange of much softer goods like pride, ego and self-importance. It is about not being wrong or, if caught in error, only admitting as much as is necessary – never full disclosure. It is not about absolute Truth, but a shared reality in which certain things are so while others are not – whether everyone knows or no one does, that reality remains unchanged.

So I hear things. I listen to the words and I interpret what they mean. Am I casting judgment? Perhaps, but it’s not about goodness or badness. For nearly all of this planet’s six billion or so residents, I couldn’t care less. It is very much about what is real and what is not; what to believe and what I cannot. It’s about what is just. And since I can’t possibly know anything absolutely, I have to make judgments. I have to weigh the evidence and much of that evidence is based in my experience about what makes sense and what does not. And I listen to the words. Of politicians. Of business leaders. Of academics. Of family. Of friends. Of acquaintances. And I decide - what is so and what is not.

And it never doesn’t matter.

Nine Years

I don’t really want to write this. I don’t really want to write at all. And truth be told, that's usually the case. Writing (pretty much anything), for me, is an act of exposing part of myself. It is never comfortable, but always worth it in the end. It just feels that the end is so very far away sometimes. Not in terms of the number of words or pages, but in terms of just how in the world I will get what I want to say out so that it says what I mean. When that consists of writing longer academic pieces, it is more about organizational logistics than anything else; but when it is what I am working up to right now, that is an entirely different story. But this story is the same story, just another year later. I first told this story in January 2006 when I wrote a piece entitled “Five Years.” In October the same year I wrote “Six Years” and in October 2007 it was “Seven Years.” Although the story was recounted in other ways in 2008, there was no anniversary edition, per se. But this year the series resumes with this predictably titled piece.

Nine years represents a little less than 20% of my entire life. That may or may not seem like a lot, but the truth is that some of my best days and most of my worst have taken place in this one segment. Nine years ago I was approaching my 38th birthday... I almost didn’t make it. Nine years ago today my life nearly came to an end and, though I survived what should have been by all accounts a fatal auto wreck, there were days early on that I almost wished I had not. But those days did not materialize until I awoke from a medically induced "coma" five weeks later; until then the nightmare was not mine, but my family's. To say I was confused when I woke up would be an understatement, but some things were unavoidably obvious. I could not talk, walk, eat… I was totally dependent upon others for everything. I was a mess.

My injuries included an open pelvic fracture, multiple fractures to my left femur, a lacerated kidney, liver and femoral artery. By the time the life-flight helicopter landed at Washoe Medical Center in Reno, Nev., I had already taken 16 units of blood – I was loosing it as fast as they were putting it in. Of course, I didn’t learn of any of this until weeks later, I recount it here only to place the magnitude of my situation into perspective. I wrote extensively in those past pieces about the early days of hospitalization, recovery and rehabilitation. I will summarize it here by saying that other than a small collection of very large scars and a rod in my femur, nine years later I am about 97% recovered – and that is about as good as it’s going to get. It is way more than good enough.

This year I will attempt to boil down what my life looked like before and after that fateful day, October 17, 2000. I was living in beautiful Truckee, Calif. I had one of the best jobs of my life – I had independence and a large degree of control. And I was successful – maybe too successful. Over the years, a number of serendipitous opportunities just seemed to fall into my lap. This job was the most recent instance of fortune smiling upon me. Each time a new opportunity presented itself, I was aglow with good intentions. But eventually, and every time, the flame went out. It was no longer good fortune – it was entitlement. I always wound up just coasting... to the end. Little did I know that there is only and forever just one “end.” I almost got there, too.

In the hospital and for a long time afterward, serendipity once again graced me – I was given a great deal of time. Not more time to live my life, although I got that, too, but time in those many, many days to think about not only what life was all about, but what my life was all about. It took all that time and more as I’m still thinking about it nine years later. I hope I never stop. Although I don’t have a definitive answer (that is, I don’t know exactly what I am doing here), I do have a more general idea. I used to think in terms of what the world held for me whereas now I think in terms of what I have for the world – or perhaps for humanity. It seems like such a simple shift in perspective, but it took nearly losing it all and then some before I realized it.

I’m not saying that it was all about me prior. I had concern for others, chipped in from time to time, but in the end the value of my life was measured by comfort. My comfort. Now comfort is a byproduct. Writing these words is not comfortable, but I do believe they are contributing something to humanity. When I am done, it will likely bring me a degree of comfort – and it has nothing to do with a cushy chair or a nice car or a “significant” other. It has to do with peace. I have added something to the world and maybe - just maybe - that’s why I’m here.

Who We Are

My license plate reads “WRDSLGR.” Although there are perhaps a handful of different interpretations, the intended translation is “word-slinger.” It is among the characteristics that define me. I am a writer. I am also a human being; what I write about is, very broadly, human experience. I am not sure which is more compelling - the experience or the words I sling to tell it. Regardless, the sum of human experience is based not upon those experiences per se, but rather the telling of them. The vast majority of what I know is not a direct experience but the re-telling of other’s. Many others have said it as have I, our use of symbols - words and otherwise – separate humans from all other known life forms. It is a huge separation.

More than just a communicator (primarily through the written word, my preferred medium), I am also a communication scholar. I study communication and I do it through communication. It is the only way to study anything. We build upon what was learned before us as we cannot directly experience the vastness of human knowledge. But in a way, the study of communication is direct experience because I am studying the use of symbols to transmit information from one to another – and like any other discipline, it is learned through symbolic interaction. I am, in fact, directly experiencing the very symbols (words mostly, but not always) that I am studying. When I read Aristotle, I am reading and interpreting what he wrote, I need not have been present while he was actually writing it. If I was studying ancient Greek history, or philosophy, or archeology, or any other discipline besides communication, the experience has to be indirect. But I study the words and they are complete; they are still here – they can be experienced and re-experienced directly as the symbols that they are.

Recently I read the writing of a friend regarding her experience with matters of uncertainty. She wrote of pain and safety and comfort and although I certainly could not literally see the world from her eyes, her words conveyed in stark terms the feelings she was experiencing. Words, well-slung words, can do that. They touch us in a way that conjures up our own experiences, making the words real. Human symbolic communication can move us to greatness or treachery, provoke sympathy and anger, move mountains and create molehills. Communication is the umbrella under which all other knowledge exists, for without it the very nature of reality can only exist in a single and instant moment – gone forever as the next second ticks by. It is power, one that is created and understood by the only symbol-using animal. So integral to our species that communication is arguably the most important field of study. It is what makes us who we are.

No More Teens

In less then an hour, I will no longer be a parent of a teenager. My youngest son is actually celebrating his 20th birthday right now in Germany, where he is currently stationed, although at just after 11 p.m. PDT, it is not quite here yet. His older brothers, of course, have already crossed this threshold. And although it is a milestone that carries some significance for both of us, it is not among the most significant. Crossing into adulthood at 18 was bigger and his 21st will be too, even though he will likely be celebrating it in Afghanistan where that milestone holds much less cultural impact. Still, he is no longer a teenager and I no longer have any teenage children. It is significant enough to cause me to pause… and reflect.

I was almost 27 when Matthew was born. I was already a parent twice over and it was a time in my life when the future looked pretty good. It was not to last. By the time he turned one, my marriage had dissolved and I found myself a single parent. It was a challenge like none other, but I kept moving forward not really knowing where I was going and, to some extent, what I was doing. All my eggs were in one basket; my vision (actually, not mine so much as my perception) of the American Dream was shattered, but I had to stay in the game. I had these kids to take care of and despite all the other chaos I invited into my life over the ensuing years, the idea that I had this sacred responsibility was never lost.

But I was a kid myself. Even in my late twenties, in many respects, I never actually felt like a grownup. True, I was playing the role, and succeeding sort of, but it always felt like I was playing house - except I was using live ammo. I didn’t know why, but for whatever reason I never felt like I had any direction; my only purpose, it seemed, was to see these kids into adulthood. And although that is enough in the larger scheme of things, I didn’t have a clue as to where I was going in the now, in real-time. I was never satisfied with where I was and every time I got “there,” it moved. In a sense, my life, as chaotic as it got sometimes, would have been far worse had it not been for my boys.

My own childhood was almost like a storybook. I had the stability of a nuclear family. Almost from my earliest memory, my home was the same home my parents still live in. That kind of stability was becoming increasingly uncommon in those days and it’s almost unheard of now. It was what I wanted for my family, but for myriad reasons it was not to be. Finally I have attained some semblance of it and for the past four-plus years, our home is our home – we are not going anywhere. Although my youngest attended three different high schools, his sophomore, junior and senior years were all at the same one – just down the street.

And not coincidentally I have felt like a grownup the entire time. It is not because I am more dedicated to fatherhood – that is not possible. It is not because fortune fell my way yet again and this time I was just lucky enough to hang on to it. It is not because of some B-vitamin complex, a new workout routine or a “significant other.” It is because I have learned to stay in the moment, and to a large extent, my kids taught me that. As much as I always tried to find our place and was always looking toward the end, they were content to just be with me in the moment. They walked with me through uncertainty always trusting me, but as much as I raised them, they raised me. And now I know that although my purpose was (and largely still is) to be their father, that is not the entirety of what my purpose entails.

I still don’t know, exactly, why I’m here. But there is a reason – a purpose – and I don’t need to know specifically what it is, just that it is. It doesn’t make me a more dedicated father, but it does make me a better father. It drives me; it keeps me focused on today. Doors have opened and I walked through them. And along the way, others have closed behind me. Now 25 minutes past midnight PDT, 4 October 2009, I officially no longer have any teenage children. I can look back on all the good and not so good and know that as chaotic as some of those years were, we made it through and that sense of purpose that was once a nebulous sacred responsibility has now blossomed into far more. I do not feel “old,” but I do feel like a grownup.

My kids raised me good.