Carpe Diem

We were having a rough day. I no longer remember why now. Maybe an argument over nothing or frustration from a communication breakdown. Maybe we were just being too serious and were unable to pull ourselves up. But as we turned onto a side street headed towards home, we saw a sight that brought bemused smiles to our faces and made us forget all about those issues.

As documented in the image below, the sight was one of three young men--probably about 10 or so--walking single file up the hilly sidewalk with a large cardboard box over their heads all the way down almost to their knees. It could not have been easy walking like that--no visual capabilities and in such close quarters, and yet coming from the box were sounds of laughter and merriment.

My mind began to fill with so many questions. Why were they walking like that? How long had they been doing this? They appeared to be walking up from the more commercial area into the residential one; had they actually walked down that far? What possessed them to do this?

As questions kept pouring in, I began to realize that I was never going to know the answers, and I realized I liked that. I liked the mystery and sense of possibility that still emanate from the picture. It made me remember how much lasting memories can be created with the simplest of things. Events that may not have seemed important while you were doing them, and yet for some reason, they stick better than outdated political bumper stickers.

That meal shared with just you and a grandparent. An afternoon of awesome playtime at the park with kids you never saw again. A late-night trip to the beach with floor mates to watch the stars. That conversation with a friend that turned to deep topics and helped you grow as a person.

Maybe this will be such an event for these boys. Maybe it won’t be. I hope it is, though. I hope they realize how much their actions brought joy to others who saw them. I hope they keep seizing moments and living life fully. I hope they won’t let fears of what others may think prevent them from being silly or pursuing happiness. And I hope I do the same.

Hooked

We were listening to a station on Pandora this past weekend when Blues Traveler’s “Hook” came on. My husband had a question about what is sung near the end, so I took advantage of the app’s new feature to reveal song lyrics to find his answer. In the process, I was blown away by two revelations.

Before you keep reading, if you have not listened to or seen the music video in a long time (it’s been about 18 years since it came out!), enjoy it via the link below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdz5kCaCRFM

Like that trip down memory lane? Good, now on to the revelations.

First, did you know that the song does not say, “The heart brings you back?” All these years, and I’ve always heard John Popper sing it that way. Turns out, what he is singing is “the hook brings you back,” which makes a lot more sense as to why the song is titled the way it is.

Second, have you ever listened to what he is singing? Music videos are such powerful things. I always remembered the politician part of this video and thought the song was a commentary on all the hot air politicians and the media make. And in some ways, I’m sure it is. But when I actually looked at the lyrics, especially the rap portion near the end, I realized that the song is all about how it doesn’t matter at all what the singer says because the beat is catchy, so we’ll keep listening though not really comprehending anything. I felt both taken in and also in awe of Blues Traveler at that moment.

If you’ve ever heard me talk about music, you know that I often say that if it’s catchy and you can dance to it, I’m usually in favor of it-regardless of what the lyrics state. I’ve tried to become more discerning as I’ve gotten older, but I still have a few guilty pleasure songs that have found their way onto my “rock out” iTunes playlist. Like Britney, Ke$ha, and Miley. (Don’t worry; I also have Queen, Joan Jett, and Bon Jovi on that list, too.) So when I realized what the song was about, I felt very sheepish and called out for having poor perception.

But I also felt respect towards the artists for the brilliant way in which they sang the truth. It made me stop to think about how one can speak the truth in a style that meets the listener’s needs and that allows the listener to hear what he needs to hear when he’s ready to hear it. Truth said in a way that has the listener’s best interest in mind might have a slight sting at first revelation for the listener, but it is not overbearing and allows the listener to react to the truth being said rather than to the manner in which it was said. 

Maybe I've read too much into it, but that's the joy of music and art. The listener and viewer can take from it what they like.

Now, please excuse me while I go add “Hook” to my playlist.

Of Bullseyes, Cornholes, and Hot Peppers

August was a busy month for us. It seemed like the month started, I blinked, and it was Labor Day. At least it was jam-packed with fun events and new experiences.

To start the month, my friends and I went to an indoor archery range. Shooting with a bow and arrow has been on my radar ever since my eldest sister took it at summer camp as a kid and got a suction cup bow and arrow set for her summer birthday with which to practice. Then the Hunger Games trilogy came along, and the spark was reignited.

While the 18 meter range was a bit short of the 70 meter Olympic distance, we had a blast trying out their long and short range set-ups.

I'm still not completely sure how to actually aim the arrow, but after I got the below bullseye, I figured my random attempts were at least not inefficient.

I ended the month with my first ever Cornhole Tournament. Cornholing is the game where you throw beanbags towards an incline that has a hole near the top, hoping to get the bag into the hole or at least onto the board. You've probably played such a game as a child, but did you know that there are actual rules to this game? Did you know there is even an official American Cornhole Association? I, for one, learned a lot this Labor Day weekend.

Beginners luck was with us, and my husband and I made it to the finals. Sadly, we lost in the end, but our opponents were worthy adversaries. Rumors of hustling aside, they did an amazing job, and my heartache at losing first place in this previously-unknown game was made easier by their mad skills.

The month also ended with another new achievement: first chemical burn due to hot peppers. This is one first I'm planning on being a last. My twin and I were making salsa to can, and I took responsibility for cutting up the peppers.

Photo from Chilipeppermadness.com

About an hour after cutting up the Hungarian wax and NewMex Joe E Parker hot peppers, my left hand started to feel like it was burning slightly and soon got to the point where I had to keep it under cold running water if I didn't want to feel any pain. And by pain I mean bone-on-fire, inch-wide needles being stuck into the fingers, you're-going-to-lose-your-hand pain. My husband tried to reassure me that the pain couldn't be worse than childbirth, but I have my doubts.

A quick Google search revealed a plethora of home remedies to take away the burn. Unfortunately, none really provided the relief the authors claimed they would. A call to a nurse's hotline told me to keep soaking the hand in vegetable oil, which I did for almost two hours with relative success; after such a long time, though, its effectiveness began to wain. I then moved to simply soaking the hand in ice water, but this does not really offer one the ability to sleep, and by 3am I was beginning to go insane.

Thankfully, around 4am--almost twelve hours after the burning started--the Tylenol PM finally kicked in, and I was able to sleep. I awoke later that morning with no burning sensation in my hand and would go on to place second in a tournament for a sport I never knew existed.

My takeaway from the ordeal? Rubbing hot peppers all over one's body will guarantee one the cornholing championship next year. I think I'll stick with archery.