Life and death.

We're no strangers to the concept. We encounter it everyday. Swatting a fly, or reading an obituary in the newspaper, death is indoctrinated into our lives from a young age. The concept of life is prevalent from our first breath. Being born. Getting a new puppy. Planting flowers in your parents garden. Interacting with our friends. Life is all around us.

But despite how prevalent both sides of this coin are, it doesn't make life any less enjoyable. And it doesn't make death any easier to deal with. Especially when the death is prolonged, drawn out, and hitting very close to home.

Duality.

The duality of man. It's something to think about, and something to fear. Out innate ability to love and hate simultaneously is unique to humanity. Our greatest evolutionary flaw. It allows us to help, encourage and build up our peers, and then turn around to tear them down. Insult them. Kill them. It lets us steal, murder and destroy. Give, nurture, and create.

What causes this duality? Where in our history did we go wrong? From a biblical standpoint, we have been wrong from very near the beginning. Created, by God, in his image to be a perfect and holy vessel of praise, we were corrupted by curiosity. The desire for knowledge. Wanting to understand good and evil. Duality. Wanting to become gods in our own right. And from that moment, we have been tainted.

From an atheistic mindset, the root cause is depressing on an entirely different level. It wasn't choice. Nothing we could have said or done would have prevented it. It was an evolutionary changed, one needed to elevate us to the top of the food chain. Another cog in the gears of chance.

Regardless of the doctrine to which you subscribe, our duality is something we cannot ignore. Our actions, our thoughts, even our dreams mold us. Affect us. Inspire. Condemn. Motivate us to strive to new heights. And with that, we have the choice to love or to hate. Our duality defines our legacy.

Moving and writing and other things of that nature.

I moving to Seattle in two days. I'm pretty excited about that. I have an apartment to myself, right in the heart of downtown. A few blocks from Pikes Place, a few blocks from school, and a few blocks from the waterfront. A whole new city for me to explore. Another grand adventure for me to embark on.

In other news, I have yet to start packing. Instead I'm writing, and listening to music, and wasting time in a manner that fits right in with my everyday life.

"God bless you."

"God bless you". It's all the sign said. Handmade. Written in black sharpie. The man holding was sitting on the sidewalk in San Francisco. He was surrounded by his belongings. A shopping cart filled with plastic bags. The bags overflowing with scraps. A backpack was next to him. It had a sleeping mat strapped to it. Sticking out of the open pocket was a journal and a pen. Next to his right hand was a small can that a few people would drop money in. He never said anything when people would give him money. But when they would talk to him, that's when he responded. A deep, warm voice. One that had all the qualities of kindness, joy and compassion. But also pain.

I talked to him for awhile. It wasn't much. He never told me his name. But he grew up in the city. He was always on the outside looking in. Never part of the in-crowd. Mediocre grades and athletics. He said he was nothing special. Always looking in at the rest. He never went to college. He told me he never accomplished anything in life until he had lost everything. Losing everything, he said, was the start. With that, he turned to his bag and pulled out his journal and a Bible. He held the bible up smartly, touching it to his temple. Said more to himself, than to me, that the Bible was the only thing he kept when he lost everything else. And then he opened it too Matthew 19. The parable of the Rich Young Man. Smiling at me, he laughed and said he was never rich. He didn't sell all he had, he lost it all. But he showed me what he went to for streangth, and in that, he showed me a bit of who he really is.

We talked some more. Small talk. About the city. I offered to buy him lunch. He shook his head and said no thanks. He told me that just by talking to him, I had given him more than he could have asked for. And then he pointed at the people walking past us. The people in their suits. Bluetooth earpieces. Briefcases. Running to catch cabs. Pouring in and out of the office buildings. And then he said something interesting. He pointed out that in that moment, everyone of them was lonely. Not lonely in the sense that they didn't have anyone. Just, lonely. No one to talk to. No one giving them the time of day other than for work. Then he looked me in the eyes, and he thanked me. And the in the same breath, he told me to be sure to amount to something in life. Told me I would go on to do great things. Told me that he'll pray that I'm never lonely the way the world is. And the conversation ended.



It's an interesting concept he put out there. The idea of being alone. He reaches everyone by holding a cardboard sign. His sign. Made with his own hands. The rest of us communicate impersonally. Facebook. Myspace. Texting. Twitter. Email. Even a phone call is impersonal these days. No one takes the time to write a letter anymore. No one want's to get personal. And in that, the people who we would think are the most alone, really are the ones who have it all. They want to get personal.






I'm cringing as I write this, knowing it falls into the impersonal category. But I want to share it, and this is the best way for it at the moment.

The Veteran.

You see a strange assortment of people if you keep you're eyes open. In a downtown metropolitan area there can be a lawyer in a three piece suit right next to the goth, dressed all in black with chains hanging from every loop on their clothing. A little while later, the secretary running across the street, trying to beat the light spills her coffee all over the ground, but she keeps going so she can get to the office on time. The street musician sitting on a corner with an old dented saxophone, filling the morning air with music straight from his soul. And then, alone, unnoticed among the trash in alley sits one man. And that man, is the man with a story like no other.



It was in the summer of '53. He took his first breath. A few months down the line, he was walking. His first birthday came around in the summer of '54. His mother smiled with joy as her son toddles toward her. His dad beams with pride as he thinks about it seems like just yesterday he met that little boy. Fast forward a few years. It's the middle of fall. The leaves have all changed color and are dropping of the trees. It's 1963. He's ten years old, and hears the new that JFK was killed. It shocks him, but plants a seed of determination in his heart that will drive him to serve his country. 1968. Springs come around. He'll be fifteen in the summer. And sitting with his friends in a mom&pop shop, he hears over the radio that Martin Luther King Jr. is dead. Once again, that patriotic seed in him begins to move. He wants to speak out against the injustice in the world. He want's to make a difference. A few years go by and it's the summer of '71. He's 18. His mom's crying. Her little boy is all grown up. His father is still beaming with joy. His son has grown into a handsome young man with strong morals and pride for his country. Two days later, his mom is in hysterics. Her baby boy has enlisted. Soon he's in training. Months go by, and he is broken physically and mentally. The training is taking it's toll on him. Then it's over. He gets a few days reprieve. He goes home, tells his parent's he loves them. Kisses his high school sweet heart goodbye, wondering if he'll ever see her again. And then he boards a plane, and is shipped off to Vietnam.

Writing home every week he tells his parent's only the few good thing's he sees. He never mentions the terror. The sleepless nights in the jungle. He writes to his girl, telling her in every way he knew that he loves her. Then one day, she stops writing back. His company gets orders to move. Advance on enemy territory. He sees his companions get cut down right beside him. His skin gets seared as the whole jungle goes up in flames. As he loses consciousness a medic helicopter touches down next to him. Waking up in the hospital, he learns he lost his right hand and part of his foot. Shortly after he gets a letter saying that his father had died of a heart attack. Relieved of active duty, he returns home, only to find something that doesn't resemble home anymore. The white picket fence is gone. The house is in shambles. His mother is in the hospital with tuberculosis. Soon after, she passed away also. His GI bill doesn't cover enough to support him. It can barely keep clothes on his back and food in his stomach. He's forced into tenement housing. One night he starts coughing up blood and he gets rushed to the hospital. They tell him he's developed cancer from exposure to Agent Orange. He's given six months to live.

Now it's 2009. That man is homeless. Sitting on the side of the road each day, a cardboard box for shelter, a tattered jacket all the warmth he has. As the world rushes past him in three piece suits and luxury cars, he thinks back on all he's seen in his life. He still loves his country. He wonders how he survived so long with the doctors said he had such little time. He never regrets what he had to give for it. He still has all the letters his family and sweetheart sent him in the military. He keeps them in a handmade wooden box, tucked under his arm. He also has a picture of his parent's on their wedding day. They both look so young, so happy. The picture of his highschool girl is worn from being looked at so often. Tears creep into the corner of his eyes as he wonders whatever happened to her. He hopes and prays to God that she's happy, wherever she is. And he continues to sit there. Alone. Unnoticed. Around the corner from his alley the sound of a saxophone cries out into the night sky. Cars speed past. The sun set's. And the world keep's turning.

Yesterday I was human.

Today I am something completely different.


I sat and watched my reflection in a puddle as I threw small rocks in so the ripples would change the way I saw things. And you know what? It did. I realized I had a lot more to be thankful for. I don't notice the majority of the beautiful things and people around me. And that's because I don't notice the beauty in everything. A ripple showed me that. Why can't all change be that simple?