John Swinburn

Admit your failings, even if solely to yourself. Only by acknowledging your flaws can you hope to begin the long and arduous task of correcting them.

There may come a time for an armed insurrection. Not there; here.

Don’t disclose, not even to yourself, what you don’t want others to know. You might ask, “What could that be?” I don’t have the answer. I know only that what you know is not knowledge in a vacuum; hear it ricochet against the walls of the prison in which you keep your mind, revealing secrets to every passer-by.

We can experiment with new personalities like we try on new clothes. If one doesn’t fit, we can shed it and try on another one. But, what if it weren’t so easy? What if we had to make a long-term commitment when shifting from one to another? I suspect we’d be more conservative and deliberate. Then again, maybe that describes us now. Adjustments to our personalities are as easy as pie; but we wonder whether there’s arsenic in the filling.

Worry is a symptom of an emotion, not an emotion of its own standing. Worry arises from fear and frustration, billowing like smoke from a box of damp newsprint, too wet to burn yet too hot to erupt in flames. If a problem is fixable, fix it; if not, worry is worthless.

I’ve never been more concerned about the future of the United States of America than I am now. I fear the growing popularity of Donald Trump, with his bombastic racist and nationalist diatribes and his naked Islamophobia, offers evidence that I live in a nation of idiots who are rushing to welcome an era of fascism. It was fear that gave rise to the shame of Japanese internment camps after Pearl Harbor; it is fear and stupidity that gives rise to calls for immigration tests based on religious beliefs.

A walk among naked trees on a cool, bright Autumn day is energizing. Listening to birds and watching them flit from tree to tree took my mind off obstacles. Shielding my eyes from the sun as I ambled along a well-groomed path, I thought, it’s possible I could make a daily walk in the woods a habit again. Some habits, even good and enjoyable ones, are hard to start.

Twenty-five days until this year fizzles into history. I wish I could express joy at this fraction of a lifetime that’s ending, but when I recall the year, my eyes get cloudy and dark. I remember awful, ugly things that never should have happened. But, if I try hard enough, I am able to wash that pain away by remembering the goodness I witnessed during this year sliding to a close. The life we leave to future generations will be one worth leaving only if we do our damnedest to rip the horror from the headlines and replace it with charity and love. I realize my words sound hopelessly silly and maudlin. It doesn’t matter; that’s what we need. Let’s not let discomfort get in the way of humanity. Just this once?

Routine can be comforting, but it can wreck creativity and vitality. In everything from the foods we eat to the activities in which we engage, variety is important. The key is finding that delicate balance between comfort and challenge.

In the end, nothing matters. But until then, everything matters.

The line was crossed yesterday. It should have happened before. Regardless of when it happened, or should have happened, here is the upshot: I am no longer willing to accept that I have a disagreement with people who support ready access to assault weapons. Instead, I judge those people who argue we all should have easy access; they are irresponsible, deeply stupid people for whom I have nothing but contempt. Easy public access to machine guns—for that’s what they are—is idiotic.  No longer will I argue; I will judge and hold people who argue for this madness in absolute contempt. It matters not whether mentally ill patients or psychopathic killers are to blame for the deaths; neither should have access to weaponry suited only to murder. If you find this unwavering attack of mine painful, don’t bother coming back to this page. I don’t want you here.

A man can wrap his emotions in a steel blanket inside a stone cave of his own making, but if he does he will lose a part of himself he can’t recover. I’m only now beginning to realize the ability to emote is more of a gift than a curse. Masculinity is not defined by stoicism, nor by the ability to hide what’s behind the mask.

There’s never an inappropriate expression of real love. There’s never a reason to be embarrassed to love someone. Yes, we’ve created artificial boundaries that keep us from being “in love” with people we love, or at least expressing our love for certain people, but the reality is that artificial boundaries don’t always work. A boss can love an employee; we say it’s not right, but who are we to condemn the emotion? A woman can love her husband’s best friend; sure, there may be dangerous complications, but by what right can we judge that love wrong? We have a thousand reasons and we practice a thousand ways to say our rationale for our condemnation is right. But we’re not right. People love one another; it’s not necessarily a reasonable emotion, but it’s the best emotion we can share.

The only means for us to end racism and bigotry is to engage in honest and thoughtful conversations, one-on-one, with people unlike us. No question arising out of honest curiosity should be off-limits, but if one party finds a question offensive in any way, he or she should quickly express that offense in a non-accusatory way.  We all need thick skin and a willingness to listen to words we’d rather not hear.

A few days ago, I watched the sky change from thick to thin and go back again. That’s how I perceive the presence and absence of clouds; the sky skips between corpulent and consumptive.