How To Become a Nuclear Physicist
There are a thousand quirks I could claim, probably, and that's being more than fair. One of them is that I patently don't subscribe to buzzwords. It's probably just stubbornness and age, but there it is.
Some of the more recent ones though, I have to admit, are tempting, if only because they hint at better things, and don't have much to do with Paris Hilton or putting me into a box (that's a catchphrase, not a buzzword), according to my age or the shoes I wear. Among those being overused these days, are words like: Authenticity. Mindfulness. Space. Unpack. And then there's one that has particular merit, because I think I know exactly what it's getting at: Intentional. Like the others, I resisted this one, too, mainly because it seems, at first glance, to be the verbal equivalent of the participation trophy. What isn't intentional? Do I deserve points for brushing my teeth, or putting gas in my own car? I was able to get my own pants on this morning, and found myself walking down the staircase in my house with no real congratulatory expectations.
If there is such a thing as the reader who has read more than one of my articles, the astute might remember the mention of my wife, as Dave's sister, in Oklahoma Superman, and then again, in Pencils and Plowshares, making jewelry at our dining room table. She is a kind person. Lovely, by any measure. She has bright, smiling brown eyes, auburn hair that hangs low above one eye, which she pushes back behind her ear when she's thinking. Using no artificial interference, she looks as beautiful as she did 30 years ago. She's a phenomenally-talented artist. She paints, solders, pastes, glazes, colors, repurposes, clamps, and heats things to super-high temperatures, the result of which is always a thing of wonder, to me. Other people think so, too, because they pay actual money for her works. She's smart and funny, and she thinks I'm funny. At least she says so, probably because I often tell her how funny I am, and it's easier to agree than to explain. I'm working on convincing her I'm smart, too. She loves to read and paddle her kayak, and drink coffee and pet our dogs, and, more than anything, she loves our kids. And they love her. I do, too.
And I don't tell her those things enough. It's not that I don't think them often. It isn't that it's so particularly difficult to do it, either. We see each other every day. The path of least resistance runs through my neighborhood, and, by definition, it's an easy one to walk. When I'm on it, I find it effortless to convince myself that my actions - the fact that I half-smiled in her general direction, for instance, or that I didn't start a petty argument - probably communicate enough. She knows how I feel.
There are plans I have, mainly for when I get a little older, of traveling more often. Spending more time in the mountains. Helping my wife get her logo updated and her website off the ground. Building a larger backdrop for her to use at the bigger art shows she hopes to do, once she has a larger backdrop. Losing a few (dozen) pounds is on the list. When money is less tight, I really want to start saving for a Jeep. That last one is a tool I hope for my wife and I to someday use in defense against empty nest syndrome, which is a necessary unpleasantry if money is to get less tight.
It hits us all, at some point, the realization that, not only do we never really arrive in life, but we never feel, at any age, that we've learned enough, or that we've finally gotten most things figured out. We have a tendency to lash out at circumstances for being the reason we find ourselves with the same unrealized plans, the same relationships, the same stalled ambitions, that we had ten years ago. We resent, sometimes more than a little, those people we know who seem to always be moving forward. Who are enjoying their lives. Who saved when we spent, or earned when we were still looking. Who seem to have been given the extra talent, or opportunities, or vision, or clarity that we weren't assigned.
And because of that, we drown hope. We give goals too much power. Or worse, we stop having them entirely. We tend to think that other people, usually the shiny, beautiful ones, get to have the fun, and we get to show up to the cubicle under the fluorescent lights. We assign grandeur and size and scope to things, that in turn makes them seem far too big, unattainable, and unlikely to actually happen to us.
The true version, though, is that our lives are the sum of their moments. It simply isn't possible to live every minute with purpose and hope, only to find out a week or a month or a year later that it was all a waste of time. The math doesn't work.
We don't need to lose 40 pounds. We need to eat healthy food right now, just this once. We don't need to be great husbands. We need to tell our wives that they matter, right now, just this once. We don't need to be artists or musicians or to become prolific readers or to open restaurants. We need one stroke of the brush, one strum of the strings, one turn of the page, or one inquiring call, right now, just this once.
Today is a Sunday. My wife and I will both be home most of the day. I'm going to tell her I love her. Then I'm going to ask her about her plans for her next art project. I'm going to take just a few minutes to begin putting plans on paper for our next road trip, even though it's likely a year away. The sun won't set today before I make an attempt at a new logo for her art business, or find the name and number of someone who can do so with greater certainty. This afternoon, I'll take a walk. I'll ask her to go with me.
There won't be time for making too many of tomorrow's plans, or worrying about tomorrow's troubles, and the hills I'll need to climb to solve tomorrow's questions.
There are too many moments between now and then.