Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

River Tales

I recently took a trip with some friends down to Central Texas to float the Guadalupe River. It was an epic weekend filled with hot sun, cold beers and adventure. A summertime treat.

Tubing might seem like a simple venture, but here in Texas, it’s a sacred pastime — a fact that becomes ever more apparent to me each time I do it. For while Texas has countless rivers and lakes, thousands of people converge upon two of them — the Comal and the Guadalupe — in and around the city of New Braunfels each summer. So, on a scorching afternoon, you’re likely to see the river packed with inner tubes and floating coolers. It’s like a giant floating fiesta.

Still, for all the tradition and pageantry of tubing the Guadalupe, it’s a bit surprising that I’ve taken to this activity the way I have. I abhor mud and rocky rapids, and I’ve historically been more inclined to be in the water than on it — particularly when the mercury hits triple digits. On the surface, tubing would not appear to be “my jam.”

Yet, every time I wade into the refreshingly cool water and climb up into my inner tube, it’s like I’m born again. What gives?

I gave this contradiction much thought during this most recent trip. Then I opened my eyes and realized my answer was all around me.

You see, tubing combines the best of what Texas has to offer in one setting. It melds the serenity of rivers in the picturesque Hill Country with cold beers and friendly people out to have a good time. It’s both individual and communal, peaceful and exciting. There’s something in it for everyone.

And while there are some drawbacks to setting a bunch of people and booze on a natural current, the plusses are that much greater. Tubing has turned New Braunfels — a small city between San Antonio and Austin — into a summertime mecca, complete with more hotels and restaurants than many Texas towns its size can boast. This, in turn, has produced plenty of jobs around town for the locals — to go along with those offered by the tube rental businesses upriver.

Just as importantly, tubing allows Texans of all origins to come together in one place. On my most recent journey downriver, I met people from Houston and Odessa — two cities 500 miles apart. While it’s no secret that Texas is a big state, it is a secret outside these parts that Texas is the Caddo word for “friend.” And while some like to spin the narrative that Texans are angry gun-wielding pickup truck drivers, the real narrative is right there on that river — where strangers from far corners of the state gather as friends in peaceful recreation.

Yes, the stories are what I love the most about tubing the Guadalupe. The story of the river winding through limestone hills, same is it did back when the buffalo roamed free. The story of how some pioneering Texans created a summer recreational paradise on those waters, all while taking little more than what the river and hills already gave them. The story of how a small Texas town became a renowned destination. The story of how people from all over Texas take part in the experience, socializing with strangers along the way. And yes, the stories of the adventures you encounter on the way downstream.

(Those tend to be a doozy, as was the case on this recent trip.)

These stories are what makes this activity so timeless and resonant. At the core, these stories what it means to be Texan.

I realize how special all of that is. And it’s why I’m already excited for my next trip down the river, whenever that may be.

Don’t Punt

When I was a teenager, I spent many a Friday night playing Madden with my friends.

(Madden, for those who don’t know, is a video game simulation of the National Football League.)

And whenever we played, we made sure to follow one particular rule: Don’t Punt.

Why? Because only wimps punt in Madden.

This, of course, is ridiculous. Punting — or dropkicking the ball down the field to pin your opponent close to their own goal line — is an odd quirk of football. But it’s also a strategic one.

In fact, teams with weak offenses and dominant defenses use punting as a strategic advantage — as it can be difficult for opponents to score points when they need to go the length of the football field to it. The 2000 Baltimore Ravens even won a Super Bowl championship with this formula.

But punting is unacceptable in Madden. It’s part of guy code. Which is also the code that demands that a man leave a one urinal buffer between himself and the next guy while relieving himself in a public restroom.

(And yes, I do realize there are plenty of female gamers out there today. But this Madden tradition goes back to when video games were “a guy thing.”)

So, we never punted in Madden. Instead, we gave each other short fields when our offense sputtered. We scored a lot of points. We had a grand old time.

Then, when the game was over, we turned off the console, went to the kitchen and downed glasses of Cola-Cola.

Of course, life’s nothing like Madden. It ain’t a game, it ain’t always fun, and you can’t just turn it off at the end. (It does, however, feature bountiful amounts of Coca-Cola.)

But I do think the Don’t Punt rule should still apply to life.

Why? Because off the gridiron, punting is not a strategic advantage. It’s bailing out, giving up, abandoning ship.

It’s acknowledging that something didn’t work — and cutting all ties with it in that same instant.
I get why people do this. Sometimes it’s just better to have a fresh start than to let a poor experience weigh you down like a boulder.

But still, it’s incredibly shortsighted.

You see, I’m a firm believer that something can be gained from every experience we encounter in our lives. But we have to go out and seize those lessons and that silver lining.

Punting doesn’t allow us to do this. It shuts out an initiative that didn’t go to plan, effectively expunging it from our life story.

While it’s more comfortable for us to face failure this way, punting away our misses leaves a silent trail of collateral damage. All of the effort, time and heart that was poured into an experience is lost forever — and those losses compound over time. This can lead to “Golden Years” pockmarked with emptiness and anchored by regret.

It’s far better to pivot than to punt. Pivoting ensures continuity between one venture and the next. It allows us to build off of our prior experiences — good or bad — and create a future that’s continually vibrant and well informed.

This is a worthy goal to strive for. And all we need to achieve it is the right mindset.

So, when you fail, take a moment. Collect yourself. Then, get up and dust yourself off.

But whatever you do, don’t punt.

The Ballpark Odyssey

I recently completed a journey to visit every operating Major League Baseball stadium.

It was quite an undertaking — one I’ve dubbed the Ballpark Odyssey. My travels took me to 37 ballparks over 18 years — including all 30 current Major League ballparks.

This odyssey allowed me to experience the timeless wonder of Boston’s Fenway Park and Chicago’s Wrigley Field. It introduced me to the modern gems that are Pittsburgh’s PNC Park and Baltimore’s Camden Yards. It took me from Seattle to Miami, San Diego to Detroit and everywhere in between. Heck, it even led me north of the border to Toronto.

I did far more than watch baseball along the way. Indeed, I got to sample regional ballpark cuisine at nearly every stop. I got to sing Roll Out the Barrel with the hometown fans in Milwaukee and clap along to Deep in the Heart of Texas between innings here at home. Most of all, I got to enjoy the American summer tradition of going to a Major League Baseball game in every venue that offers the experience.

As I reflect back on this achievement, I think of all I’ve learned along the way. I started out as a kid who loved to watch baseball and ended up as a man who loves all that America has to offer. Getting to experience all of our nation’s great cities and meet some of the people who call them home has been a tremendous blessing, one that has helped me understand our nation far better than I once did.

I also think of everyone I shared these ballpark experiences with. For while I did go to a couple of ballparks solo, I was generally accompanied by family and friends. In particular, I think of my father, who inspired me to go on this journey in the first place and frequently joined me on mini-trips to “cross some ballparks off the list.”

But most of all, I think of the memories that I made as I got ever closer to achieving my goal. Memories such as:

The blustery Sunday afternoon I spent with my sister and a close friend in the last row of Wrigley Field. It was a bit too chilly to enjoy my Old Style beer, but that was one of the best days of my life.
The game at Detroit’s Comerica Park where a man in our section convinced my dad to get a Coney Island and then taught him the proper way to eat it.
The time my mother insisted on getting club level seats at Camden Yards, simply because it had an air-conditioned concourse.
The evening when my cousin and I got upgraded from the upper deck to third row seats at San Diego’s Petco Park. (Thanks again for that, Travis!)
The fateful night when the Yankees and Mariners got into a benches-clearing brawl at Seattle’s Safeco Field.

I don’t remember the scores of all the ballgames I went to, but I’ll never forget these experiences.

That’s what it’s all about. And it’s why my now-completed Ballpark Odyssey is something I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.

The Soundtrack Of Our Lives

The first thing I remember is still clear as day.

I was sitting in my car seat as my parents’ Ford Taurus made the trek up the hill to my first home. The Rolling Stones hit “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” was on the radio.

As the angelic choir faded into the distinctive tones of Mick Jagger, I remember daydreaming about hot air balloons. With voices that light and airy, I could be forgiven for assuming the song was about a balloon ride.

I must have been about a year old.

***

It’s no accident that this is my first memory. Our perspectives and recollections can change over the years, but music is timeless.

Music holds the power of captivation — the distinct ability to enchant and entice. It contains the diversity to both maintain and break with tradition — to connect us with our past or send us soaring into the great unknown.

And much like cuisine, music has its distinct flavor in every corner of the world. But it also has the unmatched power to unite us across cultural and linguistic boundaries.

How can music be this malleable in function? The answer has everything to do with the sensation it invokes in us.

You see, music is bound by the duality of meaning. As with photography and cooking, what the artist intends to convey might not exactly match what we take in. We assign our own connotation, based off of our unique perspective of the world and our experiences in it.

This gives us the freedom to view music anyway we see fit, and for music to serve a multitude of purposes. It inspires the musicians among us to keep the wheel of innovation turning, as they continue crank out material that continues to surprise, delight and inspire us.

It’s what allows us to associate a Rolling Stones song with hot air balloons. Or an Alan Parsons Project instrumental with Michael Jordan. Or whatever the first song is at our wedding with the love of our life.

And ultimately, it’s what transforms music from a jumble of lyrics, rhythms, melodies and harmonies into something far more substantial — the soundtrack to our life story.

***

The power music holds over us comes from emotion.

You see, how music makes us feel deep down inside says everything about its place in our lives. It drives the narrative. For that feeling we get when we hear the right song at the right moment is distinctive. It’s special. It’s ours.

The combination of a piece of music and our emotional response to it makes for powerfully personal storytelling. This is why a single song can tell millions of stories over its lifetime.

A song holds the power to cheer us up or calm us down. It can take us away from reality when we need an escape, or sharpen our focus when the moment calls for it.

Yet, while our reaction to a song might be inherently individual, appreciation for music is one of the strongest bonds we all share.

This is why we’re constantly listening to music in the car, during our workouts or at the grocery store. This is why we pack arenas around the world just to hear our favorite songs live.

This is why music is a universal conversation starter, and why karaoke is a worldwide phenomenon.

Ultimately, this is why music matters to all of us — and always will.

Music is the soundtrack of our lives.

Play on.

The Right Amount of Different

Be Different. But Not Too Different.

These six words are a microcosm of our society.

We inhabit a world that values individuality — to an extent. Some originality is considered noteworthy. Too much is considered rebellious.

This paradox arises from our dueling desires to explore and maintain. We want to test the waters and get outside of our comfort zone. But we won’t dare lose sight of the boat that brought us — or else the current might sweep us away for good.

Why keep one foot on solid ground, instead of diving right in? Because we strive for balance. We simply cannot function properly without it.

This leads to a world of incremental changes. We try and take the monotonous, familiar world we know and gradually put a fresh spin on it. It’s like an adapted recipe, with life as we know it as the base ingredient.

Making your mark can prove challenging in this paradigm. No one is there to tell you where the goalposts are. So, the quest to find the right amount of different can be quite elusive. Play it too safe, and you’ll come off as bland and quiet. Change too much up and you’ll come off as loud and obnoxious.

What can you do to find the sweet spot?

Scour the landscape. Take a close look at how things look now. What’s considered normal? Why are things the way they are within an industry or a social group? Don’t hesitate to self-educate. The more you know about the world around you, the more effective you can be at changing it.
Consider a derivative. No intensive calculus needed here — just a math mindset. What’s one thing you could change about the world you know in order to make it one degree more efficient and one degree more outstanding? Throwing the status quo out the window and starting over is not an option. Think in terms of small, yet noticeable tweaks.
Chart a plan of action. Think about how you will implement the changes you derive. Think of what you will do to communicate these changes in a way that doesn’t upset the apple cart Are you prepared for all outcomes when you let the cat out of the bag?
Execute.

Now, you might think this looks a lot like a business plan. You’d be right — and wrong.

You see, business is a microcosm of our societal constructs. Of our need for balance and continual improvement. Of our need to be different, but not too different.

In other words, business mirrors life. Take these steps to find the right amount of different, and you’ll likely see success in both areas.

You’ll improve the world in a culturally acceptable manner. And in the process, you’ll be viewed as remarkable.

These are goals we strive for, whether we admit it or not. The right amount of different makes them possible.

So, what are you waiting for? The process starts now.

Within The Lines

Color within the lines.

It’s one of the earliest things we’re taught. Right around the time we’re first handed a crayon and a coloring book.

The objective: Follow the rules and good results will follow.

This mantra follows us into adulthood. We’re continue to be told that staying above board will lead to a positive outcome.

This carrot and stick routine is a powerful way of maintaining order within society.

It’s also completely bogus.

For as much as we’d like to believe it, life is not a meritocracy. Bad things happen to good people all the time, and the most deserving person doesn’t always reap the reward.

Those with connections or money can cut the line. Conversely, years of good deeds paired with chronic misfortune can leave us with nothing but heartbreak.

Why then, do we insist on coloring within the lines? On not taking the shortcuts and liberties others have gotten away with?

It has everything to do with balance.

You see, if we all decided the rules were not worth our attention, we’d leave ourselves in a very vulnerable state. While we’d have much to gain by putting our own interests first, we’d also lose the blanket of protection that the aura of order implies.

This is a prime reason why bouts of anarchy have been more of a pop-up thunderstorm than a Category 5 hurricane throughout history. We can only accept vulnerability for so long; once the initial jubilation of rebellion subsides, the risk outweighs the reward.

Continually fending off those trying to take advantage of us is stressful and exhausting. It’s far more comfortable to insulate ourselves in a structure that protects us against harm while rewarding us for our compliance.

This is not to say that we’re oblivious to the absurdity of our idealism. By and large, we understand that the world is not, in fact, fair. And we know that a steadfast belief in karma — good or bad — as an equalizer is more wishful thinking than reality.

But it gives us piece of mind to know where the lines are, and what it should mean if we stay on the right side of them.

It also makes us better members of society. After all, if we share a common understanding of the rules, we can commiserate freely without worrying about being stabbed in the back.

Indeed, the ideal of playing by the rules is no fallacy. It’s a necessary construct to provide us with the attributes key to our survival — comfort, protection and social connection.

These are attributes worth fighting for. So, let’s keep striving to color within the lines, even as others leave their crayon marks astray.

Our Culinary Conundrum

What’s the universal language?

Some would say love. Or numbers. And they wouldn’t be wrong.

Both have brought us together and torn us apart. They’ve allowed us to sustain and grow over the millennia.

And they’re consistent around the globe. But that might be a problem.

You see, language is defined as much by its variations as by its meaning. By the differences between a Boston accent and a Minnesota one. By the chasm between French and French-Canadian.

The concept of love doesn’t quite have these distinct variations. And the world of numbers is standardized by definition. Due to these concrete realities, I feel that neither of them qualifies as the universal form of expression.

So, what do I consider the universal language?

Food.

Much like love and basic arithmetic, we need food to survive. But the way we go about satisfying that need varies greatly by palette, dietary restrictions and region.

Yes, much like traditional language, food certainly has its intricacies. A sandwich filled with sliced steak might be known as a Philly Cheesesteak, a French Dip, or an Italian Beef — depending on how and where it’s prepared. Although these dishes have a similar base, they’re actually quite distinct.

Our palette for these variations has spurred its own word — cuisine. And if we happen to live in a major metropolitan area, there’s a pretty good chance that we can explore much of what the world of cuisine has to offer without hitting the road or hopping on a jet.

Yet, this appears to be changing.

***

I’ve lived in North Texas for the past several years. While there are many things to love about Dallas, the wide variety of food options is certainly high on the list. In fact, I’ve had everything from Cuban sandwiches to Cajun delicacies, Nashville-style Hot Chicken to Texas barbecue in or around Dallas.

Lately, however, I’ve seen those options dwindling. New restaurants in resurgent parts of town have abruptly closed up shop, and regional chains have shuttered many of their locations. Abandoned restaurant properties now line the highways and major intersections like an eyesore.

The bursting of the restaurant bubble has left me in a bit of a bind. I now have to drive further to get something other than fast food, Chili’s or quick-service Mexican fare. And if I have a hankering for something like the aforementioned Italian Beef, I might be out of luck entirely. (Despite the large influx of Chicago transplants in Dallas, Illinois-style eateries have struggled to find traction.)

At the same time that restaurant selection is dwindling, so are my options at the supermarket. In the past year, my grocer has pulled several varieties of cold cuts from the deli and stopped supplying basic items such as sausage buns, skirt steak and coarse ground beef. This has forced me to either improvise or drive to a competing grocer for supplies when making such basic dishes as fajitas, chili or bratwurst.

I understand the financial realities that have led to these cutbacks. Commercial rents in are rising — both in North Texas and across the United States — but people are still unwilling to help cover that increase by paying more for their meals or groceries. It’s an equation that doesn’t add up, so culinary variety inevitably ends up on the chopping block.

Still, I’m discouraged by these cutbacks. On one hand, it limits my options and makes cooking more challenging. On the other, it shows that our society doesn’t varied meal options.

Consider the implications of this shift:

Food is being constrained into two classes: Widely accessible junk and highly restricted healthy options. If you don’t want fatty burgers, greasy pizza or gooey mac and cheese, you’ll most likely have to spend extra time, fuel and money to get something better for you — or even something different.
Dietary issues are ignored. Despite the best efforts of the gluten-free Millennial revolution, cutbacks on food options mean those of us with actual sensitivities to wheat, dairy, sodium or processed fats often find ourselves struggling to find a suitable meal option.
We’re lowering the bar. While we must adapt to dwindling food options, we can at least remember that there was once a greater amount culinary variety lining both the streets and the store shelves. But if the current trend holds, the next generation won’t have this perspective — which means it will be less likely to be reversed.

None of this is ideal. But while we’ve been complicit in our culinary demise, we’re not at the point of no return.

***

If we can see the value in our universal language and recommit to exploring it en masse, we can turn the tide.

That means swallowing our pride a bit, and getting out of our comfort zone. It means putting an end to our crusade to pinch pennies when filling our mouths — a losing proposition anyway, given the expensive health issues junk food leads to down the line.

It means committing to try new things and support the establishments that provide them to us. If restaurants see the cash register ringing, they’re more likely to thrive. And if items are flying off supermarket shelves, they’re less likely to end up in closeout.

Ultimately, it means using our collective voice to serve notice that we demand more options, more variety and more accessibility. The Internet age has given us the tools to do this, but we must do it together.

Don’t let our universal language suffer the fate that the Comanche, Welsh and Latin languages did. Our culinary future is at stake, and we have the booming voice needed to make a stand. Let’s use it.

Our Double Standard

Few concepts are as taboo as that of the double standard.

Hypocrites in our society might as well wear a scarlet letter. They’ve broken the cardinal rule.

After all, there’s a reason why phrases like Say what you mean, mean what you say or Talk the talk, walk the walk are gospel. We strive to be treated with honesty and respect, and we don’t like having our time wasted with lies and deception.

In an inherently unfair world, these unwritten rules are the closest thing to a pact we’ve got.

So, we might as well continue our credo, right? We might as well eradicate any semblance of double standards that remain?

Not exactly.

I’m actually a proponent of double standards, when it comes to the bar we set for ourselves. That’s the level of excellence we strive to meet as a person, an intellectual and a member of society.

I believe we should set that bar higher for ourselves than our friends, family and loved ones. That we should always demand a higher level of excellence of ourselves while not being too demanding on others.

It creates a chasm of hypocrisy, sure. But a worthwhile one at that.

You see, if we were to raise the bar of expectations for everyone in our circle, we would run the risk of pushing them away. We’d likely come off as cold and demanding — two terms that are not exactly conducive for social interaction.

We don’t make friends, associate with family members or fall in love with our soulmate in order to demand more out of them. No, we interact with these people so that we can just be. We strive to soak up life’s moments with them, rather than asking more of them at all times.

We might not agree with everything those in our circle say or do. But for the most part, we understand that they’re fine the way they are; that’s what drew us to associate with them in the first place.

When it comes to ourselves though, change is always needed. We can always do more to fix our flaws, expand our knowledge base and improve our relationship with those we care about. Taking the view that we’re fine the way we are is dangerous, as it short circuits this mission.

So, we’re obligated to set the bar higher for ourselves. And when we reach that bar, we’re obligated to set it even higher — or else we risk getting stuck in the mud.

This all sets up a new kind of double standard — on built on honesty and truth. We’re staying true to ourselves by demanding continually increasing excellence, and staying true to the members our circle by not forgetting what it is that brought them into the fold.

There’s a balance in this setup, one between changing and maintaining. A balance worth standing behind.

So, let’s pursue this double standard in lieu of the others. It’s a win-win.

Award Mentality Aversion

I still remember the first award I ever received.

OK, that’s a lie. I grew up during the beginning of the dreaded “Participation Trophy” era, so I surely got some ribbons or certificates for preschool activities that I can no longer recall.

But the first award that ever had any weight to it — I got it more than half my life ago.

It was for a top 15 finish in a Cross Country race — the charter school state championship race for freshmen.

I remember taking my medal and thinking, “I deserve this.”

You see, I was a scrawny kid back then. Couldn’t have weighed more than a buck thirty. I didn’t much care for running long distances, but I did want to play baseball. So, when the Junior Varsity baseball coach approached me about joining the Cross Country team (which he also coached), I was in no position to say no.

But I was also in no position to succeed.

The idea of pushing myself to the limit was a bridge too far for my 14-year-old self. So, I ate greasy food and downing sodas before practice. I walked backcountry portions of the course. And I counted down the days until I wouldn’t have to run quarter mile windsprints uphill in a driving rainstorm.

When I won that medal in the last race of the year, I viewed it as my reward for time served. I walked away from Cross Country, never to return.

Only now — 15 years later — am I running outdoors regularly again.

***

I still remember the second award I ever received.

I got it my senior year of college, at the student TV awards ceremony. It was a ceremony I helped organize, through my role as treasurer of the student broadcast council.

I spent most of the evening sitting near the back of the courtyard where the ceremony was being held. I deliberately stayed out of the spotlight, as my friends and mentors picked up well-deserved accolades for their work with UMTV — our college TV station.

This night was about them, and I was happy just to be a part of it.

One of the final awards of the evening was the Rex Pompadur Award, honoring exceptional service to UMTV. I was preparing to applaud the winner when I heard:

“And the award goes to…Dylan Brooks.”

I froze.

“Is Dylan here?” the presenter asked.

Still stunned, I shakily stood up and took the long walk to the podium, nearly tripping over an audio cable on the way there. I sheepishly accepted the award to loud applause. Then I took the long walk back to my seat, wondering what in the world had just happened.

Never in a million years did I think I would win an award that night. And when I did, my only thought was, “I don’t deserve this.”

Don’t get me wrong. I was proud to volunteer many hours of my week to writing and producing various news and sportcasts on UMTV. But there were so many others who put in just as much time, if not more.

I felt the award belonged to them, not me. In fact, I felt so strongly about this that I emailed the UMTV faculty advisors, asking to return the award. They refused my request, explaining that I was indeed worthy of the award. So, I reluctantly held on it.

***

Fast forward to today. I still have both awards.

The Rex Pompadur award sits on a display tower in my living room, underneath only two items — a picture of my family at Christmas and my grandfather’s Naval portrait from World War II. The Cross Country medal is hidden in a closet.

The placement of these items speaks volumes.

You see, I’ve grown a lot in the years since I first put that medal around my neck. In particular, I’ve learned that nothing in life is granted, and that a life chasing accolades is a life wasted.

I’ve come to appreciate the journey over the destination, the grind over the glory. And I’ve witnessed firsthand how helping others to achieve their hopes and dreams can help me achieve mine more than a plaque, medal or framed certificate ever could.

In short, I’ve developed a healthy aversion to the award mentality, and all it represents.

Today, I’d rather display the award I didn’t expect — and the one I didn’t feel I deserved — to the one I desired for all the wrong reasons. It’s a better representation of who I am and what I stand for.

And while I’m not one to throw stones, I do feel the world would be a better place if more of us practiced Award Mentality Aversion.

For the dogged quest for trophies and accolades runs can corrupt us, keeping us from being team players. It can lead to self-absorbedness and narcissism, and make us less likely to share and communicate.

This is a particularly problematic trend in our divisive society. And it runs counter to the spirit of awards, which are meant to be more an honor than a giveaway.

But it’s not too late for us to change the narrative. It’s not too late to shun the award mentality and focus on what really matters.

Ready to begin?

Eyes Wide Open

It’s amazing what a bit of perspective can do.

As I grow older, it seems that I’ve finally got my eyes wide open.

Everything is coming into focus. Not only the way the world works and where I fit within it. But also the way I work, and how that affects those around me.

These types of things took time, experience and deep introspection to fully grasp. Yet, once I did grasp them, I found myself full of regret.

Regret for the ignorance of my youth. Regret for the way I once treated those closest to me. Regret for the biased worldview I once carried with me.

Yes, the error of my prior ways rang true and clear. And all I could do is play the What If game, wishing that my current perspective on life also existed in years gone by.

This, of course, is ridiculous.

Our mind doesn’t come fully loaded. We must experience, learn and grow in order to build perspective.

It’s a process that takes time, patience — and a lot of mistakes. To err is human, because the lessons from those errors allow us to explore the boundaries between right and wrong.

This first-hand experience can be messy at times, and even cringe-worthy in hindsight. But it’s also essential.

For without this, we can’t have perspective. We can’t have meaningful introspection. We can’t get to the point where our eyes are wide open.

And that’s a spot worth getting to.

So, let’s take all those regrets we might have for our prior ignorance and replace them with a new sensation — gratitude.

Let’s be grateful for the road we have traveled. For the lessons we have learned. For those who have continually stood by us, even back when we were naïve and immature.

Let’s be grateful for our newfound perspective, and for the time we have ahead of us to apply it to our experiences. Let’s be grateful for all we have now, and for all the great things that could be in store for us moving forward.

Most of all, let’s forge ahead with a clear mind and a full heart.

For while much can be learned from the past, life can’t be lived there.

Best to be looking forward with eyes wide open.

Author: Dylan Brooks