Tag: meaning

Means to an End

As I made my way into the starting corral, I started to shiver.

It was a frigid morning, reinforced by a fierce north wind. And I was hardly dressed for it.

As I leaned down to stretch, I noticed the contradiction. I was wearing shorts and an athletic t-shirt, while everyone else around me was decked out in sweatpants and jackets.

Most of these outerwear items appeared ragged and mismatched. But that was beside the point. Those sporting them seemed warm, while I was burning precious energy trying to keep from freezing.

As I pondered my predicament, I heard an announcement over the loudspeakers.

5 minutes until the starting gun.

Almost in unison, I saw the fellow runners around me shed their outer layers and tossed them aside. Piles of sweatpants accumulated on the edges of the corral. Scores of jackets cascaded over the perimeter fencing.

The finish line for this race was located several blocks away from here. We wouldn’t be coming back, and there would be no opportunity to retrieve these items. The other runners were effectively throwing them away.

But no one seemed worried about that. After all, there was a race to run.

A few weeks after I crossed the finish line, I stepped onto a running track near my home before sunrise.

It was Track Tuesday, and I had a workout planned on the circuit. But first I needed to warm up.

So, I joined a group of fellow runners who were jogging a few laps on the track.

I knew these runners well enough to expect a conversation topic to dominate our warmup. But this morning’s topic caught me off guard.

Throwaway clothes.

This was the accepted term for the sweatpants and jackets I’d seen littering the corral at my recent race. It represented warmup gear that was intentionally abandoned.

My fellow runners explained that throwaway clothes were best purchased on the cheap at thrift stores or Walmart. The look and fit didn’t matter, because you wouldn’t have those items on you for long anyway.

Essentially, throwaway clothes were a means to an end. Much like the carbohydrate gel packs runners kept in the pockets of their shorts, or the water cups at the aid stations on the racecourse, they were meant to be used once and quickly disposed of.

No looking back. No remorse. No regret. The clothes did their job so that we could do ours.

I struggled to accept this concept. For it clashed heavily with my ethos.

I had become accustomed to looking stylish while exercising. I was convinced that mismatched shorts and shirts were for hobby joggers. As a competitive distance runner, I aimed to appear professional.

On top of that, I was beholden my late grandfather’s golden rule. Never throw anything away if you can get more use from it.

Now, I was being advised to violate both principles. All in the service of a greater goal.

Fortunately, I had time to adjust. Winter was nearing its end as we bantered on the track, and warmup gear was already becoming a moot point.

I would soon be showing up at the starting lines my usual garb. And so would everyone else. No sweatpants or jackets to be found in the corral.

Still, I knew I needed a plan for the cooler mornings ahead. If I was to race well in the fall, I needed to avoid freezing in the corral again.

So, I began to get my throwaway gear plan in order. But fate kept me from rolling it out.

I sustained an injury while training in the summer. I recovered, only to retain another series of injuries and undergo ankle surgery.

I never did make to the starting line of another race. And I never did end up purchasing throwaway clothes.

The end I was working towards had evaporated. And so had the means to get there.

I am proud of what I achieved in my racing career, abbreviated as it was.

The race times I posted still astonish me. The hardware I collected adorns a wall in my home. The talented people I trained with remain dear friends.

Still, it’s hard not to wince when reminiscing on it all. For even without throwaway clothes, the means to an end perspective percolates through my competitive running odyssey.

Each training block I tackled was designed to get me through the next race. Each race time I posted was the bar to clear for the next one.

I was on a long-distance journey, but each milestone was disposable.

Perhaps I should have paid more attention to where I was, instead of where I was going. Perhaps I should have soaked up the moment a bit more.

But it’s hard to blame myself. After all, I’m hardly the only one to make this type of error – both in the running community and outside of it.

Indeed, means to an end describes a great portion of our society. So much of what we do, what we consume, and what we expose ourselves to is devoid of cultural relevance.

It’s what those actions, those goods, and those experiences can lead us to that’s deemed important. The rest is simply the price of admission.

Yet, we struggle to accept that reality.

For we are wired to find meaning in utility, to seek purpose in the journey. The narrative arc is not just the domain of Disney movies; it’s the cornerstone of our lives.

Furthermore, we are appalled by the notion that we might be means to an end. That we could be viewed as interchangeable, non-essential, or otherwise lacking in unique value.

So, we fight the good fight. We strive to prove how essential each stone along our path is. And we take each rebuke as an affront to our self-worth.

In essence, we set ourselves up for misery – day in, day out. And we suffer accordingly.

How do we get out of this rut?

How do we accept the transactional, the interchangeable – all without losing our soul in the process?

It starts between the ears.

Fighting against society’s gravitational pull is like shouting at a brick wall. It’s a lot of effort that yields few results.

It’s far better to work on our own narrative. To take stock of what we feel is essential and what we deem disposable. And to separate those sentiments from the prevailing winds.

Such defined dissonance requires discipline. It requires focus. It requires grit.

It’s a hard bargain. But for the sake of our sanity, it’s worthwhile.

So, let’s get after it.

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.

Slowing the Pace

“Time…why you punish me?”

Those lyrics from Hootie & the Blowfish hit the radio about two decades ago, but it seems they were far ahead of their time.

We live our lives at a breakneck pace today — the result of both innovation and the shifting of cultural norms. With the Internet in our pockets and with TV screens we can control with our voice, our days are now made up of hundreds of moments — Micromoments, as Google calls them. Attention is a precious commodity that mass media, marketing and entertainment professionals work tirelessly to capture; Attention Deficit Disorder has gone from a diagnosable problem to an acceptable condition.

To paraphrase Queen, “We want it all, and we want it now.”

But in the race to jam pack our lives with as much as we can, we’re leaving something valuable in the dust.

Meaningfulness.

Our development, both individually and as a society, depends on our ability to interpret meaning in what we do. This important process is a deliberate one, one that can’t be squeezed into the 24/7 circus we put ourselves through these days.

Simply put, the last viral thing we watched, the last rapid-fire experience we took on — it won’t resonate with us for long. Heck, we might not even remember it tomorrow.

So, while the modern-day lifestyle habits satiate our childish needs for “more, more, more” — and keep us away from the cultural stigma of FOMO — they also suffocate our ability to unpack what we expose ourselves to and use that newfound knowledge in a productive manner.

Without meaningfulness, we’re less balanced, less empowered, less smart. The race to the bottom intensifies.

But we can end this self-deprecating cycle.

It’s time we slow down the pace.

It’s time we take a moment to think, to fully digest all that we experience.

It’s time we consider the impact of what we do, and whether there is one in the first place.

It’s time we embrace moments of silent thought, enjoying the life unplugged the way we did in the days when the Macarena was a hit.

It’s time we commit ourselves to the pursuits that matter.

Only after we find this balance of pace and infotainment access will the world truly be at our fingertips.

Faith and Fate

In recent years, I’ve been quite open about my faith. Faith has both graced my life and helped guide it.

I wouldn’t be the man I am today without my faith. Faith has forged the moral code that serves as a background for my actions, views and decisions. Faith has illuminated the road less traveled I’ve taken through my adult life. Faith has shown me wonder and amazement in the course of my travels and travails, and brought purpose to the otherwise robotic and mundane routine called everyday life.

But faith has not driven my life. Fate has.

It’s easy to misappropriate these terms. Culturally, faith is generally associated with good fortune, while fate is considered a dark and dubious term. One is tied with meaning, the other placed in lockstep with the cruelties of randomization.

But it’s not just simplistic and shortsighted to make these generalizations; it’s also plain wrong.

In truth, fate encompasses what happens to us in life. Faith encompasses how we respond to it.

***

On the day after Christmas, devastating tornadoes tore through the eastern suburbs of Dallas. Within moments, 11 people were dead, dozens others were hurt, and hundreds of houses were gone. In the wake of this heartbreaking devastation, someone undoubtedly thought, “How could God do this?”

But God didn’t do this.

The weather conditions were ripe for tornado development, and, lo and behold, a tornado exploded across a busy interstate and nearby residential neighborhood. It was fate that led to the devastation — people, houses and pets being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That doesn’t make it any easier for us to swallow. So we look for the meaning, and, finding none, blame God and turn away from Him.

***

Devastating episodes like this illustrate the gulf we’ve built between faith and fate, as exposure to one serves to drive away the other. We believe that faith can help us repel wickedness, and by extension, cruel twists of fate. But when the darkest sides of fate turn our lives upside down, we repel faith.

But these two concepts are actually symbiotic.

Our faith anchors us in morality and serves as our compass. But without fate, we have nothing concrete to build off of.

Fate can knock us to the canvas without rhyme or reason, But faith allows us to rally behind our morality.

When we use the two together, we can live stronger, richer lives — even in the wake of events that rock our world.

***

If fate is what happens to us, and faith is how we respond, we must re-examine our cultural definition of meaning. We tend to attach this concept to actions, when we really should tie it to reactions.

This conceptual shift helps us view the world more accurately. It also forces us to face our fears, manifested in one sobering statement.

We can’t control what happens to us.

Scary, but true. We all want control over our lives and the events therein, but the forces of fate are stronger than our desires. What we can control is our response to the highs and lows fate throws our way. And we can use the meaning we draw from these reactions to strengthen and enrich our lives.

***

I believe all of this this, because I’ve lived it.

When I was a teenager, I had no idea my adult life would take the path it has. Fate hit me hard at times — at one point, I found myself lonely and frightened in a remote West Texas city; at another, I found myself living in a hotel room for three months as I looked for a marketing job — but faith was always there to guide me.

Faith helped me focus not on the actions fate had thrown at me, but what my reaction would be. In particular, faith helped keep me even-keeled, motivated and morally sound, even in the wake of hardships and setbacks. I subsequently drew value and meaning from my reactions to these experiences; as a result, I’m a stronger, wiser man today.

Don’t run from faith, or try and give fate the slip. Welcome both with open arms.