What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

Pose this question to a group of kindergartners, or any elementary-age group, and you'll get a bevy of excited answers. Policeman! Fireman! Astronaut! Movie Star! Rock star! Baseball player! On and on. The enthusiasm - and the optimism - is boundless.

Pose this question to a group of high schoolers, and the response is a bit more subdued, and usually prefaced with, "Well, I'd like to be..." and ends with "..., but I'm not very good at it."

Pose this question to a group of college students and, well, the answer isn't about wants. It's about "going to be's" based on whatever a person's declared major is. Sometimes, you get a shrug of the shoulders. And quite often, the initial answer does not match what actually happens. Take me: I started out thinking I'd be an attorney, gradually decided to be a teacher, and now I'm a project manager at a software company. Say what?

Pose this question to a group of adults, and you'll get anything from a misty-eyed, "If I could do it all over..." to a disgusted "I don't have time for this childish nonsense."

I've asked myself the question frequently lately. And I am not ashamed to say, "I have no clue." But I know it's not what I'm doing now. I mean really, what child says, "Ooo, I want to be a project manager at a software company!" Give me a break. It makes me envious of my children. My soon-to-be-10-year-old daughter has the answer pat: she wants to be a choreographer and costume designer. My soon-to-be-8-year-old son doesn't know, but he still figures he can do anything - including playing professional baseball. :)

The operative part of the question, for me, is when do we "grow up"? Is it chronological, psychological, what?

I think I've found the answer: We've grown up when we cease to dream. It's a terrifying thought, to be stuck in a rut of just getting up, working, eating, and sleeping with no hopes/dreams/aspirations. In fact, I think Dante may have defined that as a special level of hell.

What's even more terrifying is that I think I might be there. I'm frankly unhappy with what I'm doing. As I said yesterday, I see very little chance for real success and, as an achievement-oriented person, I find that more than a little depressing. But at the same time, I've been in one place so long, I find the prospect of change frightening. Where I am might not be enjoyable, but it's safe: I get paid, I get good benefits, and I've been here a long time. So long, in fact, that it's tough for me to imagine what else I can do.

I read somewhere that more and more college students are entering college undeclared and may change majors multiple times. Some have scoffed at this, saying it's just one more sign of the immaturity of the next generation.

But maybe they're actually the smart ones. Maybe they realize the question isn't as easy as it seems. Maybe they realize, subconsciously, that growing up isn't all it's cracked up to be.

So what do I want to be when I grow up? No clue. I don't know if you've answered that question, or if you're happy with your current answer. But if you've got any suggestions, feel free to pass them my way.

And to all the kids out there: Growing up sucks. Don't do it. That's my advice. Stay young - and don't be afraid to dream.

The So-Called "Death of Books"

Unless you've been living under a rock for oh, about three years now, you're familiar with the concept of an e-reader or e-book. No longer are books simply paper-bound entities, you can buy digital copies of them, and read on an electronic device. While a number of companies have jumped into the fray, such as Sony and Barnes & Noble (the Nook), the two main players in this area seem to be Amazon's Kindle (and by extension the Kindle app for iPhone/iPod Touch/iPad), and Apple's newly released iPad - although to simply call the iPad an "e-reader" is a bit misleading because it is actually much more than that, but I digress and this is not a discussion about the iPad, so back off.

The primary draw of these devices seems to be - at least to me - portability. Imagine going on a two-week trip, and wanting reading material. Now imagine wanting to take 10 of your favorite books, as well as periodicals, with you. That's a lot of luggage space - unless you have a device that is less than and inch think, is about the size of an 8.5x11 piece of paper (or less), and weighs slightly more than a pound. Tempting, huh?

You would think that making books, newspapers, and magazines more accessible would be a good thing, but there appear to be two major camps: one thinks this is the greatest thing since movable type, and the other moans, "It's the death of books! I love my shelves and the feel of paper! I shall never use a digital reader, they are the evil spawn of Satan!" (Okay, that last bit might be hyperbole, but you get the idea.)

For myself, I was kind of skeptical of these digital reading devices. Were they really as easy on the eyes as books? Can I sit for hours reading without getting a headache? Portable they might be, but could I actually use it? I was unwilling to spend $300 dollars or so to find out. Then I bought an iPod Touch. Then a co-worker showed me all the e-reader apps in the App store - not just the Kindle app (which was free), but several that came pre-loaded with a fairly large selection of classics, books like A Christmas Carol and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland that are in the public domain and could be purchased for the low, low price of 99 cents - or in several cases were free. Free being free, well, I was in. After all, I could always delete the app if it sucked, right?

Oh... my... goodness.

In less than an hour, I had downloaded no fewer than five e-reader apps, including the Kindle app, Stanza, eReader, at least four classics collections, and a collection of the most important historical documents in history (the Constitution, the Gettysburg Address, the Magna Carta). I flicked open each app to test read. I was entranced - childishly thrilled with the "page turn" effect of the Classics app and it's virtual bookshelf (it even "bookmarks" your page when you close the book - hee, hee!). Almost instantly, I had close to 90 literature classics in my pocket, available for my reading pleasure at a moment's notice. It was a bibliophile's dream come true.

I downloaded Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief from the Kindle store. I read it for hours. No problem. The first three books from that series joined my collection in rapid succession.

A friend recommended the Harry Dresden series. Poof! Downloaded to Stanza.

If you're keeping count, that's almost 100 books. All on a device that weighs maybe 4 ounces and is only slightly bigger in dimension than a pack of cards. No more paging through trashy, outdated magazines in the doctor's office. No more wishing I had a bigger purse to carry around my current book. Cost? Oh, about $15-$20 at this point (the cost of the Kindle edition of books being much lower than their physical paper counterparts).

Okay, ability to carry lots of books - check. Actually able to read on it - check (and recall this is my little iPod touch screen, 2"x3" - I'd imagine the bigger screen of the Kindle or the iPad would only be better). What about ease of use?

I walked into Bruegger's bagel, ordered a chai latte, plopped myself down in a comfy chair, and started reading. It was actually easier than a book because I could turn a page by tapping the screen with my thumb, leaving my other hand free to hold my latte. It might have been the most enjoyable 30 minutes of waiting I've ever spent.

Could I read to my kids with it? An hour with my son proved I could.

Oh no! the bibliophiles scream. But what about books?

Keep your hoity-toity pants on. All this is not to say that I'll be getting rid of all my books. For starters, I have too many of them. Second, there is something very soothing to my soul to see shelves of quality hardback books. And there are some books I simply want to have in physical form - my complete Jane Austen, my complete works of Shakespeare, the Harry Potter series. Old books that have fallen out of print and aren't available digitally. But throwaway paperbacks? I might as well get the digital copy.

Gutenberg had a pretty good run - how many hundreds of years ago did it take to even start to displace the printing press? Further, I argue that digital books to not displace anything - they augment. I was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to read on a portable, digital device. And I can see it's use. A friend of mine is an avid reader of the NY Times. The week after he bought his iPad, the physical paper lay untouched - he read the entire thing online. Easier to carry around, easier to navigate, no black fingers from newsprint - no expensive subscription.

Anything that brings reading to a wider audience - that makes it easier to read - can only be a good thing, in my humble opinion. After all, does the soul of a book lie it the physical paper and binding, or is it in the words that are read? Anna Quindlen explored this topic in a recent Newsweek article. Is Shakespeare any less relevant in digital print? I think not.

The true soul of a story - whether a fiction novel or a factual biography/news story - is in the words of the writer, the emotions they evoke, the actions they prompt. If you read a story about the environmental damage of throwing away plastic bottles on the New York Times website, and it prompts you to reuse/recycle, is that story any less powerful because the media was digital? Um, no. If you read "Romeo and Juliet" on an e-reader, are Shakespeare's words any less true and vibrant, is the point any less relevant? Hardly. The words and intent are what is important, not the delivery mechanism.

And just as Beethoven's 9th is no less powerful because I have it digitally on my iPod, the words of Keats or Shelley are no less powerful because they are in digital form. Tell a good story, it matters not how people read it. Tell a crappy story and all the fine paper, fancy illustrations, and fine binding in the world won't make a difference. Just look at Moby Dick. =)

I can also see where digital media would be a boon to aspiring writers. After all, what is the biggest barrier to getting published (okay, after you finish the story)? Convincing some big publishing house that your work is worth the not insignificant cost of printing, binding, shipping, and storing a book. That manufacturing/storage cost is not to be scoffed at. Why can Apple offer songs for 99 cents on iTunes? Because they have almost no overhead - no CDs to burn, liner notes to print, cases to manufacture, or inventory to store. It's all ephemeral bits and bytes. Now imagine some enterprising soul starting a company to do digital publishing for up-and-coming writers. You pay a nominal fee to upload your story/novel/whatever, and folks can download it for a small fee. Will you be a blockbuster author like Tom Clancy? Maybe not, but you'll have the satisfaction of pushing your story out for people to read. And who knows, if you have enough success, maybe you can convince Simon & Schuster, or Knopf, or Houghton/Mifflin that you're worth the investment.

So to all you outraged bibliophiles I say this: relax. Books are not dead. They live on in the hearts of readers everywhere, on bookshelves and libraries across the planet.

And on my iPod.

Crossroads

Crossroads

There is a song lyric (which song, I cannot now remember) that says, "I'm at a crossroads in my life, and I really don't know which way to go."

Brother, am I.

I don't believe in the phrase "mid-life crisis." I do believe, however, that you are happiest when your life is in balance, like an equilateral triangle: personally, professionally, and spiritually. And when one of the sides of that triangle becomes imbalanced, you experience "crisis." Sometimes this is once during your life, sometimes multiple times. You may be 15, 20, 25, or 50 - not yet a quarter through your time on this Earth, or more than halfway. It does not happen at a specific time, nor at a specific frequency. But when it does happen, you feel it in your very bones. It permeates your existence. You feel like you are walking up a steep hill in uneven shoes.

Brother, do I.

I have been blessed to have almost 12 years working in a place where I felt balanced. In the tech sector, 12 years is forever. But as I look around my cubicle today, I am dissatisfied, disjointed. Off balance. I no longer find meaningful fulfillment in what I do. I feel as though I no longer should be here.

Problem is, I don't know where I should be either.

"Life is too short to be miserable at work." I saw that somewhere recently. The sad fact of life is, however, that while love may make the world go around it doesn't pay the mortgage - or the electric bill, or buy groceries. But does that mean I must labor joylessly? God I hope not. My father labored for 19 years at a soul-sucking job, and it nearly destroyed his marriage. I would like to not let it get so dire.

This is not to say I hate work. The Catholic Church defines meaningful labor as essential to healthy spirituality. Perhaps my problem is that I no longer find my labor "meaningful." And I spend too much time at my labor for that. If I exclude the hours I sleep, I spend more time at "work" than anywhere else (even including traffic, although it doesn't feel that way as I slog down Route 28 every day, but I digress). At 36, I'm too young to feel that way.

My day started with the latest entry in my Moritz's blog in my Inbox, a blog in which she writes, "One of the most powerful and profound phrases you can utter to yourself is 'I am.'" I am a mother, I am a wife, I am a friend, I am a writer. But for 8 hours a day, give or take, I am none of those things - and I don't know what I am.

As I flipped on my iPod to take solace in music, I went to an album I haven't listened to in a while, Mary Chapin Carpenter's, "Come On, come On." First song: "Show a little passion, baby. Show a little spark. Everything we've got, we got the hard way."

And as I look to my right, I see my plaque purchased years ago in college: Opportunity always involves some risk. You can't steal second base and keep your foot on first.

True words all of them. The trick now is to find my passion, invest the work, and take the risk. Question is, do I have the guts to do it?

Brother, I hope so.

Claiming Your Space

"I don't know why I'm not popular, I'm just not."

That was the plight of my daughter, 9, this morning as I readied myself for church. I would not call it a plaintive cry for pity, it was just a statement of fact: she is not the popular girl in her class. Her friend, Meredith, is the popular girl. Ultimately, she is okay with not being popular - it just puzzles her.

I explained that I was not a popular kid when I was in school. The 12 years of my pre-college education were, to put it lightly, socially trying. There seemed to always be someone to remind me that I wasn't cool enough, didn't do the right things, didn't wear the right clothes, and did say the right things to be in the "in" crowd. I vividly remember the very first day of 7th grade, when two of the so-called "popular" girls informed me that I very definitely was not cool, and, if they had anything to do with it, I never would be. They were right - I wasn't. Oh, the social snubbing got less vitriolic as the years progressed, but it wasn't until college than I could count more than a few people in my social circle. See, by college, I figured out that clothes do not necessarily make the woman - and there were plenty of people who thought that way (many of them hadn't been the "cool kids" in high school either).

And truth be told, I am still not one of the "cool kids." I'm considered reliable, but reliability and popularity are not the same thing. I am still the one that is kind of on the fringe, no matter where I am. Not quite as fringe as high school, but still. Of course, at 37, I'm not really interested in proving myself "worthy," you either like me or you don't.

That's a hard concept for a 9-year old. Of course, her level of popularity changes depending on the group. At school, yeah, she may not be popular. The most recent "problem" is that most of the kids in her class like to play football at recess. My child does not play football. It's not that she can't - she can throw a football as well as the next kid - it's that she does not want to play football. She is a dancer and a gymnast. The other kids call her "wussy" and "girly" because she will not play football. Wussy she is not - girly, yeah, maybe. But perception in the dance studio is different. She has a lot of friends, especially among the older girls. Younger ones look up to her.

The best I could do for her this morning is to reassure her that I new what she was going through and tell her she had to "claim her space." She is most emphatic that she doesn't want to be a follower, and that is good. But it is the harder path - and no one is going to give her a "space." She's got to find it herself. I can support her, but I cannot find it for her. No one can.

We all must find - and claim - our own space. Not necessarily physical space, but the thing that helps us define ourselves. We shrink from it, or downplay it, at our own peril. A couple weeks ago, I quoted Marianne Williamson (via my friend Moritz) and I quote it again here: "You're playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you... as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same."

As human beings, we like to classify people, to put them in boxes: the cool kids, the jocks, the geeks, the nerds, the dorks. But when you claim your space, you give yourself permission to live outside of other people's labels. To build a buffer that says, "You may want to stick me in another space of your choosing. But I choose this space, and this space gives me the freedom to thrive despite your label." It doesn't stop the label, but it allows you to understand that the label is not the end. It is someone else's feeble attempt to keep you down. Claiming your space makes less possible for others to make that label meaningful.

Ironically, I find myself at a point where I must again claim my space. At my son's First Communion retreat, I found myself talking with a friend who said he read my entry "The Cake is a Lie." I am always surprised that people would read what I write - in my mind, what I write is just not that interesting. He is a writer - he has written three books. Not published, but still, that's three more than I've written. I told him about my half-started attempt at a mystery novel and he offered to hook me up with a writing group that helped him find motivation. After a moment, and with the prompting of my spouse, I said sure. After all, I did say I wanted to write.

Nervous? Of course. Heck, I just said I didn't understand why people would read what I write. But that's what claiming your space means. In the end, it doesn't matter what others think or if I never publish a book. I am claiming my space as a writer. If I truly mean to claim it, I will join the ranks of those few (relatively speaking) who have not just talked about writing a book, but done it. The decision alone feels pretty good.

Tired of living according to public opinion? Find your space - and claim it.

Somebody's Hero

A few years ago, country singer Jamie O'Neal released a song called "Some Body's Hero." It tells the story of a mother and a daughter, and how the mother is "hero" to her daughter as a young child, and later as a young woman, but eventually the daughter becomes a "hero" to her elderly mother living in a nursing home. It is a little sappy, but it makes me think of the relationship with my own mother, and my relationship with my daughter.

As a young girl, I didn't like my mother very much. Oh, I loved her, but I didn't like her. I felt that she was harder on me, the eldest, overly critical, and not very understanding of what it was like to be young. Typical pre-teen and teen angst. I still remember the one and only time she slapped me in public and in the face. I said she couldn't possibly be my real mother, because my real mother wouldn't be so mean to me (she wouldn't buy me a chocolate bar). One of those times when the brain is frantically trying to shut off the mouth because it knows this will not end well, and fails miserably.

It wasn't until she was diagnosed with breast cancer, when I was 14, that the relationship changed. I still vividly recall Mom telling me that she was going to die, and she was looking to me to raise my brothers and sister. That conversation simultaneously encouraged and terrified me. Encouraged because it was good to hear that my mother trusted me with her most precious possessions, her children. Terrifying because I was 14 and hey, what did I know about child rearing anyway? Fortunately, Mom didn't die then, and by the time she did pass away, we were all grown - and I had kids of my own to deal with.

Early on, I vowed I would no do some of the things my mother did to me to my daughter. To a large extent, I haven't. The result is a big difference in our relationship: my daughter actually likes me. I know she loves me, but she likes who I am, she regards me as a friend. She knows that above all I am her mother, and I will (and do) frequently tell her things she doesn't want to hear, but she likes me too. She likes spending time with me - going to the mall, reading a book, working in the yard, or even just sitting on my lap in a chair on the front porch while we watch the world go by (although she really is getting too big for the lap - we may have to move to the love seat).

This culminated in the receipt of a poem recently in my email (I got her a Gmail address so she can write to a pen pal). I ignored the lack of poetic form and spotty grammar; after all, it's the thought that counts:

hey mom you rock

you always were there for me

you always cuddled with me

and there fore your great!

As you go through life, you will meet many people. Some you will like, many you won't. The vast majority will want something from you, or be irrationally demanding, or even hostile. Some may call you a "hero" for a big accomplishment at work, or doing something that needs to be done when no one else will. But in the end, this is a hollow heroism - a heroism of the moment, brief, fleeting, and easily supplanted by being called a "goat" when something goes wrong.

If you want to see heroism, look around the dinner table at night - at little faces who want nothing more from you than a hug, a kiss, or a cuddle. Nothing more than to know that at that exact moment, they have your attention, your love, and your friendship.

The angst of the teen years beckons - I can see it coming. But I take comfort in the fact that for one shining moment in time, I really am some body's hero.