Personal

Are you a hack-of-all-trades, too?

By in Uncategorized, Personal, Philosophy Tags: ,

 

Jack-of-all-trades. Hack-of-all-Trades. That me, if you want to know the truth.

Today I will spend time with my Leica. I still barely know how to use it (not enough time learn), how to utilize natural light (not enough time to learn), how to capture the right blend of uniformity amidst variety (not enough time to learn), who to shoot (nobody willing).

For no other reason than nine lives lore, I can find myself wishing to be a cat. Why? How else to pursue the nagging passions?

In trying to cram them into this one, earthly, life, like today I’m  Paul-the-photographer, the result is the quintessential jack of all trades, master of none.

Paul, the hack-of-all-trades.

Fact is, I specialize at exactly nothing, other than the specialty of little bit of this and little bit of that.

Nine lives Paul, no doubt, would be posting today of the limitations of having only nine lives.

If I had to choose today? Most likely:

#1 Photographer: more of humanity than nature, in the Annie Leibovitz realm.

Are you a hack-of-all-trades, too?

#2 Revolutionary: Going all-in like  Jesus (more than anyone else) and MLK and Gandhi and Bob Dylan and Harriet Tubman and Wittgenstein and Saint Francis and Bonhoeffer and Luther and Céaser Chávez.  (Please visit forthechildren.org to sign the pledge and help me on this one.)

#3 Botanist/zoologist: Because Albert Schweitzer.

#4 Philosopher: In the spirit of Aristotle. My BA and MA helped greatly, but only almost scratched the surface of understanding metaphysics, epistemology, logic, aesthetics, ethics.

#5 Geologist: I know almost nothing about how the earth is composed nor how plate tectonics work, and that bugs me.

#6 Gypsy: A full-time observer. And truth-teller, no matter the cost. Just to travel to and from, to lick the globe, minus the encumbrances of money, schedules, social pressures to be “responsible.”

#7 Cook: Not a chef — a farmer who spends as much time attending to the ingredients (soil, sun, water, freshness) as much as the cooking part.

#8 Historian: Not sure which era nor region. Eighty-one lives wouldn’t be enough to satisfy my craving to learn about all those people from all those places during all those times.

#9 Musician: I play bass (decently), guitar (average at best), trumpet and piano (below average at best).

#10 Writer

Are you a hack-of-all-trades, too?

P.S. I forgot art historian, especially into the minds of Van Gogh, Chagall, Picasso… Oh, and a college professor (philosophy), oceanographer, architect, triathlete, yoga instructor, theologian, hermit.

“Some Just Die”: What Albert Just Said About COVID-19

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Recently I decided I would start riding my bike to work. At least a few times a week. This is one of my many New Year’s resolutions. In all likelihood, I won’t get very far.

I hadn’t ridden my Bianchi in over a decade. Brakes seemed sketchy. So, before my first voyage, I took it in last week for a tune-up. Today I picked it up.

I went for a test drive, back and forth, across our cul-de-sac.

I saw our next-door neighbor, playing with his baby girl. Albert is probably in his late thirties. His baby, Eleanor, just turned one.

I don’t talk to Albert often. Partially because I’m an introvert. I feel awkward. And also because he’s an ER doctor; he’s not around much.

I did want to ask him about COVID-19. Last May, I wrote this post, which included “ER doctors are seeing a spike in severe cases of child abuse.”

So I rolled up. His golden retriever, Maddy, rushed me. She just wanted attention.

“Hello, Albert, how are things at work?”

Albert is soft-spoken. He doesn’t talk much. And when he does, he gives really short answers, always with a smile.

This is a summary of what Albert just said about COVID-19.

“Well…”

I prodded: “I read that there shortage of beds in Southern California hospitals.”

“We are treating people in the waiting room. We are having to send people with other conditions home. There’s no room.”

I inquire more. “Are most of those come in elderly, or with preexisting conditions?”

“Some of them, yes.”

Then he added something. For those of you that think COVID-19 is some kind of hoax or exaggeration, please pay attention. This really just happened; I just came inside to memorialize what an ER doctor just told me.

“Some just die. There’s no way we can predict it. Younger people. What appeared to be very healthy people.”

I ask, “That is the reason for the use of the adjective novel, right? It’s new and we don’t know enough about it yet?”

“Yes, it’s new. Very difficult to predict.”

This wasn’t news to me. Just a few weeks ago, a Congressman-elect from Louisianna, Luke Letlow, died of COVID-19. Healthy as an ox. Forty-one years old. He left behind his wife and two children.

Human coronaviruses were first identified in the mid-1960s, but have likely circulated in humans for centuries. They are part of a large group of viruses that have crown-like thorns on their surface. The Latin word for crown is coronam. COVID-19, the current strain, was first discovered in 2019, hence the suffix, 19.

I thanked Albert for his time. I got back on my bike.

I rode for about 10 more minutes, thinking about what Albert just said about COVID-19.

Sometimes You Lose

By in Personal, Parenting, Politics, Teenagers Tags: , ,

Sometimes you lose.

When I was in high school, I coached boys football and basketball at my former junior high school. This was my first real job.

As a parent, I coached my boys’ soccer and basketball teams. I didn’t get paid for that; I was a volunteer.

I attended countless soccer, basketball, football, rowing, tennis games, matches, races, etc. I cheered for my boys’ teams.

I was never one of those parents who yelled at the refs. Even when they made a bad call.

My daughter played concert piano in junior high and high school. She attended an arts conservatory, once playing at Carnegie Hall during her senior year.

Between coaching and the boys and Bree, competitions were common.

As a coach, our teams won some. And we lost some.

As a parent, my children won some. And they lost some.

I taught my young players, and my young children to be good winners, and good losers.

Never would I allow poor sportsmanship, even if a ref made a bad call. Never did I allow complaining or whining the other team “cheated.” At the end of the game, win or lose, you look the other team in the eye, shake a hand, say “good game.”

What mattered more to me than the final “score,” was character.

Why? Becasue later on in life, all children need to know that things just don’t always turn out the way you want.

Sometimes you lose.

Life isn’t always fair.

Later in life, I competed for political office. I ran for United States Congress in 2018. And I lost. And my loss was public. I immediately called my primary opponent, the current Congressman who defeated me, Harley Rouda. We had breakfast a few weeks later. After Congressman Rouda was sworn in, I visited him at his office in Washington DC, congratulating him, even though he was in the “other party.”

I lost bad in the my first forray into poltitics. But I felt, for the sake of any of those players who still watch me with me (and some do), and, more important, my children, I must model good sportsmanship.

I wrote about How I Didn’t Win — But I’m certain I did. 

Some things in life are more important than “winning.” In fact, winning, at the end of the day, is about doing your very best, humility, and character — not some number on a screen.

I wish more parents felt this way. I wish more voters did, too.

Sometimes you lose.

Protect Was My Word: Day 24

By in Foster Children, Parenting, Personal, Relationships Tags: , , ,

Protect was my word

Today Bree turned 25. Bree, my eldest, my baby.

She lives in New York City. She attends Columbia University Medical School. Her graduate work is the field of genetics.

I wish she was here. But her life is there now. She finished her first year, last week. Her second year begins in a few days. She will intern at Presbyterian Hospital, this term.

We had a Zoom call, this morning – a surprise Zoom birthday party for my 25-year-old baby.

The call was her mother’s idea. Not all of la familia could get on the call. But I and her mother and her siblings and aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins and stepfamily all joined at 8:30 a.m. PST.

Protect was my word.

We wanted the surprise Zoom birthday party to actually be a surprise. We all dial-in. Then it dawns on us that nobody told Bree about the call.

We laughed. Would she be available? She could be taking a shower, be on a walk, her phone could be dead. 

Planning isn’t my specialty.

I text her. 

No response. 

I text again and again and again and finally she replies: “hi.”

Told her I wanted to Zoom with her. Suspiciousness must have been in her; we have never Zoomed. We use FaceTime.

Anyway, she gets on a few seconds later and her face beams.

Our family is very close. 

After a few minutes of catching up and laughing, her mother suggested that each of us say a word or words describe Bree.

Her mother and siblings and aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins and stepfamily all joined and revealed their words with an explanation. Their words were radiant, fun, loving, music, joy, intellect, sweet, peacekeeper, lovely, caring, intelligent, diligent, fun, caring, brilliant, dance and funny stories.

It was my turn. 

I said something like this:

Protect is my word. Because 25 years ago, at about this exact time, you came into this world. And I hadn’t known what love was until that moment. Then the nurse said she was going to take you and clean you. I told her I would accompany her. And she took you into this room and she placed you on a small bed under this warm light. And she stepped away to gather the cleaning materials. And you lay there, exposed, without touch, crying. And I put my two hands on you and whispered into your ear and told you that I would always protect you, until the time I breathe my last breath.

I’m thousands of miles away from her today. And if I saw her now, I’d, for the first time, kiss her 25 times on the forehead. (Whenever I see her, I kiss her years on her forehead.) 

I’ll see her soon enough.

I’ve been thinking of my 25-year-old baby all day today. 

But I couldn’t not think of the 125,000 children in American whose parental rights have been terminated. That means they live in the foster care system and have nobody — neither father nor mother nor sibling nor sister nor aunt nor uncle nor grandparent nor cousin nor stepfamily — to protect them.

Protect is my word. 

I Want To Touch Her So Badly: Day Eight

By in Foster Children, Life, Parenting, Personal, Relationships, Spirituality Tags: , , ,

I want to touch her so badly. It’s Mother’s Day, but I can’t.

People have lauded me for the love I have for my mother, Maria Luiga Zeppetella Martin, or “Louise.” They see the all the photos and videos and terms of endearment that I’ve posted on social media since her massive and unexpected hemorrhagic stroke in the evening on August 21, 2015. I wrote about it here.

But I can’t see her today. And I’d be lying if I denied my urge to run past the security guard, the one who sits outside the entrance — one of those kinds who gets to carry a gun — at her skilled nursing facility, just to see that look of joy on her face.

Then she would caress my face.

Later we would sit, and I’d hold her hand. 

When one suddenly dies, or in my case, suffers a mentally debilitating stroke, for the first time ever, you appreciate her as you never have. This is loss, defined. In the case of death, the qualities of the loved one exist only in your mind; in the case of mental impairment, you still get to see and touch and listen, but it’s not the same as before.

Not even close. 

I haven’t had a conversation with my mother since her stroke. 

In addition to Mom, today I think of the millions who have no mother. Or of those estranged from their mothers because of addiction or mental illness. Children in foster care have lost their mothers, temporarily, and oftentimes, permanently.

I relate with them: grief.

My love for my mom is deep. Inside my body. My chest. Real pain — a somatic reality completely different than the emotional pain.

I want to touch her so badly. 

Some have said, “Just think about what an amazing woman she was and all the good memories.”

That doesn’t work with me in times like this. 

The thing about Mom was that she wasn’t really amazing in the sense of being one of those super-moms. She didn’t care about my grades, as long as I passed my classes. We never took “Mother-Son” trips or have dates or do any of that stuff. 

She didn’t care whether I sat on the bench or played quarterback.

Her expectations were simply: help others, respect people, respect the planet.

But she’d always be there. Wearing whatever team pin or t-shirt. And when I finally got up to bat, I’d hear this distinct faint voice, “Go Paul!” And I’d look and you could see the expression that blended smile and joy and pride – her living and loving me, caught up at that moment. 

That same faint voice sang flat at every Sunday at mass, or later at the Protestant services. But she’d sing with all her being. And she meant what she sang. You could just tell. 

In every season of my life — when I was succeeding and all those times I was failing — she loved me the same. 

Mom is gone. The nurses will let us FaceTime with her, but I won’t. It will only confuse her, and I’m almost certain, in spite of her mental fragility, at least possibly, cause her to wonder why I’ve abandoned her.

If she doesn’t see me, she’s not thinking about me.

I want to touch her so badly.

Three mental realities bring a tinge of solace.

First, I am a lucky man to have a mother like Luigia Maria Zeppetella Martin. I was loved, unconditionally, from the time she bore me, to the day I kissed her and told her I loved her and went on vacation. (She had the stroke while I was on vacation.)

Second, I think of the hundreds of thousands of children in the United States (and millions around the world) that either have no mother or have lost them because of neglect and abuse. I work for those children. I’ve been with hundreds. I’m blessed to have that which I…had.

Third, Mom’s real name is Maria. When she immigrated to the U.S. with her family, she didn’t want to be called “Maria” because back in those days Italians weren’t liked much. So her aunt used her middle name, Luiga, and gave it an American twist: Louise.

But I think of the name Maria. And, growing-up Roman Catholic, I think of the respect they have for Maria, Mary, Jesus’ mother. 

Mother Teresa was once asked about why Catholics make such a big deal about Mary. She replied, “No Mary, no Jesus.”

Mom’s name in English would have been Mary.

So no Mary, no Paul. No me. That’s the thing about mothers, without them, we wouldn’t be here.

I want to touch her so badly.

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