Author Archives: dkrashb

What Do You Teach?

Posted by dkrashb on
Tisen sharing a laugh with Daddy
Tisen coming back on the trail to make sure I’m keeping up
Tisen is willing to overcome all obstacles when it comes to tucking in beside me on the sofa
Tisen making heroic efforts to climb into Pat’s lap

“What Do You Teach?” was the title of a presentation I gave many years ago as a corporate “diversity” session I volunteered to do.  It has remained my all-time favorite presentation both      preparing it and giving it.

I created the presentation around the concepts of self-fulfilling prophecy and tacit learning.  I put to use some of the research I had done in my master’s program when I was getting certified to teach.  These two concepts seemed key to me in understanding how we learn.  Having left the teaching profession and re-joined corporate America, I had the realization that each of us teaches every day of our lives whether we realize we are teaching or not.  We are teaching each other what is “normal,” acceptable behavior.   What is tolerable and intolerable.  What is right and wrong.

Somewhat ironically, it wasn’t the master’s program that brought home to me the nature of how we unconsciously teach one another, it was the need to retrain a dog who had dog aggression issues.  In that experience so many years ago, I learned all the things I was doing that were telling my dog to behave in ways I didn’t want her to behave.  In coming to understand how dogs interpret our behaviors, I gained insight into how fellow humans interpret them as well.  This was one of the big “ah-ha” moments in my life and I need to revisit it because I seem to have strayed from the path of thinking about what I am teaching on a daily basis–in particular, what I am teaching myself.

Each time I skip a meal, eat junk, skip a workout, or engage in other unhealthy choices, I teach myself I am not deserving of care and maintenance.  The underlying message is “these other things you do are more important than your own basic needs.”  I would never ask anyone to skip meals because of something I wanted them to do, why do I expect it of myself?

Every time I allow myself to worry on something I cannot change, I am teaching myself that my energy is better wasted than on being used productively.  I would never ask anyone to think about something over and done beyond considering the lesson from the experience and deciding how that applies to the present and future.  Why do I ask myself to replay the same scene over and over again ad nauseum?

Each time I call myself “you idiot,” I teach myself that I do not deserve the opportunity to make mistakes and learn from them.  I cannot claim that I would never call someone else an idiot (inside my head or while driving, anyway) but in general, I am far more tolerant of someone else’s mistakes than I am of my own.

In thinking about treating myself the way I would treat a cherished loved one, I realized I have done no cherishing of me at all.  Time to create a new lesson plan.

Spending Time

Posted by dkrashb on
The evil side of Linda in full swing for the haunt
Some of Friday night’s terrified visitors
This poor woman was having trouble actually walking, she was so scared
Even some of our actors aren’t beyond getting scared on the trail
I love this kid–I think I have one from last year of the same guy
I’m not sure if this woman was more afraid of the butcher jumping out at her or my flash
Such great screams–I just wish they’d had their hair pulled back
Oh to have been closer when I grabbed this shot!
This one was definitely afraid of my flash–who knew a flash could be an instrument of terror?
The bush-thing in the background is actually a guy in really cool camouflage–you can’t tell he’s there until he makes noise
Another group terrified by the camouflage guy

Another week gone by.  The weather changed from highs in the 80’s to highs in the 50‘s.  What is most shocking about the change in the weather is the sudden awareness of the passage of time.  This never fails to surprise me:  “What?  Is it really late enough in the year for frost???”

Every year goes faster.  This is an inevitable effect of aging–the older I get, the smaller the portion of my life a day represents.  The perception of time is relative.  Ironically, the more I want to slow the clock down, the more it speeds up.

Time has become my most cherished commodity.  There is so much to do and so little time in which to get it done.  I have come to long for sleep with the same nostalgia I once longed for Christmas–it always seems far off and then disappointing when it’s over.

In choosing to spend more time on enjoyment, I have seem to amassing a time deficit.  Even when having a great time, I wish for long nights of solid sleep and slower days with less to do–is it possible to just enjoy without wishing for something more?

I seem to vacillate between exhaustion and hyperactivity.  Exhaustion leads to periods of time of keeping to myself, not socializing, not taking on extra activities.  Boredom and frustration sends me back into hyperactivity.  Doesn’t it seem like by now I should know how to strike a happy medium?

Of all the things I have going on right now, most of them are fun.  Other than our dog who has horrible allergies that keep him scratching and licking himself all night, disturbing our sleep, I only have my usual complaint, which is work.

I’m staying up late Friday and Saturday nights volunteering for the Acres of Darkness haunt.  It’s so much fun, I can’t complain about that.  I’m also having a ball preparing to teach my first photography workshop.  No complaints about that time spent.

Work is work.  It’s hard to let go–it haunts my dreams far more than the ghouls and zombies found along the trail at Acres of Darkness.

I gave up on keeping up on my other blog this week, opting to skip many days of posts on snapgreatphotos.com in favor of getting to bed before midnight.

Social engagements and early morning yoga on Friday’s are really the only other things occupying my time.  These are energizing and balancing activities for me–they keep me centered.

So, what do I give up?  The things I love doing?  The things I do to pay for the things I love doing?  Or sleep?  I am reminded of a quote from Carl Sandburg:

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.

How do I decide if I’m spending my coins or someone else is?

Fear of Fear

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*Photos from 2012 Acres of Darkness

I have spent the past two evenings hiding in the woods trying to get pictures of terrified people in complete darkness.  Darkness is a funny thing.  We talk about it like it’s a bad thing.  Analogies about being in darkness and being brought into the light start with the notion that we hide in darkness and we are seen in the light.  After all, there is nothing inherently bad in darkness–it just makes it harder to see.

But why is darkness required to make something scary in the first place?  If we had the night-vision of owls or the sonar of bats, would we find the dark so frightening?  Is it only because darkness provides a “cover” for what frightens us by tucking it away where our human eyes can’t penetrate that we’re so startled when someone jumps out from behind a tree and says “boo!”?

Recently, I walked through the living room while thinking about something intently.  I passed my husband, who claims I looked right at him.  I went into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water and then turned around to discover him standing behind me.  I screamed and threw up my hands, throwing water all over the kitchen.

I believe this incident proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that darkness is not a requirement for fear.  Rather, our history as a species dependent on detecting threats and potential meals largely based on the detection of movement causes us to be largely rational people who suddenly jump out of their skin if they failed to detect there was something present that might move.

Interestingly, expecting someone to jump out at you can actually serve to make it more scary when they oblige.  I frequently startle during movies and TV shows when suspense is climbing and then the bad guy suddenly jumps out at the hero(ine).  This startles me so much that my husband has taken the tactic of forewarning me.

Warning me seems to have quite the opposite effect.  The expectation that someone is about to jump out only increases the feeling of suspense and anxiety, making me jump even higher than I would have with no warning.

What is that mechanism?  At the haunt I’ve been volunteering at, we had two young girls who went through our haunted trail with a young man who was apparently one of the girl’s boyfriend.  He was walking ahead of the girls asking the actors not to scare her because she was really upset.  We found out later she’s actually got sick earlier on the trail because she was scared so badly.

I found myself puzzled as to what is the difference between a girl who gets physically ill from the fear of a staged scene in the woods while another person of the same age and experience may walk the same trail laughing at all our attempts to scare her/him.

Like so many things, fear is, in fact, all in our minds.

Jelly Bellies

Posted by dkrashb on
Heron hanging out (Canon 5D Mark III)
Market Street Bridge at Sunrise (iPhone 5S)
Market Street Bridge at Sunset (iPhone 5S)
Moon and Venus with iPhone 5S
Tisen wide-eyed (iPhone 5S)

Last Saturday, I ran errands–one of my least favorite activities.  I had a plan.  I needed to go to MacAuthority to get my broken iPhone replaced.  It’s on the other side of town, so I decided to go to the Target out there.

Target is a dangerous place for me–they carry 2 pound bags of Jelly Bellies.  I love Jelly Bellies.  I eat one piece at a time.  Each piece releases intense flavor that requires some thought to determine what it is.  One bite might be buttered popcorn.  The next might be toasted marshmallow.  Every once in a while, you get a less pleasant surprise in the form of coconut.  But then you go to the next one and it’s something like cafe-au-lait and it wipes away the less favorite flavor that proceeded it.  It’s just fun.

After collecting the list of things I could find, I wandered around the store looking for x-acto knife blades for my husband.  I checked the school supplies, the scrapbooking supplies, the hardware section.  No luck.  I got out my broken iPhone and risked getting glass shards in my finger tips to search on Target’s website.  Target doesn’t carry x-acto knife blades.

I headed to the cash register, put my collection of stuff on the belt, opened my purse, and discovered that while I had Tisen’s vet records, notes from a meeting, a USB drive, 2 gum wrappers, 3 lip glosses, a set of keys I didn’t recognize, and a pair of pliers in my purse, I did not have my wallet.

I made the 20 minute drive back home to get my wallet, getting lost only twice.  I made it straight back to the store and paid for my stuff.  Unfortunately, one bag of my stuff had erroneously been returned to the shelves.  So, I got to go shop a second time for the missing items.  How I hate to shop.

When I got to the car, I immediately opened the Jelly Bellies and set them on the center console for easy access.

The first turn sent my bag of Jelly Bellies flopping backwards, dumping a handful of joy into the back of the mini-van.  I repositioned the bag, cursing under my breath.  The next turn sent my Jelly Bellies forward, dumping another big handful in the front of the car, where they promptly rolled under my feet.  I kicked them out of the way with a grunt.

MacAuthority didn’t have a replacement phone in stock.

I returned to the car and decided I should pick up the Jelly Bellies before returning home.  There’s nothing I hate worse the wasting a good Jelly Belly.  I blew the dog hair off them and decided germs are a great way to build the immune system.

As I munched on my tainted Jelly Bellies, my frustration melted away as Very Cherry exploded in my mouth.  Were it not for Jelly Bellies, it would have been my head exploding.

Volunteering

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Right now, a group of us at the Chattanooga Audubon Society are planning a Halloween haunt called “Acres of Darkness.”  For 4 nights, a ¼ mile trail will be haunted with all kinds of terrors to raise money for the organization.

Last year I did some shooting at the event, but I wasn’t involved in planning it.  This year, the planning committee asked me if I would help after we completed the Birdathon event in April.  How could I resist?

I love Halloween.  You can try out an alter-ego, eat endless amounts of candy, and experience whatever level of terror you’re comfortable with.  It’s just fun.

Saturday morning, I went out to setup one of the stations on the haunted trail.  I realized several things about myself.  First, although I have worked on things from setting up campsites to roofing to changing the oil in my car to repairing garbage disposals, I have never done them alone.

When we decided to each take a station and be responsible for setting it up, I experienced sudden panic.  I realized these are the kinds of jobs where, if pointed in the right direction, I can be helpful, but I’m not adept at deciding what needs to be done.

It was a strange sensation.  Most things I do, I am perfectly able and willing to decide how to go about doing them.  I am not shy about telling other people what to do, either.  Yet, when faced with the simple problem of how to hang some tarps and other props, I found myself at a loss.

Fortunately for me, a far more experienced person was there when I arrived who was willing to help me.  I walked out to the site ahead of him, having been told that everything we needed was already at the site.  There was one, long, yellow nylon rope, two large tarps, and a length of misting hose.

This is when I (re)discovered a second thing about myself:  I really only know how to tie one knot.  That’s the knot I use to tie my shoes.  I learned it from a book of knots my nephew got when he was about 10.  It prevents your shoelaces from untying, but you can still pull out the knot with one pull.  It’s a great knot for shoes; not so great for tarp hanging.

In spite of my years in the Camp Fire Girls, even a basic square knot comes out a tangled mess.  This made me feel especially grateful for the Eagle Scout and long-time Scout Master who was helping me.  I would still be there trying to tie up that tarp if he hadn’t been there.

While I was there, I did a little shooting of a River Rescue volunteer crew picking up trash in the creek that runs through Audubon Acres.  I got to wade through the creek, see a Belted Kingfisher, and hear a Red-shouldered Hawk.  Great start to a Saturday morning!

 

Cycle of Seasons

Posted by dkrashb on
Rock Creek Gorge
Pat disguised as Tisen
Tisen and Pat hanging out and looking camouflaged in the dappled light
Me and my shadow
Really dappled light
My proud boy crossing a wooden bridge
The trail looks more like a rock-climbing adventure
Sunlight forming a path through the trees
Pat and Tisen resting in speckled light
View over dead tree stumps
Gren moss thriving on a rock at an overlook
Still green in spite of the lateness of the season
Cliff Hanger
Prairie like space makes for great views

On Friday morning, the alarm woke me at 5:15AM, reminding me that on Friday, I start my day with yoga class at 6:30AM.  By 6:00AM, I was out in the park walking the dog, staring up, open-mouthed at a preternatural sky.  Surprisingly dark and yet brilliantly lit with a crescent moon hovering in the middle of a brilliant cluster of stars.

With the dawn coming noticeably later each morning, I find myself having a harder and harder time getting into first gear each morning.  I wonder if our ancestors noticed the difference.  Did they just get up with the sun and go to bed with the sun and not really notice if the days were longer or shorter?  One thing’s for sure–they didn’t wake up to the mamba as recreated by the iPhone.

As the days shorten, my desire to get out of bed shrinks proportionally.  Am I pulled by the forces of thousands of years before me when people didn’t set alarm clocks?  Or am I just over-worked and under-rested and more resentful of my alarm because the dark sky reminds me that I’ve spent far too few hours in bed?

As Tisen and I make our way around the star-lit park, leaves rustle above our heads and below our feet.  The young sycamores planted in the park have already given up on photosynthesis.  Their leaves have dried and shrunk into brown cocoons hanging precariously from branches or littering the sidewalk below.  The leaves on the sidewalk will be meticulously blown away by the park maintenance crew by the time we take our afternoon walk.  The effort of an entire growing season whisked away, leaving the trees nothing to show for their pain and preventing the nutrients locked in the web of leaves from returning to the soil.  A cycle broken.

Fall has always been my favorite season.  As cool winds become prevalent, humidity drops, and blindingly blue skies become common, I find it hard to resist crunching through leaves and looking for birds, many exposed for the first time since spring on bare branches offering little camouflage.

But on Friday morning, as I turned my face skyward and bathed in the feeble light from the stars, moon, and street lamps, melancholy swept over me.  It was a brief, passing moment.  The moment of realization that things are coming to an end, although I couldn’t name what those things were.

By Friday afternoon, when I stepped out with Tisen in overpowering sunshine with a crisp wind reminding me that 80 degrees doesn’t always feel warm, I felt hopeful again.  Heat and humidity are coming to an end.  The summer breeding season for the birds is coming to an end.  And this opens the door for new possibilities.  I felt myself welcoming the change in the weather.  The change in the birds.  The change in me.  A cycle working.

Chasing the Moon

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The blurry image that started my quest
Daytime moon
Moon over sunset
Crescent moon
Fatter crescent
Shot in August when I was in desperate need of a tripod
Moon rising behind trees
The first sign of a moonrise
Peeking moon
Ridge rise
Full moon behind clouds
Haze prevented the moon from being visible until higher
Moon reflected on the Tennessee River
Moon at sunset
Moon through bare trees
Moon Bloom
Moon appears through the trees
Moon glowing through blowing clouds
Moon at twilight
Moon, Venus, and Mars
Moon over sculpture
Moon basket
Moon, Venus, and Mars
Sliver of Moon
Trees whipped by wind
Full moon over bridge and water
A parking lot moon
Moon once again obscured by haze until too high
Moon over bridge at sunset
Supermoon rising behind clouds
Another cloudy moonrise
Cloudy and early
Soft focus on dark moon set
Harvest moonrise–just a minute too late
Blustery night with a bright moon
iPhone panoramic of moon at sunset

I find myself on a vengeful quest to conquer my own personal Moby Dick.  In my case, it is not a whale, but the moon.  While my motives are more innocent and less violent than Ahab’s, a desire to vindicate myself drives me to follow the moon with a modern version of intensity that involves many goggle searches.

I think back to the day, now more than two years ago, when this quest began.  I had the idea of getting a shot of the full moon rising behind the Walnut Street bridge.

I had purchased my 100-400mm lens a few months earlier–far enough ahead to have learned my inexpensive tripod wouldn’t support the weight of the lens.  I took my monopod with me, hoping it would offer enough stability to get a good shot.  As I stood on the bridge in the dark watching the moon rise perfectly behind the bridge with people walking by in front of it, I was buffeted about by the wind.  My monopod was useless–my images were completely blurred.

Yet, I went home elated that this idea would work.  I sent my blurry photos to a photographer friend who said, prophetically, “You wasted some good moonlight.”  Naive in the nature of the moon, I thought, “well, there’s always next month.”

Over a period of weeks, I researched tripods and finally made an investment in one I expect to last the rest of my life.  Finally ready, I headed out the next full moon only to discover there was too much cloud cover for the moon to be visible.  The next month I learned that the moon was no longer rising behind the Walnut Street Bridge.  It would be another 8 months before I would have another opportunity.

In the meantime, I practiced shooting the moonrise.  In those months I learned just how fickle the moon can be.  The obstacles are many:  obscured visibility, daylight moonrises, my schedule, the speed of the moonrise, the unpredictability of the appearance of the moon, and focusing in the dark, to name a few.

At long last, the moon began rising behind the bridge again.  The first two months, haze prevented it from being visible until it was far above the people on the bridge.  On the one evening I had my chance, I arrived too late and missed the moment.  Next month, it will no longer be behind the bridge.

I will bide my time.  I will persist.  The moment will never return exactly as it was that night.  That is one thing I know with certainty–each moment is uniquely its own.  But chasing the moon has its own merit.  There is something to be said for tenacity.  While there is a time and place to let go and move on, having a goal that requires planning, making time, learning, and adjusting seems like an important lesson in life.

Many Views

Posted by dkrashb on
Pacific view
Overlook not far from the Pacific
Ocean waves on a sandy beach
Close up of Lighthouse
Pacific
Rocky shoreline of the Pacific
Another lighthouse over the Pacific Ocean
Light house in WA overlooking the Pacific Ocean
Columbia River
Astoria Tower
Overlooking the Columbia River from the Astoria Tower park

A common expression in corporate conversations is “taking a 30,000 foot view” or some such derivation that might also be expressed as “looking at the forest instead of the trees.”  Often, the follow up comments include something along the lines of, “but the devil is always in the details.”

When you look at a map, you can lay out a course that takes you in the most direct line to where you want to go.  But when you get on the road, street signs are missing or roads are closed and sometimes you find yourself well off-course in spite of your plan.  Even with technology, sometimes the GPS thinks a private road is a public one and advises me to drive through locked gates.  As it turns out, the most direct route is often not the easiest.

On my recent trip to Portland, we went on a little venture to the Washington coast and Astoria, Oregon.  We stopped at overlooks, visited lighthouses, and went up to the Astoria Tower.  Each of these vantage points provides a different view.  The ocean forms waves that slide smoothly up onto the beach while they batter and splash against craggy coastline cliffs only a hundred yards away.  From our thousand foot view (give or take), neither looks particularly harrowing or dangerous, but because we’ve been up close to both situations, we can readily guess which one would be the best place to, say, try to land a boat.

I am reminded of a presenter who once talked about the tendency to rely on historical information when deciding what to do next.  He said, “you can’t drive while you’re looking in your rearview mirror.”  I’d like to think we all check our mirrors every once in a while.  Without metaphorically checking our rearview mirror, we might think we could land safely amongst the rocks.  And without a map, we might not know if we went 100 yards further, we could land smoothly in the sand.

As we stood on the grounds of the Astoria Tower, I imagined Lewis and Clark for a second time that day.  I imagined being the creator of the map for previously uncharted lands.  I imagined explorers standing and staring at the river below as it makes its final turn before colliding with the Pacific Ocean.  I wondered if they were able to predict how long it would take to get from where they stood to the river shore.  I wondered how many surprises they encountered once underway.

I suppose life has not changed much if you look at it from 100,000 feet.  In spite of the myriad of gadgets that make navigation easier, we still must each create our own map for our lives.  The endless number of choices we now face can overwhelm even the most intrepid explorer.  When you come down to the 100 foot level or so, the main difference between then and now is probably that we do far more exploring from a seated position.

Dismal Nitch

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A patient cormorant drying its wings
I would think the mountains in the background were fake if I hadn’t see this myself
The sea and sky seem to disappear into one another
Looking back at Astoria from Dismal Nitch
View of the bridge from Dismal Nitch
The sea and sky nearly blend
Coming down the bridge from Astoria to Dismal Nitch
We were told it was well worth the wait–they were right
Unlike Lewis and Clark and other early explorers, we didn’t have much trouble finding a meal in Astoria

This week has been another vacation week (I got a bit behind on using my vacation days this year).  This time, I left Pat and Tisen at home and travelled out to visit family in Portland, Oregon.  Portland is one of my favorite parts of the US–this is a trip I look forward to every year.

While visiting the Oregon coast, we stopped at Dismal Nitch across from Astoria, Oregon.  Dismal Nitch is an easy rest stop to access these days–a long, long bridge from Astoria to Washington makes it a really interesting drive with fantastic views.

But, when it was named by the Lewis and Clark expedition, it was no picnic.  Traveling by boat, the craggy harbor became a dangerous place for the explorers and their team.  They were stuck out in the rain for 6 days, waiting for the weather to clear so they could safely navigate the rocks and other hazards that have made this area among the most dangerous waters in the country.

I pause as we stand along the fence at the rest area, looking out at the Cormorants, Seagulls, and Pelicans.  The face of a seal suddenly pops through the surface of the water.  I stand there wishing I had my 100-400mm lens.

And then, it occurs to me, I feel mired.  I think about Lewis and Clark sitting in that same spot, cold, wet, and probably hungry.  I think about them bobbing about on rough seas and waiting out the stormy weather.  I wonder if they felt it was hopeless.  I wonder how long they were prepared to wait before making their move.  I wonder if they saw seals and pelicans and thought of them as signs of hope.  All of this flashes through my mind as I realize the difference between me and people like Lewis and Clark is that they took the safest course for the duration of a storm and then moved on.  I seem to confuse safety with long-term direction.

I took some photos of the dismal nitch.  The clouds gray and swirling above relatively still water created a nearly monochromatic scene.  I stared out over the waters, hiding the dangers of shoals and debris that had sunk more than its share of ships.  It looked so peaceful.  Tranquil.  A cormorant stood on the stump of what might once have been a pier, spreading its wings and flapping them.  He couldn’t wait for them to dry so he might fly again.

Perhaps we are all like the cormorant.  We dive in, get wet, and then have to hang out and dry out before we can jump back in.  Perhaps some of us have to hang out longer than others before we’re willing to take the next plunge.  I metaphorically flap my wings and wonder just what kind of drying time to expect.  By my count, they’ve been drying for at least 8 years.  I find myself wondering if the Cormorant ever forget how to swim.

Will Should

Posted by dkrashb on
Mushrooms along the Benton Falls Trail
Mushrooms along the Benton Falls Trail
Mushrooms along the Benton Falls Trail
Mushrooms along the Benton Falls Trail
Mushrooms along the Benton Falls Trail
Benton Falls
Surface skimmers undisturbed by moving water
My boys at Benton Falls
Tisen kissing daddy
Tisen making daddy laugh
Family photo at Benton Falls
Family photo at Benton Falls
View from an overlook in the Chilhowee Recreation Area in Cherokee National Forest
View from an overlook in the Chilhowee Recreation Area in Cherokee National Forest
View from an overlook in the Chilhowee Recreation Area in Cherokee National Forest
View from an overlook in the Chilhowee Recreation Area in Cherokee National Forest
Look who’s in my seat
Tisen doesn’t want to give up shotgun
View from an overlook in the Chilhowee Recreation Area in Cherokee National Forest
Watching the sunset from the sledding hill

It’s amazing how quickly small things get in the way of achieving a relatively simple goal.  My goal has been to make time for the things that make me happy first thing in the morning.  Riding, rowing, yoga.  Seems simple enough.

But then there’s the rush of deadlines that keeps me up late or the early-morning or late-night conference calls with colleagues in far-off time zones.  Suddenly, what I need more than a ride is sleep.  The alarm gets set for 7AM instead of 5AM.

I remember reading once (or twice) that it takes a month to establish a new habit.  I think about the times I have succeeded in creating habits.

There is a mindset that snaps into place.  It’s a mindset that says, “you will do this, no matter what.”  It’s the mindset that drags my weary rear-end out of bed long before dawn even if I’ve only had a few hours of sleep.  Making myself get up forces me to go to bed earlier.  Making the priority to get out of bed is painful for a week or two until I find I can no longer keep my eyes open after 10PM.  But where is the switch that turns, “I should” into “I will”?

I learned a long time ago that the conditional tense is a misleading and manipulative beast that carries with it guilt and shame as poor motivators.  “Should?” my inner self retorts, “You can’t tell me what to do!”

Will changes everything.  The power of grammar is contained in this simple word.  To have the will.  To will.  Both a noun and a verb, will combusts into action.  To say “I will” creates promise and commitment.  To will is to embrace, to drive.  I do not take the word lightly.

Should, however, reeks of meek compliance.  Agreement to a statement that belongs to someone else.  “Yes, I should get up at 5AM.”  The word “should” implies “but I won’t” at the end of the sentence.  That single, irritating word contains the admission of not living up to someone’s standard.  Of agreeing that whatever the task at hand might be, it is worthwhile and good, but not within your reach.  It represents an admission that you are not making good on something you should be doing.

I listen for “shoulds” when I’m talking to others.  In my career, I have learned that “should” means, “yes, that’s a good idea, but I’m not doing it.”  In volunteer organizations, I learned to shudder at the words, “someone should,” although at least it is a more straightforward admission.

Sometimes when will has left me, I have to step back and reassess.  Is there a point in time coming up that will allow me to shift to will?  Is there a project that will be finished?  A commitment completed?  Some other break in time that can get me to will?  I still haven’t found the switch, but I will.