Douglas Robbins

Author

The Risk of Success

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The Risk of SuccessSometimes we all wonder if we should do something new or try something big or different. Should we work on the car for the first time or write a book or change careers? People will notice though. What if we fail? People will certainly notice that. What if no one ever reads the piece? What if we can’t fix the car? What if we suck at our new careers? The concern is that we will be judged as failures and scrutinized for our decisions.

The problem is we don’t know if we will hit it big or just hit our heads against the wall or do more damage to the car than it had when we started. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe something else.

There are no guarantees of success. But if we don’t try the only guarantee is failure. It is that simple. If we don’t run the risk of failure we never allow the opportunity of success. And success must be the focus. Not the possible failure, but the achievement we long for. It is easy to give in to the seductions of pitfalls and doubts, but to feel and know in our lives what we have felt in our souls is where the meaning of life shows itself. It has awaited acknowledgment and been put off for long enough.

So I keep banging on the door. I keep reaching out and planting seeds. I keep kicking and screaming, loving, laughing, and trying, because it’s all that I have. It’s all that I can offer.

We are limited to the gifts any of us have received to live a life of purpose, the life that we crave.

My belief is as humans we are here to keep expanding, learning, growing in our awareness…moving forward. The world moves forward by the same rules, piece by piece, moment by moment, if it chooses to move forward at all. For we are the pieces that change the landscape of the puzzle even if no one else notices we are doing it. Even if no else agrees or thinks we can.

At the very least we have something that is ours and no one can take that away.

We pull for the underdog. At one time or another we have all faced great odds and hopefully have succeeded or would have liked to have succeeded in that moment.

No kid dreams of missing the shot at the buzzer or as a pitcher walking in the winning run to lose the game. No, it’s big. It’s always big, because we dream big. But do we live big? Can we? I guess there is only one way to find out by seeing if we can fix that car or write that book or change careers.

In everything we do there is a possibility of failure and a possibility of success, yet success must be the focus. It is why we started the undertaking in the first place. Even just putting one foot in front of the other is the same. But we’re confident in that involuntarily, unless perhaps someone is watching. Then we also may stumble.

We can hide behind the fears of failure and never do anything that is meaningful.

Many think I’m a fool for what I’m doing. Putting it all on the line. That I can’t or won’t or shouldn’t make it. Instead I should have a nice and neat “career”. But I never wanted to be an astronaut or accountant or physician. Nothing else than what I’m doing ever made sense. So I do what makes sense. Though it’s a little messy at times, it’s all that I have. And though it’s a hard life I can live with myself for doing what makes sense. That will never be a haunting regret.

If all we do is dream, well, the guarantee is life will only remain a dream, an unfulfilled one.

Awareness of Now

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Once while sparring and in mid-hit a martial art instructor stopped his attack and informed me to “remain unmoving until the natural move occurs.” I was new to the martial arts and blocking too fast before he had committed fully to his attack. Because of this he was able to readjust himself. If I blocked high too fast he would drop his punch and hit me. If I blocked low too slow he would break my structure down and hit me. He would hit me every time until I started adjusting with this in mind.

Later that night while admiring my many bruises I realized he was teaching me about a lot more than the martial arts. That philosophy can and should be applied to everything we do.

It is easy to be hasty and rush into the future without paying attention to the now. We are often results driven yet we are not always process driven. The present is always changing, yet we hope the future will be stable. It won’t. Because of this desire we often overlook signs and indicators of problems in the present.

Many of us rush into getting married because it sounds good and we crave the security it implies. Or sometimes we take whatever job out of fear and desire even if it isn’t what we want.

If we do not wait for the natural move to occur, the right best move, then we may be rushing into a marriage or speeding up to a traffic light without paying attention to the events, information and people around us.

When we are patient, steadfast, and alert, we are able to see the woods for the trees and not just a place to hurry back from to our cars. The truth is, only awareness in the present can protect us if we are able to see clearly, and that affects the future.

However, things can and will always happen, but how they affect us and to what extent could be the difference. Sometimes we can avoid trouble altogether. It may be the difference between a tragic car accident or a fender bender or nothing but a honk and a middle finger.

There is always a desire is to protect and provide security for ourselves; yet block too soon or too late can result in physical damage or if rushed into a bad relationship, a few years later, emotional damage.

Even at our best and most focused in martial arts we may still be hit. Yet the impact endured will now be less.

It is the difference between trying to control and hurry into the future or standing in the now experiencing it fully, though frightening at times. We can then make the best decision for ourselves and possibly steer away from harm, by seeing that moment fully for what it is.

So we must remain unmoving mentally and physically until the natural move, direction, or choice, occurs.

It Was An Accident!

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The guy shouted. Bullshit, I thought. A few weeks back a guy put something in our mailbox. He had pulled into our driveway, dropped off a sheet for some event at the local ice skating rink, then backed up hitting both our mail box and the cement borders that surround our garden. He said it was an accident, but I disagreed. It got me thinking about what we accept as accidents when in fact it’s really about not paying attention. That is when unfortunate events take place.

Accidents are things out of our control. The mailbox and garden hadn’t moved. Thousands of times people have pulled in and out of this flat straight driveway without incident. Did a tree limb fall or a squirrel run out distracting him? Nope. There were no outside variables shaping this event. It was unfortunate that it happened, perhaps unintentional, but it was no accident.

When we don’t pay attention to what we are doing “accidents” usually occur. However, it wasn’t an “accident”, because not paying attention is quite deliberate. When we do not pay attention often bad things can and will happen that we later regret. However, I have never heard anyone claim that not paying attention was an accident.

It was an “accident” is an excuse we have all hid behind. “Whoops, how’d that happen?” An accident is something unavoidable. A rock rolls down a hill and hits your car which you cannot avoid because of oncoming traffic. That scenario is unavoidable and out of your control.

If only that mailbox hadn’t taunted him the way it did standing so calmly and upright it might still be standing there today.

Red Lobster- The Bowel Buster

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We had remembered the biscuits being delicious. I am a bread lover and must first admit that. Though bread makes me doughy around the mid-section, not to mention I have a mild wheat/gluten intolerance. I hadn’t been to Red Lobster in twenty years never thinking the food was very good. Neither did she. But we both kept thinking about those warm flaky biscuits saturated in garlic, oil and seasoning. Those biscuits did sound good.

We took the half hour drive over having a twenty-dollar gift certificate to ease the burden.

The waitress had a very large behind and told us way too much information to keep track of, with her name and other names that I hadn’t asked for and didn’t need to know. We were only there for the biscuits and would order “cuisine” to justify the “dinner”.

Well, the biscuits came and they were fine: warm with oily garlic seasoning, but they were just okay. We looked at each other and kind of shrugged in defeat. We ordered water and an appetizer of lobster and artichoke dip that sounded delightful to the palate while our excited taste buds waited. We also ordered a dish consisting of shrimp scampi, butterfly shrimp, and seasoned fish.

The large restaurant was halfway packed and it was only five o’clock. We tried once before to fulfill the biscuit craving yet there was a forty-five minute wait. So this time we decided to outsmart the masses and go early.

The dip came and it was a gooey concoction of oil, grease, cheese, and more oil with some squishy texturous substance that resembled lobster and must have come out of a can, jar, or someone’s back seat. The shrimp scampi tasted as if they microwaved the shrimp then poured a vat of greasy oil stew upon the helpless shrimp with the tail still on. The butterfly shrimp was soaked in a milky white flavoring that resembled what could have been a jar of mayonnaise from Walmart that was then smeared upon the little fellows.

Shrimp are supposed to be tight and have a flavorful snap when you bite into them, not some mushy thing that’s sadly been sitting around all day under heat lamps and warmed up in some commercial-sized microwave. The last victim of the meal, besides us, was the fish that had more old bay seasoning on it then could ever be justified. Covering up something are we? The chips and water were the best part of “dinner”.

Before we finished, my date’s stomach started to turn and her face discolored. She had to excuse herself from the table.

I waited and sat alone as the walls began closing in. I could feel the oil upon my face and fingertips. I was becoming some sebaceous creature leaking oil out of my pores. I looked down at my hands now glistening and quickly hid them under the table. I then looked around at the many people blissfully enjoying themselves with their “sustenance” and happy wait staff. I couldn’t understand the place or the food. Like why does the food need to be prepared like this? Why ruin it? I waited longer now standing up at the booth while the crowds and families began piling in for another Saturday night frenzy of chewing gelatinous mush that only resembled food. My stomach turned as I thought about the process to get this poor shrimp onto the table in front of me. I was beginning to sweat.

The overly-friendly black waitress with the big butt and name I couldn’t remember inquired about the quality of dinner. “It was okay,” I answered.

“Would you like me to box that up?” We both looked down at the oily stew that reflected the ceiling and overhead lights.

“Ahh, no thanks.”

I paid the bill. Jennifer returned to the table a few minutes later. We walked to the lobby. Jen sat and waited while I went to wash my hands and face in the bathroom.

After escaping, the bumps on the road stirred up the ocean in my belly with a floating biscuit upon the oily sea. I cracked open the windows.

We made it home from the half hour ride without incident. I headed straight upstairs to let the oil pouch drain out of my body. Jen also returned to the only place Red Lobster belonged, in the toilet. Straight into the toilet. We should have taken the dishes straight there and cut out us, the middlemen. We’d be feeling a lot better now. Hopefully those biscuits will never call to us again.

Rhymes with Lake Mallhoe

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An excerpt from the upcoming Emerging Human

Outside of Lake Tahoe with picturesque scenery, Jennifer and I ride into town hoping for a unique old American frontier. We come around the last bend seeking refuge for the night after a long day’s ride out of California. We throttle down into a traffic jam of busses and rv’s. We crawl to ten miles an hour, then five. I have to keep my legs down and feet gliding over the pavement.

There is an Applebees on every corner, an Olive Garden and a Casino. Inauthentic America, all corporate and overrun with clichéd stores and shopping: Padagonia, Gap, Starbucks. This is America. This is our capitalism. Mom and pop shops are no where to be found. So here is some prepackaged authenticity and a cookie cutter dream. There is nothing unique or special as we suck up bus fumes and sit at light after light after light. Corporate machines behind the brick, stone and wood facades. We were hoping for a scenic town of wooden cowboys and working saloons not to mention a thick juicy steak.

I would twist the throttle of my 650 but there are lights and weekend warriors and fat families eating ice cream cones crossing the street in front of us. We all stare at each other waiting for the light to change. Five miles of it. Ten miles of it. I can’t take it after the freedoms of twisting roads and plateaus leading to the deep sky while sandstone, pine, horse and goat farms ran alongside us. There was space to be found in the hills and tall grass. There was a silence except for the howling sixth gear of the engine. Every man needs space. Every man needs silence. There was crisp air that we craved. We can’t stay here, I thought to myself. I can’t think here. I can’t breathe here. Even though we are tired and asses hurt we must keep riding.

Twenty minutes later we take a right turn on the state road on the outskirts of town after forty minutes of corporate bullshit. We scurry up the mountain side in a cool burst of engine combustion. A half hour later in quiet Carson City we shut the bike engine off at a Best Western where two other cars sit in the parking lot. The dry grass hillsides wave in the afternoon sun. We check in for sixty bucks. I roll the bike over to our room. Jennifer and I throw our bike bags on the bed and head back out hearing the click of the door lock.

With grumbling in our stomachs we walk next door to Grandma Hainies Kitchen, for some chicken fried steak, their specialty, a root beer and a salad. That night we slept like the dead in the comforting peace of our minds. I dreamt of being on the road still moving along the contours and natural landscape with the kind azure sky welcoming us.

 

Blue Ridge Birthday Blog

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Short blog this week folks. For my 42nd birthday I am hopping on the motorcycle with my lady and heading to Asheville, NC to ride the scenic Blue Ridge Mountains…

I don’t want to die unfulfilled. This notion has haunted me since I was conscious. I didn’t have the words back then, when I was young, small and insecure, but I had the sensation and the sense. I don’t want to get to the end having lived someone else’s life. It burns like a fuse to fulfill what aches in my soul. Beyond the thickets and hardships and distractions there is a reservoir of light to dive into on a hot day after an arduous and relentless hike. Yet for me it can only be found by fulfilling a purpose and that purpose is where I find God.

This is the reason I have quit jobs, often did poorly in school, didn’t marry, didn’t compromise, because I could not, would not, take my soul’s eye, mind’s eye, and heart, off of the path.

I was in the garage yesterday and stumbled upon old pictures of myself as a boy, maybe three or four years old. There was one of me standing in our side yard next to the short row of pine trees.  I had a thick head of hair and a bowl haircut while sporting my brown jacket that displayed colorful geometric shapes. It was one of my favs. The jacket that is, not the bowl haircut. But I had the burden in those anguished brown eyes, that same weight I have sitting here and writing this. And it is only with action and fulfillment do I free myself.

 

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