Tag Archives: life

Air

To have life, we need energy.  To gain energy, we need air.  To have air, we need to breathe.  In order to breathe, we need life.

It’s always easier to understand life when you can make it into a circle (cue Lion King music here) – its actions and reactions constantly giving and taking.  All circles are different, and none of them are perfect.  While they differ in size, shape, depth, color, and gradient, every circle can make an impact.

Last week, I had the honor to meet a beautiful baby girl named Leona.  She was born in the early evening of a late August day in Palo Alto as the daughter of not only two great friends of mine, but two of the kindest souls I know – Mac and Kim.  I must admit that prior to meeting Leona, I was rabid with excitement, nervousness, pride, fear – while I felt everything, I knew nothing.

All I knew, was to breathe.

When I arrived to the hospital, it didn’t feel like a hospital, and I really liked that.  After a few hours of catching up with Leona’s parents and other friends, it was my turn to see her.  All those uncontrollable feelings came back again and any senses of calm I gathered before dissipated.  So, I leaned back on what I knew, back to the basics: breathing.

Mac led me to another room to Leona.  I checked in, turned a few corners, and ensured that I applied enough antibacterial on my quaking hands.  After treading through showering sounds of beeping machines, overlaying voices of nurses, and a handful of other crying babies in the room, I was finally in the grace of Leona’s presence.  And the moment I laid my eyes on Mac and Kim’s daughter, in absolutely every sense I was swept off my feet.

Leona moved, albeit in small doses, with curiosity.  Her scent was sweet and refreshing.  She was unburdened with worries and new to earth, and in this moment with Leona she made me feel what I can only imagine what she felt – unsusceptible to gravity.  Most of all, Leona was full of might.  More might than I can ever gain in my lifetime, more might than I have seen from a team of champions.

Leona’s story, unfortunately, is one with complications.  She required the aid of a machine to breathe, and the burden of this condition on Leona and her parents is one I will never be able to fathom.  She fought and defied every single odd that went against her and her family.  She made every play on the field, threw every pitch with pinpoint perfection, and had a batting average of 1.000 at the plate.

She did it all.  And she did so, for seven days.

My one and only meeting I will ever have with Leona is on repeat in my memories.  While she was not granted a full life, she put on a dazzling display of courage over fear, and risk over regret.  We are reminded that life is short, whether it be seven days or seventy years.  And in that time, while life simply means that you’re breathing, the meaning of life depends on what you do in between the breaths that you take.  This is the story of Mighty Leona, a story that will never end.

All that might, she got from her parents.

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Train

I have a love-hate relationship with working out: I love it when I do it, I hate it when I don’t. For last eight years, I have gone no more than two weeks straight without some sort of workout or training session. So it’s definitely been coded in my blood to just… go.

And I’m very proud about that aspect about myself. I’ve been on the receiving end of unnecessary fat jokes and comments from friends, family, and strangers for two decades. And it really sucks, by the way. I’ve been able to look back and laugh about those moments now, but trust me when I say that it took some blood, several tears, and a whole lot of sweat to get to that point of acceptance. And, if my calculations are correct, if I averaged a safe bet of four workouts a week for the last eight years (416 weeks), that amounts to 1,664 workouts.

And after 1,664 workouts you would be easily led to believe that I am some chiseled out monster that eats dumbbells for breakfast, flosses with jump rope and lifts cars with my eye lashes. If you do, thank you for the wonderful compliment.

But I’m not. While I have lost a lot of weight, I’m not where I want to be (yet). The problem I’ve always had is that I plateau, quite honestly more than anyone I know. I have hit wall after wall after wall, I lose focus and I find myself taking steps back for several weeks and/or months. I’ll buy one too many Cadbury Eggs bags at Target post-Easter sale, add three too many cheat meals during the week because I feel I deserved another, visited my parents and ate too much of that oh-so-good comfort Filipino food, or had myself too many packs of peanut M&Ms, thinking that eleven burpees would burn it all off.

True story – it takes eleven burpees to burn off ONE peanut M&M. The moral: chose portion control, or suffer the consequences.

Then there’s that crazy thing called life, too. Sometimes it just sucks you dry, and other times you’re having just too much fun. Either way, too much booze is involved, and that’s where you can blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.

You may also believe that I am knowledgeable about everything health and fitness. I am not this, either. I have many close and successful friends in that field, and I’ve picked their brain for years learning and understanding what works and what doesn’t. I have not earned one certification, and never will I consider myself an expert. But I understand what I need, what works for me, and what it’s going to take – for me. And recently, I have gained a much better understanding of when to slow down. You can’t always go pedal to the metal. You get hurt (as I have plenty of times), and you are shelved for days or weeks, and all the momentum goes out the window.

That’s where the wall appears. Then, boom. Right to your chin. The wall’s in the car, you on the ground, tryin’ to figure what the f%$# just happened.

And I did run into that wall last week. The good thing is, it didn’t knock me backwards. I couldn’t get over that 5AM alarm, but I eventually got something in later in the day. While feeling like you’re staying put is not the greatest thing, there is a win in holding your ground. Once you can weather the storm, you can move forward once more and continue to chase that burn.

And when you start naming your workouts, that’s when you know you’re having fun and you’re on board the right train. Take today’s session, which I aptly titled The ABC’s:

A. 3:14 minute cardio warm up (row machine)
B. Shoulder stretch routine with broomstick
C. Hip rotations and warm up
D. 21 reps barbell thrusters @75 lbs
E. 1 minute plank
F. 50 crunches
G. 18 reps barbell thrusters @75 lbs
H. 1 minute plank
I. 50 reverse crunches
J. 15 reps barbell thrusters @75 lbs
K. 1 minute plank
L. 50 scissor kicks
M. 12 reps barbell thrusters @75 lbs
N. 1 minute plank
O. 50 bicycle kicks
P. 9 reps barbell thrusters @75 lbs
Q. 1 minute plank
R. 50 oblique crunches (left)
S. 6 reps barbell thrusters @75 lbs
T. 1 minute plank
U. 50 oblique crunches (right)
V. 3 reps barbell thrusters @75 lbs
W. 1 minute plank
X. 50 hip bridges
Y. Cool down
Z. Leave no doubt: take a photo to prove you’ve done your ABC’s

One last thing – how many Jamie Foxx references did you catch in this post?

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Traffic

In the beginning of this year of 2014, I ushered in not only a new job, but a new city of work – Palo Alto, California.  Prior to this move I worked in San Francisco for over eight years, and currently living in San Francisco (over two years now) and other neighboring cities prior to, my commute to work was never a concern for me.  San Francisco’s public transportation – compared to other US cities, at least – is good.  I Caltrained, I BARTed, I MUNIed.  Palo Alto’s public transportation, unfortunately, is a complete joke.  In fact it’s damn near non-existent.  And I understood that, prior to accepting the gig, I am required to increase my driving time and shoot my miles through the roof to get to work.

While I do have genuine concerns about the oil crisis and gas prices and our overall environmental well-being, I was okay with the commute ahead of me then.  And I still am now.  I did well for over two months, close to three, from January to mid-March.  I was out my door by 6:30 AM – 6:48 AM to avoid the morning freeway congestion, which allowed me to leave work just before everyone else in Silicon Valley did.  It is unfortunate that I eventually fell off the wagon; my nights became longer, and getting out the door by 6:48 AM became a rarity.  7:00 AM became more common, then came 7:15, then 8:00, to as late as 9:30 AM out the door.  And from this tardiness I was introduced to the very popular traffic on the US 101 that many, if not all Bay Area commuters cringed about.

Traffic – you learn to get used to it, but only if you allow yourself to.  Some days are worse than others.  In April, I suffered a car accident on the freeway that left my beloved truck of thirteen years totaled (and I thankfully walked away without a scratch).  And being fully immersed in traffic with thousands of commuters for the better part of these last four months have brought about one simple, yet powerful question:

What moves you?

And “work” is the surface answer.  You make ends meet to survive.  You get from A to B, earn a paycheck, then go from B to A and do it all over again.  It’s America.  It’s what you have to do to make America continue to happen and exist in it.  If you earn enough paychecks you get to pay your rent, buy a shirt, maybe some pants, and have a beer and a cookie on the weekend, too.

For the record, I don’t exactly promote the visuals of being butt naked from the waist down on your front lawn while munching on a cookie and washing it down with a Coors Light on a Sunday afternoon.  It’s just, you know, an example.  But hey, if that floats your boat, by all means please quote me.

But it’s the other kind of move that I mean.  I can only hope that most people do understand and recognize the differences between surviving, and living.  We work in order to survive.  Simple, right?  So what do you do to live?  With that in mind, what moves you then?

It horrified me that I couldn’t answer with any conviction.  And I think my problem by going about thinking of an answer was that, I was looking for specific answers, and when I did that I always came to a conclusion that it was “too easy.”  Passion projects, travelling, learning, and the overall pursuit of happiness – we all know this shit already.  Even further than that, how many times have you – for example – travelled and seen a new place and left unfulfilled?  Unmoved?  I know I have, and I can at least conclude for myself that those “answers” that are “too easy” can completely miss the mark, too.

Am I a man doomed to walk this earth not knowing what moves me?  Fortunately, no.  Because it did dawn on me the other day what moves me on a day-to-day basis.  It’s so simple that, when it hit me I felt it in my bones, and I had to go all the way back to how I spent my summer seasons during elementary school to feel that same level of simplicity and relief.

I want to be moved.  That’s what moves me.

And I don’t always have to chase and capture photographs for that.  I don’t have to design chair after chair and build full scale prototypes.  I don’t have to seek a new adventure in another city to be moved.  I don’t have to solve for x and find the area of the triangle using the Pythagorean theorem (although that really, really turns me on).

I’m easily moved by a song from the past, something from my favorite record from my favorite band perhaps.  I’m easily moved by having a conversation worth remembering for all time, or a brilliant idea that creates action, or a good film that inspires change.

And I can be moved, every day – even more – simply by just the way you look at me.  And the simple touch of your hand over mine, or if I’m lucky the brush of your cheek against the delicate tip of my nose.  I can be moved by simply hearing your voice, especially when your happy, even when you’re angry, but not when your upset.  I can be moved by the scents that only you will have, and when those scents tickle my senses a jolt of electricity will surrender my body.  I can be moved by the slightest upward bend of your lips.  And if you give me a full smile and that laugh of yours then you’ll move me swiftly off my feet and into outer space.  I can be moved every day.

But I don’t have every day with you. And the possibility of that still keeps me going.

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Cake

According to Steve Treder via HardballTimes.com, there have been a total of fifty-seven position players that throw left, and bat right handed.  Probably the most decorated, as Treder notes in his article, is Ricky Henderson, who played primarily for the Oakland Athletics.  A more recent player is journeyman Cody Ross.

Fifty-seven.  The game of baseball has been played for a century and a quarter and only fifty-seven left-handed throwing, right-handed batting position players have donned a Major League uniform.  That’s how abnormal that throwing/batting combination is.

And, as the story goes, I too, throw left and bat right.  While I have relished in a moment and world of my own for several minutes standing on the mound of AT&T Park, I have never made it nor will I ever make it to the majors.

Contrary to popular belief, mid to high 60 MPH fastballs with a ceiling pitch count of 15 isn’t enough to make it to the show, even if said self-proclaimed prospect promised to come out to Queen’s “Under Pressure” as a closer, which would generate positive crowd reaction and high fan sing-along participation (sometimes you have to sell a gimmick, man).

Case and point, I’m not “normal.”  My traits on a baseball field are just a few of many that I have come to realize how abnormal I am.  My life isn’t normal, and I really I don’t think it ever has been.  I don’t really do normal things.  Normal things do not happen to me.  Normal does not follow or believe in me, and quite frankly, the feeling is mutual.

And, I’m not complaining.  At least, I haven’t been, and for quite some time now.  I guess I’ve been through enough challenges, situations, and ordeals to finally get that there is a difference between what is simple, and what is normal.

It’s 12:34 AM in the morning and I want cake.  And the only reason I want cake is because I know I have cake in my fridge, and I am excited because I never have cake in my fridge.  It’s leftover cake from an earlier dinner party.  Chocolate – not to sweet – with some chocolate mousse on the top.  Not frosting, but mousse, and that makes it ten times better, all right?  The only problem is, I was given all of the leftover cake.  Like, I had enough cake to feed a kindergarten class; no one else wanted to bring cake home, which makes me wonder if I was the only fan of the chocolate mousse.  That doesn’t matter, but you get the picture: there’s a lot of cake, and only one of me.  That is a problem.  It’s now 12:36 AM in the morning, my heart’s fluttering and I’m dancing a fruitful dance in my kitchen over the fact that yours truly is going to have some cake.

It’s 12:49 AM and I’m still dancing in my kitchen and shit.  But the problem still lingers.  I don’t want to eat all of this cake at one time.  So what should I do?  What did I do?

Got a plate, got a knife, cut me a piece, got me a fork, enjoyed me some cake (not all of it), danced some more, then went back to bed.  Simple, right?

Exactly.  And that’s where the line is drawn, the difference between normal and simple.  My life has always been one big abnormal-sized cake.  Too much for me to handle most of the time, but at the end of the day I always sought for it because of how delicious it is and how much it made me go bat shit in my kitchen.  And all I’ve ever really wanted was that knife to make things simpler to digest.  And it’s always nice to share cake, too.

Why’d it take me so long to realize that?  Maybe I always have, but I definitely knew that I was out of focus for quite some time.  That and I’ve been working on my dance moves.  And I’m sure that earlier you attempted to picture me in my kitchen dancing over some cake, right?  If you said no then you are a bold faced liar.  Either way I’m going to paint it nice and neat for you –

Imagine Beyoncé taking a Zumba class, okay?  The sun is setting gently through the window.  Fluffy clouds pass on through while she body rolls through the intricate rhythms of the music.  Very clean, no wasted movements, all sharp as a claw and all body parts are popped and locked in.  It’s fantastic art, if anything.

Now, imagine the complete opposite of that.  Just the most ruckus and hurtful humanly movements you’ve ever laid your eyes on that it actually starts to physically hurt your retinas.  Wait, wait!  I’m not done yet.  Then, the environment around her just go absolutely awry.  A willy mammoth decides to defrost itself out of extinction and absolutely tears through the studio entrance, rendering poor Beyoncé in fear.  All this while Beyoncé tries to gain her balance during an 8.6 earthquake that struck while our aforementioned willy mammoth decided to show up.  But!  But… she’s still in rhythm.

That’s my dance.  I know, it’s not normal, and I’ll give you fifty-seven reasons why if you ask me.

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