I was listening to a favorite album recently and happened across a lyric that really struck me...
"All my lies are only wishes."
It makes me pause.
Are all of our lies, both verbalized and lived-out, just wishes for something more?
Some of us, for example, are living a lie that we're content in a relationship. And even though that might be the furthest thing from a healthy relationship to be in, we're closing our eyes and living the lie - living the wish - that everything is all good.
Some of us are constantly engaging in little lies. Our parents think we're dating someone, our friends think we're busy/important, our lovers think we're rich, our co-workers think we're happy... Because we're telling little lies all the way around.
It is in the way we dress and in what we put on Facebook or Twitter. It is in the things we eat and the job we do. It is in the church we go to and the stuff we chase.
So where are the lies in your life? And what would happen if they weren't only wishes? What would happen if you were simply you?
As you may have heard, I love the vuvuzela. And I know that you do too!! (Really, somewhere in you there must be a part of you that doesn't hate the vuvuzela - and that is the part that I will call "love"...)
So to celebrate your love of the vuvuzela, I now have two versions of this blog.
I love the vuvuzela because it is uniquely African. It is a cultural staple. And, for once, we (the powerful elitist of the developed world) are being forced to deal with someone else's culture rather that simply overwhelming the "lesser" nation with our vapid idea of what proper culture should be.
All of the complaining parties are offenders of one form or another. Some of you yahoos in Texas shake cowbells at sporting events, which makes the vuvuzela sound like a lullaby.
Others among us are guilty of using those annoyingly lazy hand-clapper things. Who thought there was such a gap in society that we needed to invent that? And what did that brainstorm sound like? "Hmm, I have two hands but that is awfully bothersome to have to clap using both of them. And sometimes I clap wrong and it almost hurts. What if I just had to shake these plastic hand-shaped things and they made a rackety clapping sound? Yes!! Perfect!!"
Worst of all are the dreaded thundersticks. Inflatable banging plastic demons sponsored by Crocs or Kraft Foods or the local Autoplex. Let's just not go there.
But here is the deal. And here is the difference. We use noisemakers in America because we generally lack passion enough to produce organic noise from our own beings. And we're generally too lazy to do much noise-making even if we have all the zeal in the world. So we rely on gimmicky noisemakers that allow us the ability to make "supportive" noise while eating nachos and drinking a 72oz soft drink.
The South Africans, on the other hand, are so over-excited about their teams that they need more ways to make noise. So beyond singing and clapping, they grab the vuvuzela and start to blow. They blow in unison, creating deafening chants with the horns. They wave them in unison, creating impressive displays of spontaneous pseudo-choreographed support. And they dance all the while, celebrating not the ability to dominate on the pitch but the simple freedom to enjoy sport and recreation free from the deafening burdens of life as third-world slum-dwellers.
I love the vuvuzela and the departure it is from life as we know it. I love that it is an instrument of celebration for a people who for so long lacked something to celebrate. I love that in 2004 when the World Cup was awarded to South Africa, the streets immediately filled with the sound of the plastic trumpet and the din lasted long through the night. I love that FIFA has allowed the culture of the host nation to bleed through and that the uptight residents of the rest of the world are irritated by someone else's joyful noise. I love it all.
Over coffee this week, I had an interesting conversation about where we're all going. No, not in an eternity/heaven/hell type of way, but in the sense of intra-life destinations.
Like, how a young dude claims to be unprepared for marriage until he gets himself all fixed up in the unruly areas of bachelordom. In a larger sense, this is the idea that if we can somehow get ourselves all sorted out and stain-free, then we'll be ready for that next challenge or season.
And yet we all know the reality that it is in the journey when the junk gets sorted out. It is in the breakdown where the beauty becomes visible again.
So why go through life waiting to be acceptable enough or prepared enough or fixed-up enough or polished enough to actually engage in that life? Why not jump in and watch the way that the world was designed to refine us along the way? And why not be satisfied with the notion that we will pass away imperfect and incomplete in our own effort?
Are you an active participant in life? Or are you delusionally waiting for some perfect scenario to present itself, sitting on the sidelines all the while?
The wife and I recently made our way over to Costco. We were given a membership by a sweet couple that I married some months back and I had yet to actually make it to the store. Stefani had been several times to take advantage of great deals on detergent and food and various other things.
So I step into this warehouse and slowly realize that shoppers at Costco are happier. And it doesn't take me long to figure out why. These shoppers feel like they are getting a good deal - on EVERYTHING. They are being buttered up (literally) on all sorts of snacks by the friendly sample-pushers and they are encountering row upon row of low prices on bulk goods.
I, on the other hand, am growing more and more agitated.
You see, I understand the basic reality that for any business to turn a profit, they have to actually get me to part with MY money. They have to, for lack of a better term, separate me from my cash. And I get this. I really do. One of my favorite local business owners openly tells me what his mark-up is on items. And I am happy to pay that mark-up. I enjoy his product and his family eats and has a roof over their heads. Win-win...
But Costco seems to attempt to convince me that they are somehow sacrificially offering these great deals. And I don't know how they do it. But they do - and they have millions of raving fans that can't believe that the rest of us poor souls would procure produce and perfume at mere ordinary shops.
So every aisle of the store is like an incredible exercise in self-control. No, I don't need an 8-pack of toothpaste. No, I don't need a 12-pound bag of fresh unshucked oysters. No, I don't need 24 glorious cans of Red Bull.
And I left Costco strangely bitter. Not only because I bought 3200 ounces of Heinz Ketchup that I didn't need... More because I was almost guilted by the absence of all of the "great deals" I left on the shelf. Like they had offered to do me a favor (and the case of Red Bull was tempting) and I had so rudely declined.
I was skeptical of their use of psychology, their subterranean assault on all of us unassuming consumers. I was suspicious of their great deals (which somehow escapes the scrutiny that befalls Wal-Mart) and the fate of the folks on whose backs I profit. I was cynical that so many things could really be in one place - and still be good.
I don't know.
Maybe I felt guilty because of the abundance we have that so many lack. Maybe I felt ugly because I had to use all of the willpower I possess in order to turn down delicious deals while others on planet earth would have killed for 5 minutes alone in that store, for a simple moment to consume what they could.
Maybe I just don't trust things to be as they are presented. And maybe I don't think that's such a terrible thing.
I was listening to a favorite album recently and happened across a lyric that really struck me...
As you may have heard, I love the vuvuzela. And I know that you do too!! (Really, somewhere in you there must be a part of you that doesn't hate the vuvuzela - and that is the part that I will call "love"...)
