6 posts tagged with "Building Blocks"

I awake slowly, the energy building. It's as if currents of the earth shifted overnight and began to flow through me as I slept. Most of the time you can ignore this kind of pinko hogwash. Maybe like me you know it exists but life is generally easier if you don't focus on it. Then one morning you find yourself swept up in the flow. I'm convinced I'm the best kind of manic. I am a current rider. I was born for this somehow; to wait, shivering with anticipation for years, sometimes even dormant with slack will, biding time without knowing when it will end for the river to jump its banks and find me.

I'm writing this for you, so you know you're not alone. We burn brighter than most. It's not something I asked for. I was born like this. It's something I've learned to cultivate. I'm warm in a cold room, the blankets in any bed are almost always too much, sitting still for any length of time is far outside my interest. Moving uphill under stormy skies on some rocky mountain I'm in the eye of the storm, surrounded by energy, gathering what I need to myself to fly higher. Downhill is uncomfortable and slow. Uphill I flow.

I love comfort like any human shaped by a thousand generations to equate comfort with life; I'm no fool. And yet, discomfort and struggle and mighty goals call to me, a siren song to personal culmination. This will to power is applied to anything; the mechanics of roasting coffee, the structure of a backpack, the clear path I glory in laying out from ignorance to excellence.

I'm impatient with inefficiency, offended by the improper use of our all our human time. The shuffling line to board a plane, the long preambles of business, the slow driver in the fast lane. That's not to say I'm pushy or a bully or a reckless driver. I am convinced that we each have the right to live our own experience, and the general inconvenience that is a side effect of giving someone the right to fumble through their experience is well worth the personal freedom we each have.

Man stands in an empty ball field at home plate. It’s night. Half a moon, maybe less. A few clouds scud across the sky. Dull glow on the horizon, some distant city. Enough light to see, but barely. The wind moans through the batting cages. Lonely. The man holds an old, well loved wooden bat in his right hand. Work boots, well worn jeans, untucked shirt, forearms scratched with many cuts, t-shirt flecked with dark slivers of glass. Stubble, un-combed hair. Skin creased. Eyes intense. Behind him an enormous pile of lightbulbs. All the way behind him to the fence, twice as high as he is, they flow down to his feet, perfect in their manufacture. The ground directly around him covered with shattered white glass and the metal screw bottoms of broken bulbs. Thousands. Holding the bat loosely, he turns and steps back. Shoes crunching on broken glass in the quiet. He leans and reaches for the pile of bulbs, picks one up. Steps back to the plate, faces the mound. Turning the bulb in his hand, he inspects it. White glass, perfectly complete. Flipping it in his hand, he catches it by the bulb. In one smooth motion, he lightly tosses it up, brings the bat to his shoulder and swings mightily. The bat catches the bulb perfectly. In slow motion the bulb shatters, filament giving off the briefest small spark that dies in the night. The metal screw bottom flies crazily into the blackness. A slight stagger as he follows through the swing. Glass crunches again. He pauses, breathes, wipes his mouth. Turns, and selects another bulb. Repeats process. This time a tiny sliver catches him under the eye. It bleeds, but not much. Pulls out the sliver, smears blood. Wipes his fingers on his jeans. Turns, selects another bulb. The stars swing ‘round overhead. The mound of bulbs shrinks and moves and grows like a breathing being. The man swings again and again. Glass shatters, screw bottoms veer unsteady into the night. The moon begins to set. The broken glass around him ever deeper. Over and over, they break, unable to stand up to reality. Over and over, he swings. The lights of the city sputter in the distance. Light is not unavailable to him, but it is his own light that he seeks. The man swings, the bulb explodes, again and again. A thousand times. Ten thousand. Ten thousand and more. He turns again to the pile, selects a bulb. Holds it, inspecting. Perfect white bulb, perfect screw bottom metal. He spins it in his hand, holding the bulb. Pauses, breathes in. In one smooth motion, he lightly tosses it up, brings the bat to his shoulder, and swings mightily. The bat catches the screw metal bottom perfectly. Sharp, grunting exhale at contact. The connection, the angle, the power, all in alignment. Slow motion, the bulb shivers but holds, arcing away, racing off toward the fences. The man watches, mouth open, hoping. Intense silent prayer follows the arc. As it flies, the bulb tumbles, the screw bottom metal now leading the way. The screws catch the air and it begins to spiral, to spin. We see its destination now, in the distance but closing rapidly. A row of black poles, sentinels at the far edge of the field. A socket looms on some far lamp post. The bulb flies closer and closer, riding the curve of its arc, dropping out of the sky toward the socket, sliding through a perfect trajectory. Still spinning, it closes through space to the socket, halving the distance infinitely. At 1,000 frames per second we see the puff ring of dust pushed out of the socket as the bulb enters it. The spiral motion forces it to seat itself, the bottom makes contact. The bulb blazes brilliantly, reflects off the cloud of dust motes shaken loose by impact. Temporary victory, heralded only by the screaming lonely night. The far off seething city knows nothing. To the left and right of the blazing light stand more socketed and bulb-less posts, black in the night. They stretch all the way around the ball field, to the edge of the world, each empty. Back to the man. He sees the light in the far distance, his pupils widen then constrict back down. He smiles crookedly, raises a hand to his eyes to shade them. Turns back to the pile, selects a bulb. Trust me kid, you’ll never run out of bulbs. Just don’t run out of game. NFH

I wrote this up for a shooting forum, all of it applies beyond work on the range. These techniques are used by top tier performers around the world. In fact, every single professional performer uses all of these. They may call them different names but "the big 4" (Visualization, Self Talk, Goal Setting, Arousal Control) are unavoidable if you want to become the best. For the rest of us mortals, they help us become a whole lot better and they're free. Visualization: Lots of research has been done on this, basically your body doesn't know the difference between what you visualize and what you do. Whether or not you have time for the range you almost always have time to visualize. The more aspects you can include the better. What it looks like, (your point of view, what you look like from another's point of view), what it feels like from grip to stance, what it sounds like with ears on, what it smells like (smell is a direct connection to your lizard brain) and even what it tastes like will all build your training environment and allow you to practice the perfect shot or run. Self Talk: Pros talk to themselves, from Tiger Woods to elite military shooters. What they say focuses on the positive (nice shot, keep going, hands steady, eyes clear) and NOT what they're missing (darn it, missed that one, oh well, need to speed up etc). The more "I can do this" and "I've got this" you use the more it'll become true for you. It's not magic, it just makes the hard work you put in that much more effective. Goal Setting: From very short term (hit this next shot) to very long term (Grand Master in 5 years) you MUST have goals if you're going to make measurable progression. If you're serious you'll write them out enough times that they become burned into your brain. Arousal Control: This is what takes a bi-athletes heart rate from rockin' and rollin' down to shooting between heartbeats. Completely in the head. You can improve this with awareness, which must be constantly practiced. Read Enos. For wazoo out there techniques check out John Alexander and The Warrior's Edge. No longer in print that I'm aware of, usually you have to wait on Amazon for a used one to show up. One technique that is super effective is sometimes called 4-4-4: take 4 seconds to inhale, 4 seconds to exhale, and do that for 4 minutes (or as short/long as you have.) It encourages the brain to calm down and simulate relaxation patterns. Good to do if you have a time where you know you usually "freak out." Like before you shoot a match. These are the basics. Tons of books have been written about this, if any of you would like to work on your mental game post up what you've got and we'll make it helpful to the whole forum. Used to teach this stuff to fired up young dudes, am happy to use that experience to help you. Q&A ****, lots of folks start off super relaxed and then they fire that first shot and events spiral out of control, or at least beyond your conscious awareness, and that's the issue. Awareness of your mental state is critical to controlling what you're doing, whether you're shooting or talking to your spouse or running a hard race. You're heading in the right direction with more practice and experience. When you do practice, practice awareness. One thing you can do is try using "dots". You can buy a sheet of little dot stickers of whatever color catches your attention at OfficeMax or OfficeDepot etc. Paste those around the house (above sink, in bathroom, by the bed, at the front door) and wherever else you spend lots of time (steering wheel, desk at work etc.) Every time you see that dot, just pay attention to what you're thinking, to your awareness. This is practice, and it's not restricted to the range. When you do this you're building a habit of awareness that will have implications well beyond your shooting game. Now, when you're at the range you can run a few drills of awareness, shooting as fast as you can for a mag to amp you up and then doing a SUPER SLOW mag change and bringing your awareness back. You can also color a dot onto your hands where you can see it when you bring your gun up to bear, just something to remind you to stay aware. I'd wish you good luck, but I tend to believe that folks who work hard get the luckiest, so good work! ****, these techniques are commonly used by top tier Formula One racers. It's funny, you'd be hard pressed to find top competitors or performers anywhere in any discipline who don't use the big four or some variant of them. They work so well and are so natural in the evolution of high level activity that once you know what they are and look for them you'll find them *everywhere.* The Four Quarters I used to race (running) and would specifically use goal setting to plan out how to run. I broke the race up into 4 quarters and called them horse, boat, heart, and home. The horse, or first quarter, I viewed as if I was a jockey and riding a super powerful horse, one that I'd have to pull back on the reins a bit in the beginning so I didn't blow it out. It was a reminder to me to pull back on my pace a little, because almost every pace feels good in the first quarter, even the one that will murder you. The more experienced you get as a runner the more you realize that no one wins a race in the first quarter, but lots of people will run that as if it's the most important one. The boat quarter I thought about the way you drive a boat, especially one with a slipping throttle; you know, you can put it at full speed but especially in anything other than glassy conditions it'll slip back down a few notches if you're not constantly and firmly tapping that throttle forward. That idea reminded me to keep checking my speed as I ran, to maintain the solid pace I'd set in the first quarter. The heart, or third, quarter was always my favorite. I saw a military recruiting video once where they showed a bunch of guys running on a beach, obviously a hot day and a hell of a run. As they went along you could see the pain and sweat and struggle in each of them, and the narrator read out a line I'll never forget: "There's nothing quite like running to make a man reach deep down inside himself and see what he's made of." That's what the heart quarter was for me, the time to reach down deep and hold the pace I'd already set. For me, the third quarter is where a race is won. It's where everybody wants to give up, it's usually in a place where the fans don't go so nobody's watching you, and racers are far enough away from the finish line that they figure "a little rest from the pace" is OK. It's not, not if you want to win, and if you want to win you've got to set goals. The fourth quarter is where they make movies, it's the one where you're running home. While physically it's the hardest quarter because you've already expended so much effort, mentally it can be the easiest; you're close to the finish, you usually start to hear the roar of the crowd, and you know that even if you charge and blow yourself out you'll be done soon. Those four quarters are super helpful in physically demanding races, and it's a good concept to think about and use when you're shooting your various stages. Is there anything like it that you use?

Tell them it's me.  Phone 71B, location 2 Crew (B).  November 2011.  Somewhere off the coast of Oman I sit in a same-ness institutional room, opening my mind to the full circle encompassing darkness and light.  I have sat here all over the world.  The tan walls, the don't-give-a-shit mattress, the white sheets and thin soft blanket on a bed not mine but for now.  Training in Arkansas, waiting in Nicaragua, a tussle in Alaska, a Noosa Head spaceship ride direct from the beach.  Here I am again, wondering what I should do with my life, forgetting until I push back Burton's black dog night that I'm doing it.

Arrives this wild and pure kernel of spirit fire in me, slips it out in heavy weather, in big wind, in the hiss of heavy wooden poker chips sliding off the table, when my corporeal being falters, when my true spirit rises.

I have begged for it to show, I have forgotten I had it in me.  On a cold mountain in the Tetons when all I wanted was to be safe and comfortable, with no quarter given from the merciless earth it was unremembered in sick fear. 

Sometimes too late, after a confrontation with one in a long line of alpha males who won't admit wrongness, sometimes as unnecessary as a warm ejaculation waking me from sleep. What is this spirit that seems at times to be of ultimate importance, exquisite joy, and at other times like torn plastic floating on the ocean, a useless and unwelcome reincarnation of its former self?

I return to the moment, relieved of conversation with utlanning, strangers of my own culture.  The waking sea falls away at every horizon, the ship's white deck high off the water, dark clouds heavy overhead, warm drops of rain flecking my shirt.  The wind rises, the sun sinks away blood orange.  Tricked by genetic response to rain-dark-anger, my spirit awakens yet I am already safe.  Rage, sublime joy, a tempest of emotion, an uncontrollable belief in self all sear through my veins.  Another decision made, another poor action conquered, my weakest self beaten again, raw fluke, genesis inevitability.

Looking for proof of existence I forget I live in a vapor of faith, that I breathe it in every time my chest expands.  I step once, twice, into space.  My self pulses, an explosive oval thud, the terrible heat only burns brighter my fire.  I fly.  I am gone, here forever.

This from a former client of Lee's: A fellow pilot and friend Robert Gannon just finished a 10-year exploration of the world in his Cessna 182, crossing major oceans. What he says is true: "The one thing I have observed [about flying a private airplane around the world twice over a 10 year period] is that if you will keep stepping forward and keep moving toward what you wish to do, you'll get up to that door that everyone said you couldn't get through. You knock and it will be open and someone will say 'Come on in, no one ever comes here.' -Bob Gannon AWESOME!

Unselfishness is the bedrock of righteous living.  One must be unselfish before understanding and applying impeccability, stoicism, breathing and smell, asceticism, finite time, building blocks, and a common thread.