On Tipping Points and Modern Life

How easy for us to ride the rollercoaster of e-mails, emergencies, meetings, urgent projects, administrative details, needs and obligations that pour into our daily lives both at home and at work. We think we are accomplishing so much.

But are we? Really? Or are we just going around in circles?

Every day I talk to people who, when asked how they are, lower their eyes and shake their heads and mumble, “Busy. Just so busy.”

What are we doing to ourselves?

As an example, many of us start blogging from our hearts, develop a following, then burn out and either enter a long hiatus, or drop our blogs altogether. Sound familiar?

Yeah. Pretty obvious that I’ve gone there, too.

In my case, I launched with high expectations. I read someplace that bloggers should blog two to three times a week and post comments all over the blogosphere. And I believed it. So I did. Until blogging became a chore and no longer a cozy place to share stories, philosophies and inspirations with like-minded souls.

I’ve met many amazing people through blogging and plan to continue, but not at the same level as before.

Anil describes the joy of discovery found in journaling, writing and blogging, “…certain threads that lie in the subconcious might actually untangle themselves and unveil the 'unknown' or provide for a fresh train of thought.”

If you visit Anil’s blogs (he has a both a photo and writing blog) you’ll see his philosophy in action. Sometimes he posts photos or entries several times a week; sometimes there are hiatuses. But Anil always leaves sparkling gems behind—colorful words and images that can inspire new dreams and ideas, or simply lift spirits with their beauty.

It’s time to say, “Enough.” It’s time to recognize how much better we can be by accomplishing a lot with a little, instead of trying so hard to do a lot with less than we have.

Thank you, Anil, for your inspiration.

The Book

Many of my friends have asked lately about the progress of my book, THE BLACK PIT. As might be obvious from the dearth of recent entries in this blog, I haven’t been writing. I could give you a thousand reasons. But there’s only one.

The ending stumps me.

My grandfather died for a purpose…but what?

At one point, I thought the life of Paul Rusesabagina, and my experience meeting him at an Immortal Chaplains Foundation dinner, might hold a clue. Except Mr. Rusesabagina didn’t learn of the sinking of the USAT Dorchester or the Four Chaplains until long after his own heroic acts.

No real connection there beyond a memorable conversation, a few photos and a donation to Amnesty International.

Shortly afterward, my son and I had an opportunity to go to Chad to videotape a group assisting refugees from Darfur. Could this be it? All too quickly, our window of opportunity collapsed along with the few remaining remnants of peace in this torn and bloodied region.

Puzzled, I spent the last year nibbling around the edges of my book. A little research here, a little more there. A little plotting. A tentative first chapter. A whole lot of balled up paper in my wastebasket.

Some writers start writing and, as they write, eventually the story takes them to its ending. They remind me of 17th century explorers setting off across unknown mountain ranges until they reach their fertile lands. Very brave, indeed.

For better or worse, I write in much the same way as I take photographs. The story stews for days, weeks, months. In this case, years. When I least expect it, the story appears in my brain, like a landscape. Perfectly complete. As though it had been there all along, waiting for me to open my eyes and notice it. I see the story as it was meant to be written: every emotion, every character, every scene, from beginning to end. Sometimes, I see every word. Once I see the story, I write what I see.

My writing professors and friends shake their heads. Try to give me guidance on writer's block.

If only writer's block were the issue. When I try to write before I see the story, I end up with, at best, a meandering tale containing no human truth.

Right now, I see pieces of the story of THE BLACK PIT, but the ending is as dark as its name. And as long as I can't see the ending, the beginning and the middle can't take on a meaningful shape.

Some have told me to just write the dang thing. The story of my grandfather’s life alone is compelling enough, they say. And all but one of the books written about the sinking of the Dorchester are varied efforts toward achieving the same literary goal, leaving plenty of original territory for me to explore and for a publisher to publish.

Others say, "You need to write it, otherwise you'll just keep talking about it." But what I need now is to live the story.

Because there is more truth to this story. More even than the Four Chaplains, who crossed the borders of religion to die together so that others might live. More than my grandfather, who gave up a golden life to die with his men.

Hints to more truths lie in various substories of this story. The backdrop of the Allied forces’ near defeat during the bloody Battle of the Atlantic. The soldiers in my grandfather's command: farmers and fishermen who left their wives and mothers only to drown. The story of my family. Lt. William Arpaia. The survivors. The Coast Guard. Greenland. The not-so-noble actions of a few men aboard the Dorchester. Hitler. The Immortal Chaplains Foundation and the winners of its Prize for Humanity.

Disparate though these stories might seem there is a thread of truth that runs through them. If only I knew what it was.

And last, there is the legacy of World War II—the planet as it exists today. Which I can assure you is not the legacy my grandfather thought he was dying for.

The story will be clear to me one day. The day I understand my grandfather’s purpose—and my own. On that day, the book will appear as a picture in my brain, and I'll finish it.

In the meantime, there are lots of other stories to write.

World War II Four Chaplains heroism faith narrative non-fiction writing