Yule Log

Its Christmas morning, and me and the cats are the only ones awake in the house.  The sky is blue, the sun is shining, and I am watching a fire in high-definition t.v. Life is good.I’m 29 years old, and I’m still the first one up – waiting on the rest of the house to crack into the stockings.  After presents and breakfast, I want to take my in-laws on a hike in the Oakland hills. Joaquin Miller park, specifically. Redwood and Sequoia filled canyon, ferns, a babbling brook, culminating in a barren ridge of scrub that boasts a jaw-dropping view of the City, the Golden Gate, Bay Bridge, Oakland and Lake Merritt.   Merry Christmas world.

The Holiday Spirit

Its the time of year where everyone should be smiling, practicing random acts of kindness, moved by love and filled with joy.  My wife and I have adorned our live Norfolk pine with glass orbs and family heirlooms. Multi-colored bulbs twinkle along our front fence. Stockings hang from the fireplace while egg nog chills in the fridge. It’s true. This is the most wonderful time of the year.

A couple days ago, at about 10:40 at night., a complete stranger rang our doorbell. I answered the door and greeted my unexpected guest politely and with a smile. I was concerned he might rob me.  Grasping an empty prescription bottle, he hastily commenced his pitch. Most of it went unheeded, as I already knew the punch-line. He wanted my money.  Nice enough guy, he apologized for bothering me so late. I gave him five bucks, somewhat compassionately, but mostly with the hope that my demonstration of kindness would help me not get robbed sometime in the future.  Ever since then, we close our front gate every night, activate our alarm and draw our blinds.  Clearly overcome by the holiday spirit.

This morning, my meth addicted client was curled up on the concrete the floor of the courthouse holding tank. About a month ago, I got him released from jail and a free bed in one of the Bay Area’s best rehab centers.  He happily left jail, but never even made it through the front door of the clinic. Today, he told me that he wasn’t ready to fight his addiction, and that he’d rather spend the holidays in jail than get some help.  Merry Crankmas dude.

This afternoon, my wife and I braved the crowds and traffic to finish up some Christmas shopping.  Bumper to bumper gridlock, horns honking, sirens blaring, money spending.  In the congested Target parking lot, a Honda sped by a startled pedestrian and his wife. “Fuck you,” he growled, waving his middle finger defiantly, “keep on driving, asshole.”  It all just warmed the spirit.

Truth is, no matter what time of year it is, fear and hate will always find their vessels.  Suffering will always exist.  This is a truth we simply cannot dream away with candy canes and mistletoe.  I suppose the most we can do is extend love and compassion to those dark corners around us and always be thankful for the light in our lives.

Unplugging the Blogorrhea

I’ve pretty much waited my whole life for self-publishing to become as easy and impactful as it is today. As an undergraduate political columnist for The Lumberjack newspaper at NAU, I relished the opportunity to disseminate my ideas to the 14 people who actually read my rather radical rants.

I felt a sense of purpose defending the value of Marxist ideals in a globalized free market. I reveled in calling out our government for exploiting fear and ignorance to mask imperialism with the cloak of altruism. I felt gratified to know that the stoners on the fifth floor of my dorm tacked my manifesto for marijuana legalization to their resin-dusted cork board. Frankly, the year I regularly wrote, shared ideas and engaged in a critical discourse about the world in which we live, was one of the best in my life. I thrive on that shit.

Sadly, when I first heard about this whole blogging thing, say, five or six years ago,  my intrigue was matched only by my festering apathy. In this unique moment in human history, where injustice passes as patriotism and ignorance has been codified, one would think a caring, critical individual like myself would be standing on the rooftops screaming for change. But that didn’t happen.Maybe its getting older. Maybe it was fear that my dissent would be persecuted, mistaken for hate. Maybe three, numbing years of law school and four years into this spirit-draining profession has taken its toll. Whatever the reason, I’ve been idly watching Web 2.0 explode before my very eyes while passively absorbing distractions like fantasy sports and American Idol.

Sure, I have pursued the ideals of justice and human rights with the career I have chosen. But I want Anderson Cooper to quote me. I want 307,000 people to watch me sitting in front of my computer with my shirt off talking about why good trance is better than bad religion (post forthcoming). I want to be part of another “sphere.”

I feel left out.

I’ve been meaning to do this for, well the last five or six years. I like to think of it as a dialectical process, rapid change yielded from the accumulated forces of internal conflict. Either that, or I am a lazy bullshitter who cannot help but procrastinate.

But here I am. I aim for this to be a challenge to myself and, hopefully, a challenge to all those who read it to think independently, question what they are told, criticize everything, learn from each other, love each other and make the most of our finite time in this world.

Up Close and Personal

This morning my wife and I had our most intimate encounter yet with our unborn child. Happily, we came to know that our baby is healthy, has large feet, four cardiac chambers and a beautiful, awe-inspiring face with two eyes, one nose and a little mouth that opens and closes.

We also found out that our baby is a boy. Coming into this experience, I was truly ambivalent about our baby’s gender. But standing there this morning, watching my boy’s stout ball-sack and unmistakable wang, I was admittedly overcome with pride.

I had heard much from other men in my life about this phenomenon. “Can you put the stem on the apple?” – my brother-in-law joked. As if the presence of a Y chromosome in one of my million love warriors somehow fortifies my manhood. Perhaps its the guarantee that my name will go on.Who knows. But I admit it, I am a man. A Punjabi man no less. And, right or wrong, I am proud to be having a boy.

Up until this morning, our pregnancy had been nothing more than a mental creation for me. For my wife, conversely, the reality of our baby was signaled quickly and rather ruthlessly by nausea, constipation, heartburn, gas and exhaustion. My life went relatively unchanged. But this morning was something special. I saw our baby move, grasp his little hands, open and close his mouth. I saw his face.

He is a precious, perfect reminder of both divinity and finitude. His frailty humbles. His perfection swells.I am happy to report that I have a new calling. To nourish, teach, encourage and love this beautiful new life. Life, as I know it, will never be the same. And I couldn’t ask for anything more.