Perception is Truth. But Perception is rarely correct.

What we believe to be the truth is shaped entirely by the information we have available. Trouble is, we’re never operating with all the information. So we make staggering assumptions which keep us at arms length from each other, and might even make us worse in the process.

Marriages are a great example of this. Ask anyone to talk about their married friends and they’ll probably describe the couple that’s having trouble, the couple that never fights, and the other couple who works but no one knows why. And invariably, if you are married, you begin holding your own relationship up alongside these others to see how you measure up.

“Look honey, they’re more considerate than us.”

“Yes, sweety, but that’s because he’s not such an asshole all the time.”

“Wow, look at them, I don’t understand why they stay together.”

“I bet people say that about us…”

And it’s all crap.

There are those that say marriage is being attacked and threatened. I say it’s been put on a pedestal and canonized to the point that we don’t talk about it candidly enough. It’s all whispers and suspicion and secrets and assumption – and then we apply all that misinformation into some mutated yardstick for our own relationship.

Which brings me back to the idea my wife and I had that sent us giggling:

In the blue collar factories of the world, places with coveralls and hard hats, there’s traditionally a sign with interchangeable numbers and a declaration of plant safety. Some variation of “Safety First! This plant has gone ______ Days Without an Incident.”

The numbers grow, changed daily to reflect the ongoing safety of the plant and encourage careful action. Occasionally something boneheaded happens and then big zeros wind up on the board. Everyone takes a sobering look around and tries to go back to work with extra care to keep all their fingers this time.

So there we are sitting in our small group talking about our desire to be transparent with each other. We’re all for that, as walking through life candidly with others is an enormous blessing.  And along these lines one couple said they’d had an “incident” earlier that day. Suddenly my wife and I found ourselves giggling at the thought of one of those boards in every kitchen, probably painted by some person with a little boutique and a penchant for overcharging on knick-knacks:

___ ___ ___ Days Without Incident.

Every house would have their own variation, but the message would be the same.
“Here’s how long it’s been since this marriage had a work stopping argument.”

Imagine going over to a friends house for dinner and seeing three zeros on that kitchen sign. You’d know right away that while dinner conversation may be wonderful, you’re eating in a warzone. It might even be possible to notice the half-vacuumed room or the slightly burned side dish to find the catalyst for what would otherwise have been a petty private argument.

There’d be no more hiding the truth that we’re all struggling to make this thing work. And I have to think the transparency would help us all realize our sameness, and find camaraderie in the sharing.

It would be pretty hard to lust after someone else’s spouse once you realize they’re just as hard to live with as your own. Or maybe that couple everyone thinks is perfect seems to never get to double digits on their board. Would that be sad? No, I say it’s comforting.

I can get so caught up in the little argument, or disappointment, or failure because it exists in the fortress of my private life. Once the windows get opened and my little perspective of truth meets the fresh air of reality those problems morph to a manageable size.

I’m not suggesting that big struggles don’t happen. Actually, if you don’t have one right now, then one is probably on the way. But knowing that everyone around you is engaged in their own fight for survival makes it easier to try again. Misguided perspectives asphyxiate in the fresh air.

I almost want to make the sign for our kitchen. I wonder how much it would motivate us? What conversations would it bring up the first time a visitor saw the number? How quickly would casual comments about the weather turn into sharing something real?

I want long stretches of Days Without Incident. But as blessed as I am in my relationship I doubt we’d set any records. In fact, I doubt I know anyone who would… and that makes me love my wife and my friends even more.

Put on a hard-hat, and be careful out there.

These first five come from sources worldwide. The next five are more personal:

1.

Amidst the riots and “occupations” around the world this year came this surreal Hollywood moment. A young guy kissing and comforting his girlfriend while the tension roils around them. Sadly the reason for this riot was a sporting event, but the emotional weight is the same. Mob mentality may be overwhelming, but the moment the person you love is injured… rage is replaced by the desire to comfort, cradle, and love.

2.

The President and his National Security Team watching Osama Bin Laden get killed via live Satellite link. The closest most of us will ever get to this is the film “Patriot Games”. From a nice, well-lit, and unremarkable office in DC, our country is overseeing a man getting tracked down and ended. Looking around the room… For some this is a moment of somber power. For others a realization of the importance of human life. And for a few, just another day at the office.

3.

Steve Jobs definitely lived up to his quote “put a dent in the Universe”. I write this blog on one of his computers. I use one of his phones. I work on one of his programs. But I’m most intrigued by his moments of humanity: He hired a biographer partially so his children would have a record and understanding of why he was so rarely home. And at his last Apple Keynote address, an obviously very frail man retreated backstage and laid his forehead against his wife. He was a visionary, yes… but I like that he was also human, flawed, loved, and loving.

4.

This is the funeral for Navy SEAL Jon Tumilson, who was one of 30 killed when their helicopter was shot down over Afghanistan. His dog, “Hawkeye” is laying close to his master for the last time. I realize I’m a softy dog owner, but this makes me cry. Hawkeye gets it, and yet, will never understand. Like all of us.

5.

The Egypt protests which gridlocked the country and eventually brought down President Mubarak had this surprising subplot. About 10% of the country are reportedly Christians. A suicide bombing attack at a Coptic Christian church had killed 23 Christians at the beginning of the year. And yet, during the protests, Christians encircled the praying and vulnerable Muslims to allow them to pray in peace and protection. How much would we change the world if these were the kind of actions Christians were known for? And how likely would it be for a potential bomber to blow up the same people who protected him while he prayed?

This true darkness provides the perfect opportunity for items in the road to come up by surprise. And surprises always bring about unintended responses. So this night provided a great lesson in the power of inflection.

Suddenly on the side of the road stood a rabbit. In the seconds that followed I only uttered the following.

Big Rabbit. Big Rabbit. Big Rabbit.

However, the experience and the inflection turned each utterance into a very specific intention.

As it appeared on the side of the road: “Big Rabbit.” The tone translated as… Oh look, that’s a surprise.

As we got closer and it was revealed as a huge white jack rabbit, much larger than a house cat: A second – “Big Rabbit.” The tone translated as… oh wow, that is one enormous rabbit.

As it ran out into the road in a sudden case of rodent suicide, and I manhandled the car to avoid converting it into a hood-ornament: The third – “Big Rabbit.” The tone translated as… Shit. Stupid creature. I knew it was going to do that, hang on!

All the same words. All in under 10 seconds. And my wife understood exactly what I meant. Leaving me marveling once again at the oddities of the English language and the power of tone.

Plus the fact that my wife understood perfectly and we can now say “Big Rabbit” to each other and laugh.

We laughed a lot. In fact, it felt like two people excited to be dating. And all of this got me thinking about the changes of our last few months and the strangeness of marriage.

This summer marks a new chapter in our life together. Chapter one was Los Angeles, and it’s all we’ve known. Chapter two begins in Park City and we are starting over in nearly every way possible.

A strange side effect of this change is we’ve both felt a release of secret tensions which built up over our last year in Los Angeles. No matter how well we tried to cope with my lack of income and our dwindling options, the situation created tension. And fear. And unhappiness. But we were head-down and hanging on so I don’t think either one of us realized the pressure building.

Then we moved, and I started making an income again, and life took on a bit more security. This brought down the walls we’d built for survival. And brutal honesty flared up. Pent up frustration bloomed. Displeasure was no longer weighed down by more important concerns and we found ourselves in a martial free-for-all.

Two weekends ago we had a huge fight, complete with yelling at each other in public – which we simply don’t do. Tears. Screaming. Both of us feeling hurt, unheard, and unloved.

It could be said we cleared the air. Said things that needed to be said. But the result created an uneasy truce, like animals in a circling standoff.

Darkness invades. You pull away, only to suffer horrific tearing as you realize the years of letting this person in has allowed their roots deep into every part of your being. Wonton destruction ensues.

You can’t trace how you got to this place from that happy day at the altar. You look at young infatuated couples with equal parts jealousy and cynical distain.

Then the really toxic idea enters your mind. The thought that this is your new normal. This person you are bound to for life will always hurt you this much, and you will always hurt them. And being married will never feel good again.

In those moments, I try to remember something one of my best friends said:

“NewsFlash: Marriage is Hard!”

In the last year, three of my friends got divorced. A lawyer would describe each of them as completely “amicable” separations, but the human toll has been complete and total carnage. Severe pain and lingering questions like smoke clearing from a battlefield.

I can do nothing but love these friends. I can’t judge them, or second guess them, or even think I know what hard decisions ended each of these marriages. I’ve seen that path in our marriage – like standing at a crossroads in a dark wood and believing that the more frightening path actually leads to a brighter dawn. For some, it does.

But this past weekend reminded me that marriage is one of the most extreme and elastic of relationships. The great lows are matched by great highs, and marriage can not be judged from the outside. Our time together may have looked like a couple in the early stage of infatuation, but the laughter and shared experience was backed by more than a decade of digging into each other. Only time and openness can create this kind of connection. The trust to leave nerves exposed results in a person knowing you in ways you didn’t think possible.

I’ve come to think of marriage like a hike through spectacular jagged mountains. You’re taken by the beauty and experience of the journey and you reach a high ridge to see the spectacular world before you. But this leads to complacency as you descend the peak into the next valley below. And the valley air stagnates and bakes out your will to continue. You think you can’t possibly go on. If the valley is long enough and low enough you begin to wonder why you came on this journey at all.

Should you choose to fight onward, then a climb awaits you. Up out of the valley with exhaustion, sweat, and pain. And always the peak seems distant.

Yet when you get there, you look again at the break-taking world around you. The worst moments seem far behind. The deeper the valley, the more amazing the peak. I wish we could camp out at the peak. Build a marriage on the shoulder of the mountain. But I know it can’t last and life is not lived in a world of sameness.

The hardest thing for me is to remember the truths I’ve seen in these dozen years.
- No conversation or fight is ever as bad as I imagined it would be. So I need to speak up before I talk myself into believing in WWIII.
- Valley’s are hot and terrible, but like a forest fire of destruction – new and stronger life can form in its fertile wake.
- A quick, true laugh with my wife can wipe out our longest fight.
- I have no idea what a good marriage looks like. Because every marriage has days on the mountain in celebration, and days in the valley in bloody warfare.

After twelve years I can’t define our marriage. I couldn’t say what others see in it or believe to be true. I just know I’m always surprised when we reach a mountain top. The views get better. The memories of our struggles fade faster. And I do everything I can to take it in and cherish every second.

We passed the milestone of a dozen years with the joyful infatuation of teenagers with a driver’s license and a savings account. Lost in laughter, fun, and celebration. My favorite anniversary since the day itself. As little as two weeks ago I would have never dreamt it possible.

I know that somewhere on the journey there will be another valley. And the quickest way back to the peak is straight though the middle.

And right about now I’m thinking how blessed I am to have such an amazing hiking partner.

For the first time I’m in a place where the majority of people have a strong faith, but it’s a faith different than my own. Texas was a bubble of Christian insulation. Los Angeles believed in everything and nothing simultaneously. But Utah, as everyone knows, is predominately LDS/Mormon. So I’m in the minority.

And I think I like being in the minority. It causes me to examine my own faith. To challenge what I believe with big questions. I’ve always grown in those times, even when it hurt.

So here I am learning from the Mormon believers around me. And while there’s a lot of misconceptions about the LDS church, there are also plenty of things which have given them a strange reputation. Yet no matter what you think of Mormons there’s one thing you’re never going to hear…

“Those Mormons are Assholes.”

Never gonna happen. In fact, I may be the first person in history to put that sentence together. Because Mormons have a reputation for being nice.  And I’ve felt welcomed, helped, and even surprised by the selflessness of many people around us in Utah.

But that’s just not true of Christians. We are the Assholes. Here we have a belief system based on one core principle – Love – and yet we can’t even maintain a reputation of being nice. God loved us. That resulted in Grace, which by definition is something undeserved, and we’re charged to love others. Which means we’re going to have to share some grace.

Yet, we aren’t. We’re too busy circling our wagons and hurling out arrows of intolerance, anger, fear and hatred at anyone who doesn’t share our beliefs and dares come within a hundred yards. We’re consumed with categorizing everyone that isn’t in our little club and concluding that we know their motives and purposes all without even having a conversation.

And in the club it’s just as cutthroat. Christians in Hollywood do everything they can to not help each other and would be perfectly happy to stab you in the back and step over you in the process. Churches push people out during their lowest moments, condemning them for whatever sin or failing they’ve committed. Anyone is expendable – only one public screwup away from being shunned. And the more highly regarded they are the more intolerable their failings. Because we all know those in leadership never have struggles or problems.

When I look at the life of Christ I see a guy who loved even when it made no sense. The people who enraged him were always the folks with spiritual access and thought to be in the “in” crowd. The farther you get from Him, the softer he got. He called the religious leaders a brood of vipers but cried out to his father to forgive the very people killing Him. He lived something which rarely gets mentioned – He knew that those who didn’t know God needed love and acceptance first and foremost. And love can lead a person to grace.

I don’t see love coming out of the Christian world. Some individual Christians, yes, but the group as a whole is a frightened cornered animal clawing out at the world. Everyone is out to get us. Every belief different from our own is trying to systematically unravel our world. There’s a prideful belief that we are on everyone else’s mind all the time and are being targeted with forethought.

So there’s no room for discussion. There’s no chance to sit down with people different from ourselves and have a conversation. Because who knows what would happen if we discovered that the person we so fear, or judge, or ostracize is actually just a flawed human like we are – trying desperately to make sense of their life.

Peter was a poor hot-headed fisherman with a tendency to act before he thought.

Paul was a self-righteous murderer who believed he had all the answers.

I’m not sure they’d be welcomed in most Christian churches today. Certainly not in positions of leadership.

But look at Paul in Athens in Acts 17, talking with people of every belief other than his own. What’s he doing there? He’s discussing. He’s having a dialog.
Meanwhile our Religious Right is building barricades, pointing fingers, and making sure to label everyone as evil, bad, dangerous, and unwelcome in our little group.

It chills me as I realize something really sad. If I weren’t a Christian already I doubt I would become one. We’re not a group displaying anything worth joining. We aren’t present in the lives of those around us – we’re just pointing out all the things we don’t like about their existence.

We stand in a world drowning in despair, hatred and failure, while keeping the hope, love, and grace to ourselves. Instead of reaching out in love and acceptance to those who need it – which is every single person, by the way – we are focused on things we can’t control and don’t need to worry about.

It seems like everywhere I go Christians are talking about the news in concerned whispers. Shaking their heads in dismay and checking off boxes toward Armageddon. We’re supposed to be loving our neighbor. Being in the world, not of the world. Yet were too busy with intolerance and exclusion. All while looking skyward with a stopwatch as we brace for the world to burn.

I can think of no more hypocritical waste of time.

Why? Because if the world really is going to march through a one-night-only performance of Revelation then that means 1) there’s no stopping it, and 2) there’s nothing we can do about it. So worrying and preparing for it is a complete waste of time and energy. And… if God really is going to win in the end then there’s absolutely no reason for fear.

I believe that Jesus Christ was like no one else to ever live. And He died. And He rose. And there is nothing I can do to get to God… because by the sheer fact of calling Him God it means I am less than Him. So Christ is something vital.

I am nothing without Love. I am lost without Grace.

And so is every person I will come across in every day of my short life.

I know what I need to be worried about: I don’t love my wife enough. I don’t love my son enough. I don’t offer them a fraction of the grace I’ve been shown. Or the amount they show me. And the friends who fill my life. They build me up with love and grace over and over and I don’t return the favor… not nearly enough.

I want people to be surprised that I’m a Christian. I want to surpass what they expect of Christians. I want to be more accepting. More loving. More willing to help. I want to supplant that bad experience they had with a cold-shoulder church, or a legalistic friend, or the parent who modeled God as abusive and unreliable.

Of course… I’m going to fail at it… But it’s something to shoot for. Because I am no better than they are. In fact, I might be worse.

Jesus was a revolutionary because he defied expectations.

How amazing it would be to not associate Christians with “the end is near” talk show hosts or waving hateful banners at groups we don’t like.

What if people said “Christians are awesome. Christians are the most loving people I know…”

That would be a new revolution.

Then, as I step back out the door I always say the same thing: “Really leaving now…”

And today those three words struck me differently.

We’re a week away from leaving Los Angeles. A surreal truth, and one I haven’t even grasped yet. Because this week will be the first time it feels real.

My wife has been prepping already. Getting rid of things. Going through closets. Cleaning out and organizing as she goes. She may not have packed any boxes yet, but the pieces are all aligned.

Meanwhile, I’ve been in the same routine I’ve been in for months. I spend my days editing or writing, sometimes both, with brief breaks to help with our son, walk the dog, or go to a lunch meeting.

So even though our departure date has been concrete for some time, my schedule has continued unaffected. It’s not real to me yet… until this week.
Now it’s time to put the editing projects on hold. Pack the computers. Turn our still–livable home into a fort of cardboard boxes. That will make it very real.

And then today, as I was taking what will be one of my last LA hikes with our dog, I came to the awareness that this week will be full of “lasts”. Final times to do many ordinary things which have been part of our routine during our time in Los Angeles.

My wife and son will leave and fly out while I’m loading the truck with our belongings. I expect that to gut me. And seeing our home bare will hurt as well.

Yet, they won’t be the hardest moment.

When I pull our huge rented Penske onto the 134 freeway, I will turn east. And a few moments later I will pass by the exit where my great friend and co-host Paul has lived since long before we started Everyday Driver.

In that moment, all my closest friends in the world will live West of me. And I expect the emotions which have stayed hidden so far will burst forth.
Though there are great things to come in our story, a long and monumental chapter in our lives will close. Of course, I will return to LA, and will often…

But there won’t be a home in the valley where I can forget something and quickly return.

“Really Leaving Now.”

I struggle with Faith. “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen”.

That stuff.

My time in Los Angeles has made this even harder. This is a town built on faith, not facts. Any coffee shop, apartment, or random line of people contains conversations about how things are “about to happen”, or something which will explode into to reality “in a few weeks”. And the unspoken truth is this – it’s bullshit. The vast majority of it will never happen or get close to meeting expectations. But we carry on this way, big plans, big meetings, big talk.

Cause every once in a while it does “happen”. Every now and then a project or idea does explode from nothing into reality like a creative big-bang. And you hear about it, or it makes news because… well… it’s as rare as a lottery win.

Yet we play along. All of us. Smiling and pumping each other up like high school kids before a football game. Some people take this too literally and quickly leap headlong with full faith that it will all happen. They often wind up face down on the concrete. While people like me start digging for facts.

This leaves me with a two-fold problem. You see I know that breakthrough takes risk. In the parable of the talents, the guy that was cautious and buried things was the only one who lost. And I have things to show for charging out without a net… Everyday Driver for example.

Yet, I’ve really only taken two huge leaps of faith in my adult life:

1 – I asked my wife to marry me. There was no question I loved her and wanted to be with her. My struggle was not knowing if I could be a decent husband. And wondering if we would grow old and grow apart. I had no evidence to shore up my hope it would work out. Now, after 12 years of experience, I believe. Even when it’s hard.

2 – I left New Line. I had nowhere to go. No other job waiting. But I was miserable and angry. And getting worse. There was no evidence that our lives would be better if I quit the job. But we knew it would be awful if I stayed. A year later, the company closed, dragging the employees through more stress and heartbreak and leaving them without work. My time since then has been tough, but I’m much happier and healthier. And looking back on that situation… I believe.

My wife has faith. She balances me, which is a big factor in #1. And she hears from God and gets a strange peace about things, which contributed to #2.

Now here we are at a new enormous crossroads. Our time in LA draws quickly to a close and we’re looking out at the next chapter. With no clear direction. And it’s terrifying.

I believe I have talent. I believe it’s possible to live somewhere interesting and inspiring. But moving there with no solid job, no savings, and no safety net requires faith.

So you see the problem.

I’ve been talking to God about it. My wife has as well. And we’ve raised it together. But even she isn’t feeling a definitive peace. Our search for direction goes unanswered.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. I do feel like I’ve gotten an answer, but it is unlike any before. I feel like God is looking down and saying “You’re a big boy. You’ve done this before. I equipped you. So you make the call.”

It’s the parable of the talents in 2010. Bury. Or gamble.

I want to believe, but evidence is lacking. I’m forced to rely on faith.

So you might be wondering how I can write another entry about pregnancy. Well, I’ve decided I’m the town crier of pregnancy truth – “Hear ye, Hear ye….” Because it’s become quite clear that a few months of holding a newborn gives women amnesia. I suspect that something in the smell of fresh skin actually wipes out bad memories.

First off, the high-points. Our son was born healthy and full term via C-Section as planned. He has all his fingers, toes, lungs and limbs. And all the parts which properly qualify him as a boy. We are blessed.

But in nearly every other way the actual birth was as problematic as the pregnancy itself.

Multiple Doctors and Nurses took one look at my wife and said “Oh, a redhead… well redhead’s bleed more and have more pain than all other folks.” Imagine the great news that was to a woman who wanted a C-Section for less pain, and a man who didn’t want to see the blood and gore from the process.

But after watching my wife get jerked and tugged like the opening scene of Jaws, my son let out a cry, turned from a crazy purple black into a normal skintone, and we were suddenly parents.

Normally at this point things get better.

While our son rested comfortably, my wife endured rising pain. It took a while to find the right combination of meds to keep her both comfortable and lucid. Meanwhile, her blood levels were way down and her blood pressure way up – the exact opposite of her normal state. Thankfully, when things turned for the better we got to take our little man home and start returning to normal.

Or so we thought.

We’d been home less than 48 hours when her pain was up, and the incision was gaining a nasty growing bruise. One look from the doctor and he knew it was internal bleeding. After a quick sonogram we were re-admitted to the hospital and planning to go back into surgery.

Apparently sometimes when cutting through multiple layers, a blood vessel can restrict from the trauma of being cut and not present itself as something that needs to be dealt with. Then, after a patient is sealed up, the vessel relaxes again and begins pumping blood once more… into no where. There was a real chance of this pooling blood eventually bursting through the remaining layers and tainting more of the torso. Luckily the problem had been found early on.

However we now found ourselves in a Groundhog Day style retread. My wife who should have been a week into recovery was back at ground zero but with twice as much surgery and anesthesia to show for it. Thankfully she is now recovering properly, albeit slowly.

Yet she’s enjoying the fruit of her labor (or surgeries in this case). Our little man is a good sleeper, most of the time, an easy picture subject, and has stolen his mom’s heart in a huge way. Holding him, she feels no pain. She forgets many of the things that got her here until she shifts the wrong way and remembers… two surgeries.

All the while I keep thinking how everyone talks about the beauty of childbirth. And I realize there’s a great confusion going on. Beauty of a child itself… sure, I can go with you there. But the process of childbirth is far from attractive or enjoyable. Just a quick scan of my wife’s experiences and it’s obvious that most anything else would have been more fun.

We never had a glow. More like a spotlight of blinding discomfort, fear, and complication. Whatever our experience is in the years to come, we won’t look back and mistake it for a glow. It was a struggle. And my wife is a trooper.

At least she got something out of it.

My parents, who told me stories of my birth with tears in their eyes.

Your mother, who endured the odd sensations of C-Section, pain, and fear.

And you… who got forced into a world you didn’t know and asked to breathe.

Leaving me mostly groundless and unaware of my own age or generation in this march of time. But now I remember, and we should talk about what it means.

I’m now 36 years and a few months. You’re now 36 hours and a few minutes. And this evening you opened your eyes and really tried to focus on me for the first time. I’m sure I’m just a big, blurry, hairy, giant to you, but you know my voice, so just listen.

I promise you we’ll do our best. And it won’t be good enough. We will screw you up in our own particular way. Cause we’re flawed people raising you, a flawed person.

And you’re not going to like us a lot of the time, and that’s fine. Truth is I’m not jumping up and down about you either, so we’re all going to have to learn to live together through this deal.

Many people have told me “Wait until Bodie’s born… “. Expecting me to see your little pink face and decide all my feelings up to that point were irrelevant and now I’m madly in love with my son.

But you may as well learn now I’m not a reactionary guy. Your Dad’s more of a slow burn. Those that know me will tell you it’s gonna take some time. That’s going to annoy you when I’m not nearly as excited about something as you need me to be. But you’re going to really appreciate it when I don’t get as mad as you expected either.

I won’t be cool enough or plugged in enough. I wasn’t even cool when it mattered so I certainly can’t maintain it now. But your mom is way out of my league, and she married me, so I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Don’t take my word for it, though… ask some friends of mine, and get them to tell you the real truth.

I promise we’ll do stuff. It’ll probably involve mountains. And often include the dog. And we’ll talk about cars a lot so I hope you’ll find them interesting. But if you decide you’re rather learn ballet… that’s fine… just talk to your mom cause the stage is her world. I’ll clap from the audience.

Ultimately, little man… you’ll be an adult at 18, and I’m already twice that age. Which means I’m old enough to know I don’t have this figured out. I’ll do a lot of stuff wrong. But know that even my screw-ups will be with the best of intentions. That won’t help much – but it is true. We will try to make you the best man you can possibly become. And the scars from our mistakes will leave you fodder for some future spouse or therapist.

When you’re 36, come find me and tell me how I did. By that point I’ll be some crusty old guy in his 70s. Hopefully willing and eager to hear the truth.

Plus I’ll probably tell you the story of your birth with tears in my eyes. There will have been time for a slow burn by then. Years of time beyond this moment.

36 and Counting…

Elsewhere is seems that couples in their twenties are dealing with their second house and second child, and out here men in their forties rent apartments on Sunset and date mid-twenties models.

I find myself influenced by both. I’ve never been the nightlife kind of guy, and I’ve been happily married for more than a decade. But we still rent our home (not for lack of home ownership interest, but for lack of affordable options) and the majority of our friends are childless dream-chasers like ourselves.

Yet in the last year… things have changed.

The obvious change is impending fatherhood. Of course becoming a parent alters conversation and concerns, it’s a foregone conclusion. But starting in the fall of 2008, when the economy took a dive, I’ve noticed a fundamental shift in the issues at hand.

My former boss at New Line found himself without work at the age of 50. More than once we sat across a lunch table from each other trading websites and contacts to inform our job searching. We meet as equals and friends with the common problem of our industry shrinking beneath us.

A long-term mentor and friend since college has always offered me very relevant and insightful advice on how to survive this industry and fight discouragement with hope. Now he finds himself asking “Do I keep doing this?” and “is this vanity?” over everything related to the film industry.

Two friends have recently come to me in quiet moments to give the news that their marriages are ending. People I’ve known for years. Friends whom Catherine and I have shared dinner, and laughter, and similar lives… yet never will again in the same way. I’ve found myself sitting across from these men hearing their stories, asking questions, and being asked for advice.

And it’s in all of these moments that something dawns clear and true.

These are not the issues of children. These are not the musings of Peter Pan.

This is very adult.

I still have friends who drink themselves into a stupor every weekend at some hyper-hip hangout. Others who’ve paid the price with a DUI or three. Thirty-year-olds with a foot still planted in the frat house.

But those ranks are thinning.

Most around me are marching into a sea of heavy issues. It makes me ponder:
Peter Pan never grew up. Never felt responsible. Never struggled with the things that make us “grown-ups”.

But I don’t think it’s possible to appreciate the care-free times completely until you have cares to be released from. In these dark and heavy discussions with friends I’ve found a greater love for every one of them. And when they smile again it hits with actual force.

I’m honored to be walking tough roads with companions. And I’ve felt them lift me when I’m exhausted just as often as I’ve been asked to lift them.

I think the curse of Adulthood is not the pressures, the struggles, or the issues. It’s never stepping back long enough to see freedoms beyond the responsibility. Never-land… the place of where you never have to be grown-up, becomes Never-Land… the place where you never get to be a kid.

I hope I always remember to step away. Or always have someone who knows me well enough to drag me away. And I hope I can do the same for others so we can live where we are and not envy Peter-Pan.