Now that Bedtime Stories for the Living has been published, I find myself in a weird place. It’s what I imagine watching your youngest child reverse the U-Haul truck down the driveway feels like. I’m an empty-nester, of sorts.

I worked on that book for six years and, now that it’s complete, I feel a little lost. A little heartbroken. I’ve been putzing around the house with chin stubble and sporting my finest sweatpants wondering, “What do I do without you?”

The other day Haley asked if I had started my next book yet.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because…(scratching my chin stubble)…because writing a book is really hard.”

“Oh. So what’s your next book going to be about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to shave?”

The truth is, now BSFL is complete I’m hesitant to begin again. It’s like what teachers feel on the first day of school or what I imagine runners must feel taking the first stride in marathon training. Fear, anxiety, and overwhelming self-doubt. To begin again is scary.

But like I wrote last week in Publication Day, when an outward journey ends, the only place to go is inward. So I’m going inward. Back to the blog. Terrified and excited to brainstorm a new adventure with you.

I’ve been listening to Austin Kleon’s book, Keep Going: 10 Ways to Stay Creative in Good Times and Bad, and he suggests that when you’re not sure what to create next, make a list. Kleon believes that lists are fundamental exercise for finding creative direction.

This week I made a list of 52 decisions (one for each week of 2022) that can help us discover our direction and the courage to replace sweatpants with jeans in 2022.

I believe you and I have the potential–to not only improve ourselves–but in small, profound ways improve the world.

But sadly, potential is not enough. We must decide. We must act. And the New Year is a fine time to make a decision and vow to take action.

1. Decide to begin a new journey.

2. Decide to be happier.

3. Decide to be more polite.

4. Decide to be more patient.

5. Decide to call an old friend.

6. Decide to leave your comfort zone.

7. Decide to forgive others.

8. Decide to forgive yourself.

9. Decide to be more creative.

10. Decide to be more positive.

11. Decide to find beauty in uncommon places.

12. Decide to be more kind.

13. Decide to listen more.

14. Decide to put your phone away.

15. Decide to eat healthier.

16. Decide to be happy for others.

17. Decide to complain less.

18. Decide to be more optimistic.

19. Decide to let it go.

20. Decide to be enthusiastic.

21. Decide to pay it forward.

22. Decide to take more deep breaths.

23. Decide to slow down.

24. Decide to face your fears.

25. Decide not to let social media measure self-worth.

26. Decide to learn something new.

27. Decide to work on your dreams.

28. Decide to walk outside every day.

29. Decide to ignore negativity.

30. Decide to read more books.

31. Decide to write letters to people you love.

32. Decide to not give up.

33. Decide to express your feelings.

34. Decide to laugh more.

35. Decide to take interest in someone else’s interests.

36. Decide to embrace change.

37. Decide to be vulnerable.

38. Decide to appreciate nature.

39. Decide to apologize.

40. Decide to be more grateful.

41. Decide to drink more water.

42. Decide to value your skills.

43. Decide to be honest.

44. Decide to pursue a passion.

45. Decide to laugh it off.

46. Decide to set a goal.

47. Decide to work towards that goal.

48. Decide to declutter.

49. Decide to worry less.

50. Decide to not focus on your weaknesses.

51. Decide to believe in yourself.

52. Decide to get some sleep.

Be well,

Jay

Need a 5-star holiday gift? Bedtime Stories for the Living makes a great gift for all the dreamers on your list!!!

If you read BSFL I would love an Amazon review! Due to some Jeff Bezos concocted algorithm, more book reviews lead to greater exposure. And greater exposure equates to higher book sales and as I wrote in BSFL, “college for three ain’t free.”

Are you a reader? Looking for your next good book to read or listen to? Check out my new page “Jay’s Book Shelf” for some book recommendations.

If you like this post, you may also like:

I Believe

~

Look at what came in the mail

~

Facing Fear: My First Vlog

~~

Jay Armstrong is a writer, speaker, and a former award-winning high school English teacher. Despite being diagnosed with a rare neurological disease, that impairs his movement, balance, eyesight, and speech–Jay presses on. He hopes to help you find joy, peace, and meaning in life. For Jay, a good day consists of 5 things:

1. Reading
2. Writing
3. Exercising
4. Hearing his three children laugh
5. Hugging his wife
(Bonus points for a dinner with his parents and a beer with his friends)

Jay hasn’t had a bad day in quite a long time.

You can also visit Jay at jayarmstrongwrites.com

In the weeks leading up to December 3, 2021, I was haunted by something author Dani Shapiro once wrote about an author’s book Publication Day:

“The loneliest day in the life of a published writer may be publication day.”

Nothing different happens. The sun rises. Coffee percolates. Traffic snarls. The school bells ring. Businesses open. The hawk hunts. Dinner is served. Hearts break. Babies are made. Death opens his door. The sun sets. The moon emerges. All while the world indifferently spins.

A foolish part of me that believe, because I toiled so much, things would be different on my Publication Day.

At 6:35 a.m., on Publication Day, I stagger to the bathroom when Cindy impedes my stagger and hugs me and says, “Congratulations.” A soft gray glow presses the bedroom windows. The sun has not yet risen. Maybe it won’t.

At 6:50 a.m. I lean on the kitchen counter, hold a mug of coffee, watch the kids stare into screens, and listen to them slurp cereal. I clear my throat. I wait for one of them to congratulate me. They don’t. They hustle pass me like I’m some kitchen appliance wearing sweatpants, drop their bowls and spoons in the sink, and rush upstairs to the bathroom and fight over who gets to use the toothpaste first.

At 7:02 am the bus blinks and stops outside our house. Maggie May and I stand in the driveway. The kids rush by again and climb the bus stairs and disappear. The bus driver waves. I wave. She doesn’t say anything about Publication Day. She just releases the air brakes and rumbles away.

At 7:05 a.m. the sun rises.

At 7:09 a.m. I wrestle my hand into a plastic bag and scoop up Maggie May’s fresh shit off a neighbor’s lawn. Someone is cooking bacon.

At 8:12 a.m. I eat a bowl of cereal.

At 9:23 a.m. the friendly receptionist from my neurologist’s office calls and asks if I would like to take a survey about my recent appointment. At the end of the survey she asks, “Do you have any questions?” I want to ask her if she knows today is Publication Day. If she knows she’s talking to an author. Shakespeare. Dickens. Fitzgerald. Angelou. The Obamas. Armstrong. That she should be so honored to talk to the newest inductee in an ancient Fraternal Order of Wordsmiths. But I chicken out. “Uhhh…no,” is all I say. She tells me to have a great day and hangs up.

At 10:16 a.m. outside the local bookstore, my dad calls me. He tells me he is proud of the book. Of my work. Of me.

At 10:19 a.m. I enter the local bookstore and no one notices me. I browse the fiction section and a young man in khaki pants and a blue and white striped hoodie asks, “Do you need any help?” I want to tell him it’s Publication Day and that maybe he should announce over the loud speaker they’re privileged to have an author of immense talent in their bookstore. But I don’t. I give a half smile and say, “Uhhh…no.”

At 10:28 a.m. I pull Matt Haig’s novel, How to Stop Time from the bottom shelf and read the back cover. “Tom Hazard has just moved back to London to settle down and become a history teacher. But while he may look like an ordinary forty-one-year old, owning a rare-condition, He’s been alive for centuries. He has lived history firsthand…”

At 10:29 a.m. I decide to treat myself and buy How to Stop Time.

At 10:33 a.m. I hand the cashier my member’s card. She scans it and doesn’t squeal my name or ask for an autograph. Without looking at me, she says, “$14.99.” I pay, she drops the book in a bag, hands it to me, and tells me to, “Have a swell day.”

At 10:58 a.m. I enter a local restaurant to grab me and Cindy salads. (She has a scheduled half day not because of Publication Day but because of a scheduled faculty meeting.) The girl behind the counter doesn’t recognize me. She doesn’t ask to take a selfie. She doesn’t offer a free cookie. She takes my order. When I put a dollar in the tip jar she turns and says something to someone in the kitchen. She tells me that the salads will be right up. I want to tell her about the tip and that my book is the best thing since croutons. But I don’t.

“Uhhh…okay,” I say.

“Can I help the next person?” she says.

At 11:40 a.m. there is a knock at the front door. A woman holding an Edible Arrangement stands on my front step. I open the door, “Hello. Jay Armstrong?”

“Yes.”

“This is for you. Have a good day.”

But before I can tell the delivery woman the gift is from a life-long friend, and how the Edible Arrangement is a symbolic gift, an inside joke, because in my new book I write how on the day I retired from teaching no one sent me an Edible Arrangement. But before I can say all that to the delivery woman slams the van door and pulls away.

At 12:32 p.m. I take Maggie May for another walk. She paws at a rolling leaf and I watch a hawk glide in the gray December sky. I think of the line, “Nothing has changed since I began,” from the Ted Hughes poem, Hawk Roosting, a poem I had taught for years. The hawk circles us and I think how small I must look to the hawk. It’s unnerving.

From 1:12 p.m. to 3:23 p.m. I take a nap on the couch.

At 4:01 pm the kids stomp through the front door and drop their school bags on the hardwood floor. One kid announces they don’t feel well.

At 4:26 p.m., on Publication Day, a rapid Covid test reveals one of the kids has Covid.

At 4:31 p.m. Cindy calls the restaurant and cancels our dinner reservation. She sends a text to my family and cancels the Publication Day Celebration.

At 4:34 p.m. the sun sets.

At 4:50 p.m. the TV announces there’s an accident on I-95 and traffic is crawling.

At 5:15 p.m. my parents bring over a bouquet of flowers and we talk on the front porch. They say they wish they could hug me but it’s 2021 and hugging is a health risk. So we just smile and part ways.

At 6:30 p.m. my brother and his family drop off gourmet cookies at the front door without being seen.

From 7:05 p.m. to 8:17 p.m. I read How to Stop Time.

From 8:30 pm to 10:00 p.m. I eat cookies and watch three episodes from Season 9 of Seinfeld. Season 9 aired in 1997. I do quick couch math. 24 years ago. I was seventeen-years-old. And now I’m forty-one-years-old, the same age as Thomas Hazard in How to Stop Time.

At 10:03 p.m. I usher Maggie May into her cage, lock the cage, turn off the house lights, stagger up the stairs, take a shower, take my medication, take out my contacts, brush my teeth, shuffle to bed, toss the covers, lie down, stare at the ceiling, and disagree with Dani Shapiro’s quote.

Today was not lonely. I spent the day with people I love. I received congratulatory messages from friends and family and Write On Fight On supporters all day. Messages I’m so grateful for. Messages that edged me to tears. Today was ordinarily extraordinary. The world didn’t stop. I didn’t accrue millions of Twitter followers or take lots of selfies with adoring fans. No. The world was shockingly indifferent that I had spent six years writing and willing my book into existence.

On this day, I learned a valuable lesson. I learned publication and praise are not the point. Proving you can complete a journey is the point. I didn’t climb Mt. Everest or run the Boston Marathon but I did write a book. A literary Iditarod of perseverance and determination and human stubbornness. I went the distance. And yet, at journey’s end, when the dust settles, when the applause peters out, there was nowhere to go but inward.

I was naïve. My aspirations were mythical. I realize how silly it is to want the world to stop and celebrate me. I needed to know my place in the cosmos. I needed to approach grandiosity with caution. Like in a hawk’s eye, I needed to remind myself, I’m small.

We toil because we are the point of our lives. Shaping ourselves into the best version of ourselves is the point of life. To endure loss and regret and difficult journeys, to quake in frustration, to experience crushing self-doubt is ordinary. Yet in spite of all the heartbreak, we rise up, and triumph.

And this is the only way to learn about ourselves.

Respect ourselves.

Love ourselves.

In the fading minutes of Publication Day, I laid in bed, shut my eyes, listened to the silence of the world, and did something extraordinary.

I smiled.

Be well,

Jay

Need a holiday gift? Bedtime Stories for the Living makes a great gift for everybody on your list!

Jay Armstrong is a writer, speaker, and a former award-winning high school English teacher. Despite being diagnosed with a rare neurological disease, that impairs his movement, balance, eyesight, and speech–Jay presses on. He hopes to help you find joy, peace, and meaning in life. For Jay, a good day consists of 5 things:

1. Reading
2. Writing
3. Exercising
4. Hearing his three children laugh
5. Hugging his wife
(Bonus points for a dinner with his parents and a beer with his friends)

Jay hasn’t had a bad day in quite a long time.

You can also visit Jay at jayarmstrongwrites.com

In preparation for Halloween, my neighbor transformed his front yard into a graveyard.

Between the lamp post and flowerbed are Styrofoam tombstones engraved for the souls of Michael Myers, Freddie Kruger, David S. Pumpkins, and Al B. Back. Watching over the graveyard is a 15-foot rubber Skelton with his knees bent and arms extended in front of him like he’s pulling up the rear in a conga line.

This week I was interviewed by Christopher Lewis of the Dads with Daughters Podcast. The conversation with Chris was great (it will be available in December). We talked about fatherhood, my disease and it’s effects on my children, and why I wrote Bedtime Stories for the Living.

During the interview, I explained our stories are our gifts to life’s party. That our stories, for better or worse, must be shared with others. And it’s through stories we can achieve some sort of immortality.

I recently told a friend Part 4 of BSFL is all about death.

“Really? Do you want to scare your kids?” he asks.

“Yes. I want to scare them straight. I want them to understand they don’t have all the time in the world. Maybe it will motivate them to get serious about living.”

“Maybe it will give them nightmares.”

On our morning walk, Maggie and I pass my neighbor’s graveyard. She and I stop, cock our heads and stare at the 15-foot Skelton. Maggie sits, salivates, and I’m pretty sure she is thinking, “BONES!” I’m thinking, how much does that cost? And where would you store such a decoration? And why, would you wanted to be reminded of death every time you fetched the mail?

But the truth is that we, the living, must decide what we can live with. Writers or not, we must decide if we want death to inspire us or simply ignore death until we’re forced to join his scary-ass conga line.

In BSFL, I try to get comfortable with death. Like it’s on my front lawn. Waiting for me to dance. Every time I fetch the mail.

Be well,

Jay

PS: My copyeditor did some great work on the chapter, “Writing to Raise the Dead” ( formerly known as “Voodoo”). Below is the new version. I hope you enjoy!

Early Saturday morning, I receive an email at 2 a.m. from a former student. She’s leaving for Colorado State University in a few hours and can’t find her Creative Writing final, a forty-page collection of poetry and personal essays she had written for my class. She writes, “I’m hoping you still have my project. If you do, could you send it to me? I wrote my heart out. I shared parts of my heart I had hidden from others.” She had written about love, friendship, leaving her hometown, and about her classmate who died five days before the senior prom. She thanks me for teaching her about writing and about life. She says, “Like a toothbrush or pillow, I’m bringing your lessons with me.”

Then she says she misses writing.

I close her email, find her final project in my files, and send it to her. A few hours later, she thanks me with a lot of exclamation points and wishes me luck with the upcoming school year. I’ve taught writing for nineteen years. By my own assessment, I’ve only taught writing well for the last nine. For the first ten years, I didn’t know what I was doing. I taught writing the way you read instructions for assembling cheap furniture. Dispassionate. Indifferent. Rushed.

I respect and understand that, for some of us, writing is just something you have to do. A requirement. A chore. A nuisance. Even a waste of time. But for others, writing is as essential as a pillow or a toothbrush. Writing comforts when you’re far from home or when a friend dies. Writing offers peace and perspective and reminds you that you’re fully alive. And writing, real writing, takes guts and thought and imagination as if you’re responsible not only for decorating the living room but also for inventing the furniture.

In August 2019, a friend with cancer died. She had one of those big laughs that came from somewhere deep inside her lungs — a laugh I secretly wished I had. Hours before I learned of her death, I had stepped onto my porch to toss chicken on the grill for dinner. It had been bright and sunny and raining. A summer sun shower. I had stood watching the rain fall and, as it so often does, memory had taken over and I lost my attachment to the present world.

It’s now January, and I’m leaning against a granite kitchen counter, again lost in memory. My friend with cancer stands before me. Shaved head, paper-thin skin, and electric eyes that dance like a pair of candle flames. My children are there, behind her, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at me as I try not to cry. I can sense the real world around me. The heat from the grill. The rain falling on leaves. But I’m not on the porch. I’m in the kitchen.

As if looking through an empty beer bottle, the kitchen is amber and blurry at its edges, but my friend with cancer is clear standing there before me. She is close and earnest and cups my cheeks with her hands. Looking into my eyes, she says, “I fucking love you.”

I cry. My children watch. They don’t ask questions. They just know things are serious when Dad cries.

I hug my friend. I can feel her bones shift under her skin. I feel her lungs work hard for air. She’s in my arms and she’s alive. Fiercely and forever alive. We let go of each other and say goodbye. That was the last time I ever held my friend.

My friend was special. An energetic and fiery woman who loved people. Never shy. Never afraid to laugh. She bottled joy and was eager to share with anyone sitting at the table. She was a master of ceremonies, loved her martinis, and was always game for a good time. She grew up with my mom and became my adopted aunt. She took me to concerts and baseball games. She had a husband, a son, and a dog, and it was difficult to tell which one she loved most. A free spirit, she once hitchhiked from Pennsylvania to California. She told me how she loved being on the open road. Driving into the unknown with the windows down and the radio on. Freedom. Possibility. Aliveness.

Doctors had given her four months. She lived for fifteen months. Even in her final weeks, when breathing and eating were hard, she still roared with laughter. She laughed as if she would never die. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe her body simply couldn’t hold her spirit any longer.

She was, and still is, all heart.

Windows down just driving into the unknown.

School doesn’t teach you that writing is a form of magic. But it is. See, I’m writing these words because I want my friend to be alive again. By telling you about her, she’s suddenly breathing on the page. She’s cupping your cheeks. You can feel her bony fingers against your face. She calls you “doll” and is looking at you as if you’re the most important person in the room. Because when my friend talked to you, you were. Writing allows you to bring back the dead. Something public education frowns upon. Something I don’t. Maybe it helped my student resurrect her classmate.

In our final conversation, my friend had encouraged me to keep writing. “Keep writing stories. People need stories,” she said. And this is why I write every day. Because my friend is dead and she told me to keep writing, and by writing I can make her talk again. Make her sip a Lemon Drop martini again. Make her laugh until she loses her breath again. I can make my dead friend hug me when I miss her, when tears fill my eyes. Like right now.

~~~

Jay Armstrong is a writer and a former award-winning high school English teacher. Despite being diagnosed with a rare neurological disease, that impairs his movement, balance, eyesight, and speech — Jay presses on. He lives in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania with his wife, their three kids, and their dog Maggie May. He makes dad jokes, keeps the house stocked with cereal, and will only accept a cordial invitation from Oprah to join her book club. You can visit him at writeonfighton.org.

Dad, if Donald Trump loses does he have to move out of his house?

Dad, if he moves out what color will his next house be?

Dad, are you an elephant or a donkey?

Dad, who is Kayne West?

Dad, what is the blue wall?

Dad, if Joe Biden wins will there be another lock down?

Dad, what is an electoral college? Do they have a football team?

God, can you please grant me patience?

Dad, what’s a mail-in ballot?

Dad, why are both guys so old?

Dad, why don’t we have a sign on our front lawn?

God, does morality really have anything to do with patriotism?

Dad, are presidents nice?

Dad, can I run for president? Can you?

Dad, why are the people on TV always yelling at each other?

God, is the golden rule still a rule?

Dad, what is an absentee ballot?

Dad, why are the states different shapes?

Dad, why are the colors red and blue? What about green and pink?

God, what is your opinion of democracy?

Dad, who was president when you were 12?

Dad, why don’t they elect a new president every year?

Dad, why did you and mom tell us to never talk politics with our friends?

God, what will America look like in 30 years when my kids are 40? Will you still be on our side?

God, is unity among all races and creeds a promissory pipe dream? Is “justice for all” a lie? Is equality a childish fantasy?

God, does money credit your moral capital? And how do you feel about having your name printed on American quarters?

God, do even care about politics? Are we still one nation under you? Do my questions annoy you?

God, can you name a just war? Do citizenship and decorum really have anything to do with each other?

God, are you disappointed with us? Did you really guide Thomas Jefferson’s pen or Lincoln’s heart or Washington’s rifle?

God, how can you be “pro-life” and support the death penalty?

God, can you send two aspirin and something stiff to drink?

God, do you know what you’re doing? Should we trust you?

God, tell me I’m right.

Be well,

Jay

Anyway…

The backyard smells of honeysuckle and Haley sits on the bench beside me, spinning dreams in her head, and I stare at her face– a field of freckles–as American cities, both near and far burn and groan and explode in violence.

Parenting, the last few weeks, has been hard.

Not to say parenting is ever easy, because it’s not, but when you compound a plague with homeschooling with national civil unrest–parenting in 2020 is a hazardous occupation.

I assume every generation believes they’re more misunderstood than the previous one. You don’t know what it’s like…a familiar claim made by the young, directed at the old.

But, on a warm June evening, as I attempt to count Haley’s freckles, I stop and conclude–I really don’t know what’s like to be a kid today.

Still a kid in some aspects of my own life– this place is confusing and scary as hell.

Social media, social distancing, civil unrest, remote learning and TikTok videos. I won’t pretend to understand.

But as a parent, despite popular belief, our job is not to wholly understand. Our job is be an honest, forthright salesparent.

And the sale of America begins at home.

Should American life be celebrated? Is life a series of red, white, and blue experiences and expressions to be appreciated, enjoyed? Do you risk voicing your opinion? Should you practice civil disobedience? Or should American life be feared? To ensure safety, should it be skirted and avoided at all costs? Should you stay quiet?

First, American children are citizens of us– then they learn about the Mayflower, the Amendments, the Liberty Bell, Abraham Lincoln, the Dread Scott case, Martin Luther King Jr., the Patriot Act and George Floyd and grow into morally-conscious citizens of the U.S..

And how we, the Parents of the United States of America, sell America to our children will determine the America they buy.

Is America a promise land of acceptance? And justice? And equal opportunity? Or a is it a broken land of fear and hatred and marginalization?

Cindy and I have been doing our best to teach and model to our kids how to be respectful, how to articulate frustrations, how to recognize ourselves in others, how to resolve differences, and how to listen. And by this we’re, attempting to sell them a future America that we believe in– an inclusive land of acceptance and peace and promise.

“What will it take to put you on a path of liberty and justice today?”

In the last few, bewildering American days I’ve sought refuge in the poem, Good Bones by Maggie Smith:

“Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.”

Haley’s blue eyes catch the last stream of the setting sun. She smiles. Freckles, a constellation of brown pinholes, swirl about her rising cheeks. The evening is soft and tender and on our little slice of American land , for the moment, things are right. Home of the brave.

And yet all l I can do is sell her an American life, provide her with my own homespun constitution, before she’s old enough to sign her own. But buyer beware. This place, the land of the free, has rivers of fire and fields of blood. This land is still tethered to the steely shackles of it’s original sin– it’s hammered history forever forged into it’s star-spangled heart.

Yet no matter what she sees or hears tonight on TV, I hope she knows she’s beautiful and this country–the one she’s buying, the one with good bones–is beautiful too.

Be well,

Jay

“Nebraska” is arguably Bruce Springsteen’s bleakest albums. Striped-down, acoustic, and set in a hard world littered with morally reckless characters: murderers, drunks, gamblers and thieves who lack any sense of empathy.

I was never a big fan of the album. It’s flat, slow, and droning like rush highway traffic.

God, what I wouldn’t give to be stuck in rush hour traffic this afternoon.

Anyway, I suspect many of us are feeling a mounting grocery list of negative emotions right now: frustration, loneliness, sadness, and hopelessness.

Maybe it’s me, but I feel we’re all secretly asking ourselves, “Okay, what should I do now?”

From us average folks thin on toilet paper to the suits running the country behind a podium I sense–no one really knows what they’re doing.

In one of my favorite books, “The Obstacle is the Way”, author Ryan Holiday explains, in times of uncertainty, you should do three things:

work hard, be honest, and help others as much as possible.

No matter your lot in life, a millionaire or a recently laid-off factory worker, if you construct your days on those three, seemingly little things, you’ll find big meaning and big certainty in uncertain times.

Work. Hard work doesn’t have to pertain to finance. You can work hard at what ever you’re doing right now– cleaning the garage, making dinner, reading with your child, writing a poem, singing a song. The point being, don’t just sit and lament about hard and uncertain times. Do something. Work hard. And hard times become less hard when you lose yourself in the sweat of work.

Honesty. It’s dangerous, in times of uncertainty, to believe you’re own fiction. Tell yourself the truth. Tell others the truth. Accept the truth of the situation. If you’re afraid of contracting the coronavirus– tell people. If you want to social distance– tell people. If quarantine is taking an emotional toll on you–tell someone. Have courage to embrace the truth of the moment.

Helping others. I get it, we can barely leave the house, but call someone, Zoom with someone, send letters, send thank-you notes, make some hot coco and talk to your children about the situation, if you have food delivered leave a generous tip, donate to relief funds. Do something for someone else. Exercise your empathy.

I’m sure there’s a more poetic way to say this but– quarantine sucks.

We’re all hamstrung and hurting. Losing our mobility, our jobs, our human connections puts us in a very real emotional crisis. We don’t know what to do when all we know is taken from us.

If Ryan Holiday is correct and I believe he is– hard work, honesty, and helping others is how we will get through this.

Even though we may want to, this is not the time to get lazy, ignore the truth, and get selfish.

These hard days require the best of us. We can’t afford to take a day off. We have to do the little things. Because little things become big things in moments of great uncertainty. And so with the world paused, where inaction pervades– it’s our actions which provide the answer.

Over the last few days, the “Nebraska” album has been on repeat. I get it now. Maybe I had to grow up a little. It’s a hauntingly beautiful album. It’s a intimate portrait of human strife in times of great struggle and the album has become of my favorites.

The album concludes with, “Reason to Believe”, a shaft of light in the pit of darkness. The human spirit is tough. Maybe tougher than anything the world can throw at us. And in hard moments of despair and uncertainty, the human spirit proves to be elastic and resolute.

Chainsmoking French philosopher Albert Camus once said, “When there’s no hope, one must invent it.” Despite the absurdity of our current days, hope is invented through the simple acts of hard work, honesty, and helping others.

hard work + honesty + helping others = hope

Maybe this is an equation, in these hard days, that can help you find some reason to believe.

“… at the end of every hard earned day people find some reason to believe.” “Reason to Believe”- Bruce Springsteen

Be well,

Jay

The first book we read together was Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

It was September and we were new to each other, so you didn’t want to offend me. But, over 17 years teaching, I’ve developed a 6th sense of sorts–sensing when a classroom full of students is either apathetic or unpierced by literature.

In the academic world, apathy is often saved for later months, February and March, so I sensed it was the latter– you were, at the time, unpierced.

I argued The Road was not as bleak as perceived. It was, in the end, a hopeful novel. The last two pages, with its green glen and brook trout and amber current, shine over the bleakness that pressed hard for 285 pages and reminds us that even dawn will break on the darkest nights, and the sun, though distant and thin, will glint again.

And still, from my position in the front of the classroom, you sat quiet and unpierced.

Recently, life was synchronized. I was planning year-end projects and you planned for prom, senior skip day, and graduation.

The world was right. Days went accordingly. Schedules were kept. Plans made. Futures were unfolding into tangible realities.

And then, when everything was going as planned, this happened.

There has been times, over the years, I have lost faith in myself. I have lost faith in my strength as a man, in my intelligence, in my ability as a teacher.

But literature has always restored my faith. A pew in an empty church. A place to be still, pray, take comfort and find wisdom in times of need.

What else would you expect from a high school English teacher?

I’ve been asked many times if I enjoy teaching English.

Yes.

Do you ever get bored teaching the same thing year after year?

No.

Why not?

Because, once written, a story sails into a forever changing world. For an English teacher, this is an interesting classroom moment–when a story, no matter its birth year, meets the mind of the modern student. And a story, if it has earned the right to be called “literature”, achieves a foreverness and what author Ben Marcus calls, “a moral honesty” not so much in plot or subject matter or setting but in its unflinching allegiance to truthful human expression.

Fiction is our problem. Not in a literary sense, but the fictional belief that we think we are in control of the world.

In the bleakness of our current reality, as I write this on a Sunday afternoon, knowing with bone certainty we will not see each other tomorrow, I can’t help but recall The Road.

In spite of anger and loss and sadness, the son promises his father he would always carry the fire.

And in one of those September lessons, we learned the fire was not literal. The fire was love and compassion and hope and community and courage and resolve.

The fire is what burns so hot in your heart it warms the hearts of others.

And even though circumstances may try to extinguish your fire, your sole responsibility to yourself, to the world, is to always carry the fire.

I know you’re hurting. I know it’s not fair.

But we’re at the the mercy of the world.

Yet no matter what happens. No matter how bleak things turn. You have to promise, your senior English teacher, to always carry the fire.

And–if you can honor that promise, for the rest of your life, congratulations– you’ve been pierced by literature and you have, with flying colors, passed my class.

Be well,

Mr. Armstrong

Over the last 17 years as a high school teacher, many students have confided in me stories about their family life. Sadly, most of these stories are not happy ones.

Several years ago I had a student who had been in and out of foster homes as a young child. The student told me about some of their horrors: being whipped with electrical cords, repeatedly being called fat, being forced to eat out of a dog bowl.

As I listened to the student’s childhood trauma, I was saddened, and selfishly, grateful for my own loving family. I mean — my childhood was marked with love and respect. I have no family horror stories to share — so I feel like a bit of a fraud talking to you today about forgiveness and family.

This doesn’t mean my family life was and is perfect. But my “pain” does not even compare to some people I’ve talked to about their family pain.

One day the student told me about their plans after high school. They said they want to become a social worker. They said they want to help children so they don’t have endured trauma like they did. The student said they needed to return to the dark nights of their past to make the future days bright again.

Every time I think of that student and their story — I’m humbled by their young courage and aged perspective.

How many of us would not have to will to return to our childhood pain? I know I — bad knees and all — would run as fast and as far away from such hurt.

Recently, I had some intense conversations with middle-aged adults who are still dealing with family pain that transpired in their youth.

Familial hurt seems to be the most lasting hurt.

A big bummer of being human is that sometimes the people we love the most hurt us the deepest.

Of course the childhood memories of an 18 year old are fresher than a 48 year old, but from what I’ve learned that 48 year old has compounded hurt for 30 years. And this childhood hurt lays a cracked foundation on which their lives are built upon.

Childhood hurt seeps into our skin, deep into our blood and bones, and influences everything from future decisions we make to our struggle with self-worth.

Let me be clear — I don’t have the right to tell you to forgive your childhood pain.

But, assuming you’re an adult now, I have to ask: is holding onto that childhood pain helping or hurting you? Is your childhood pain compromising your adult life? Is your childhood pain affecting the way you’re raising your own children?

When we let our past pain live in the present we are defining ourselves by such pain. Our memory empowers pain. And so we nourish pain, give it shelter inside us. We give pain permission to grow with us.

Being a member of a family, even a healthy one, is hard.

Each family member has their own story and unique perspective. Each member spends their lives figuring out their part in the family machine.

Understand that a family member’s hurtful actions might be the consequence of their own private shame and guilt. It’s not fair that they take their own private pain out on you. Not at all. But it’s often the cost of being born into a family.

So what can we do today, with our family, to avoid the pain we still carry from our own childhood?

One strategy for encouraging family forgiveness is to address the issue before it becomes an issue.

Unless you’re a member of the Corleone family, you can make forgiveness the family business. You can work on communicating feelings before those feeling turn into silence which can quickly morph into resentment. And, let’s be honest, if children see their parents holding grudges and seeking vengeance like an Italian crime boss, children will assume that is the correct way to deal with hurt.

By resisting forgiveness in our own lives we are compromising our children’s future relationships.

I’ve been working on some strategies to help people become more forgiving of themselves and others. There is growing research that of habitual practice of forgiveness is both physically and psychologically beneficial. Which makes sense — our physical and psychological stress are caused by holding on to and suppressing discomforts. Forgiveness is letting go and learning to breath again.

This month’s forgiveness strategy when dealing with family issues is to schedule a time to talk about the issues before the issues become hurts.

Whether it’s with your children or your spouse set a time and place to talk about the issue that has caused hurt. Like the way you would schedule a doctor’s appointment.

Scheduling a mutually agreed time to talk to a specific family member about a specific issue allows each person to prepare for the talk but eliminates the surprise conversation about a possibly uncomfortable subject.

Like after a 10 hour work day and a 2 hour commute, you’re simply not in the right mental and emotional state to have a healthy conversation about a serious issue. You need a couch and a beer.

A family issue that silently festers is dangerous. Scheduling time to talk about the elephant in the room is proactive and allows you to get out in front of the elephant. And if the elephant does need forgiveness, this scheduled discussion lays vital groundwork for forgiving.

Be well,

Jay

Maybe it was the weather? Or maybe everyday lately has felt the same?

But nothing specific caused this. There wasn’t a personal crisis or event that propelled such a funk.

Whatever the cause — the evening news did not help.

In case you’ve missed it, here’s a recap: the American Government is a scandalous swamp, Australia is still burning, the coronovirus has made its way to America, and Kobe died.

The hope, that fell like confetti when Ryan Seacrest ordered us to turn the calendar, has already been bagged and trashed. And it’s not even February yet.

For the last few days I felt BLAH or maybe BAAA — like a lost sheep commuting from work to basketball practice to school functions to Panera Bread so I can graze like a proper suburban adult.

And when feeling sheepish, it’s surprisingly easy to shift into autopilot, let caffeine steer the minivan, and watch the apathy accrue like Kohl’s Cash.

Adult life has loud way of taking a quiet toll on us. Of wearing us down — draining our energy, our passion, our spirit. Of folding us, stuffing us into a sock drawer of frequent funks.

So what can we do to snap out of such a state?

As I write this, I’m happy to tell you I’m out of my funk. But I know it’s a short- lived victory. Sooner or later, another funk will find me.

So how did I do it this time?

I did some simple things which made me feel better, more grateful. And I hope these things might help you too:

-Have a conversation with someone you love

-Exercise

-Do something kind for someone else

-Writing a thank you note to someone

-Eat healthy for a few days

-Watch motivational videos on youtube

-Research something you know little to nothing about

-Have a conversation with someone about something they’re passionate about

-Laugh with an old friend about an inside joke

-Make plans with someone

Of all those listed above, the activities involving someone else helped the most. Which makes sense because in those funks we have a tendency to retreat into ourselves when we feel this way.

Even though I’m quick to do this — I know ostracizing myself will not help me out of the funk.

Let’s not forget — we are social creatures. We are meant to share our lives and our stories with others. If you’re in a funk I urge you to talk to somebody. Lean into someone. We have all been there. Little funks can become big funks and before you know it you’re dealing with something serious.

I know when I talked to my wife I felt better. Lighter. Not so lost.

Like a sheared sheep finding his shepard among the man-made hills of suburbia.

BAAA.

Be well,

Jay

Why?

Because we need it.

Because in my research of young men, depression, and suicide has lead me to understand how forgiveness might just be the most important practice for healing, recovery, and emotional growth.

I’ve learned that you become what you study.

My day job requires me to study literature so naturally I’ve come to know Shakespeare and a bunch of other dead white guys.

But right now, the tugs of life are telling me to study forgiveness.

Maybe it’s the fact I’m turning 40 soon or that forgiveness is a practice my friends struggling with substance abuse have talked to me about or that depression is increasing among young people.

But no matter our age, if we’re all trying to become more self-aware — which I think we all are (except for the woman I passed in the supermarket bread aisle Sunday morning wearing a “I’m a BITCH” t shirt) — than nothing propels self-awareness more than self-forgiveness.

So here’s what I’m doing:

On the 15th of every month in 2020 I’m dedicating time to reflect on a single area of hurt or a memory-burden I carry with me everyday (additional notes are posted below).

This is a monthly opportunity to further discover myself.

And to do this — I have to sit with truth. I have entertain feelings or experiences that have hurt and continue to hurt me. To entertain the inconvenient truths of my life that have prevented me from accepting my character, healing, and becoming a better version of myself.

It’s like Hand and Stone for the soul. Except the purpose of this spa treatment is to be uncomfortable.

Because we begin to heal, recover, and grow when we when consciously admit the truth to ourselves (… and now that I think about it… maybe the “I’m a BITCH” in the bread aisle has reached an apex of forgiveness I pine for.)

On January 15th I encourage you to reflect on one hurt or burden you carry. Something you should have made peace with or put down long ago.

And with this burden in mind, ask yourself:

How did this burden make me more resilient?

How did this burden make me more appreciative?

How can I use the lessons I learned from carrying the burden to help other people?

I’m reflecting on my health this month.

See, before I started this blog, I was an athlete. I defined myself to the physical things my body could do. Things I took for granted. But in 2013, I got sick, and I was suddenly a former athlete with a broken brain and a broken body.

And this truth has been a hard one for me.

Not playing sports anymore is one thing but playing sports with my children has brought sadness and shame.

I want to play basketball with my children. I want to ride bikes with them. Challenge them to a race. Teach them to ice skate.

But I can’t. Plain. Simple.

Now — this has taken a long time to realize — — but I’m privileged to watch them discover the wonders of sports and their physical body. Wonders, that if I was too busy playing with them, I’d most definitely miss.

Over the past 7 years I learned to rewrite the definition of myself. I realized being an athlete was just a chapter in a book I’m still writing.

And so I want you to hear me say:

I forgive myself for getting sick.

I forgive myself for the sadness and shame I have inflicted upon myself.

I am grateful that my sickness has improved my self-awareness and broadened my perspective.

I’m proud to tell you that my sickness is an important part of who I am and like the dead white poet e.e. cummings said, “It takes courage to grow up and be who you really are.”

Be well,

Jay

If you’re interest, here my notes for The Self-Forgiveness Challenge. But this is not a one-size-heals-all system. Forgiveness is not an exact science. Please adopt and modify to best fit your needs.

Step 1- Set a specific day

Schedule a specific day to forgive yourself. I’m going to take the lead here and declare the 15th of every month will be self-forgiveness day. For those who receive my posts via email, I will send you a reminder on the 15th of each month that your self-forgiveness is due. It will be like paying your mortgage but better.

And since repetition is a part of forgiveness, let’s do it once a month and make self-forgiveness a healthy habit in 2020.

Step 2- Write down 12 things that need to be forgiven

Today, write down 12 things you need to forgive yourself for. Writing down our hurts give them a real, tangible representation. They are not just vapor floating in our heart and mind.

I suggest storing the list on your phone for both permanence and easy access.

Also, be specific about a particular action or thought or feeling that needs forgiveness. If you said, “I want to forgive myself for a bunch of stuff I did in my 20's”, it’s too abstract, too unclear. Forgiveness only works when it’s concrete. I also suggest writing down an estimated date, location, and a summary of your actions.

Also, let’s be honest, some hurts won’t be forgiven with one day of absolution, so there might be a specific hurt that you may need multiple months of attention. For example, my illness causes deep personal shame that I need to deal with. I’m dedicating 3 months (January, July, December) for forgiving my shame.

Step 3- Take time for self-examination

On the 15th of the month, find some interrupted time to think deeply about the specific hurt that needs forgiveness.

Pray, meditate, have a cup of tea and reflect on one specific hurt that needs forgiving.

Begin your reflection with:

I forgive you for__________. I will not seek revenge or revert to self-pity for my past hurts. I will accept myself as imperfect. Yet despite my imperfections, I realize I am valuable, capable of great things, and deserving of happiness.

Next…

Recall or write down the details of the event.

Next…

Recall or write down negative emotions the event caused you to feel.

Next…

Realize or write down a positive positive attitudes/realizations the event has gifted you.

Next…

Reframe your hurt. Though you can’t rewind time, you can use your hurt has a means of broadening your perspective and deepening your gratitude. Think or write down how the hurt presented you unique lessons and opportunities that you might use to help other people deal with their own hurt.

Step 4- Honor the private act of self-forgiveness

Keep it to yourself. Self-forgiveness is a deeply private exercise. Do not gloat. Do not post on Facebook. Do not not look for likes or outside validation. Forgiveness requires humility. Some people will not get what you’re doing. That’s okay. This is just for you.

Step 5- Do something nice for someone else

On the 15th of every month (our self-forgiveness day) do something nice for someone else. This can be offering a compliment to someone, write a thank-you note, buy a stranger coffee, give a homeless person a meal, donate to a local charity, etc. The point is — doing something nice for someone else is both healthy for us and others. Celebrate your improvement by taking action and improving someone else’s life.

You can make the world a better place for your family, friends, and anyone you interact with if you practice self-forgiveness.

This is important — forgiving yourself can be tricky business. Forgiveness is not a quick fix and there is no one-size-fits all solution.

If you forgive yourself for cheating on the taxes your forgiveness doesn’t exonerate you from punishment. And forgiving yourself doesn’t make it okay. This do-it-yourself absolution can be reckless. The point is — if we want to positively improve and grow we have to make peace with our past. We must forgive our past actions in order to accept who we are now.