Sew What?

Most of us don't imagine where we'll be in 30 years. It's kind of a scary thing to imagine life that far ahead when most of us can't even think about what we want for dinner later this evening. With life being such a roller coaster of emotions, positives, negatives and ever changing conditions; it's nearly impossible to paint an image of the future that would resemble any of the brush strokes of today.

I sit and ponder here and there for hours during the last few weeks as the reality of my situation has finally grabbed hold of me and won't let go. I'm drowning in my own destiny and I can't find the rope to pull myself out. They all seem to be slipping through my hands. I try and imagine what or where I will be in 30 years, and the five years before that and before that till I'm only five years away. How much will change not only in our time and space during that short amount of time, but how much will I change. Five years ago I barely resemble the piece of work that I was. I've grown and learned and developed more than I thought I ever could have- which has only made me realize how much potential I truly have.

Putting the ideas on the table is one of the easiest things for me. Following my gut on which one feels best is not. I lay out the seeds of my life and try and decide which one to give sunlight. Most of them are very ambitious plants to be growing and even possessing these rare seeds probably says something about the way I'll be able to sew. I look at a life that would be normal and as great as it would be to do what every else seems to do, I feel uninspired by it. If extraordinary is the sunshine of my life, then challenge would have to be the water in which I feed on. Those two things figured out it's off to the last and final thing: my base, my soil, what will support me through torrential challenge and the heat of extraordinary. That's probably why there's so much indecision in my decision. Do I stay in my current soil, it's dense with love and my roots are comfortable, or do I search for a different soil, not necessarily more rich, but filled with different nutrients.

Leaving the current friends I have made over the last few years its a tough decision that I shouldn't have to make, but one I'm confronted with. It unfortunately depends on the direction, the seeds I choose to sew, the place I need to go. I count the seeds, and the beginnings are endless. I look to plants who give themselves as they appeal to me. The selfless service I find intoxicating. The exception I find rewarding. I pause my life as easy as TV and look at the other plants growing around all of us, most of them weeds. They strangle the beautiful flowers. The ivy kills it's way to the top of shading trees, until there are fewer and fewer left. It's time someone puts and end to that reign, time to give shade and inspire flowers.

30 years, who knows what or where we'll be. I've got a lot of growing to do, but I will be a tree, large and magnificent with beautiful blossoming flowers. Which soil will I be in? The richest in the world, American soil.


Bleed for me, I bleed for you...

9/11

From Danny Nelson, aka Lt. Dan

As the eve of the 9/11 anniversary approaches, and the casual patriots feverishly thump their chests and a disconnected public vehemently rushes to weep in an obnoxious sea of yellow ribbon magnets and American flag decals, I feel obligated to note the local paper’s symbolic gesture of diplomatically concealing (eleventh page) the article: “Deadliest Month for US Troops in Afghanistan.”  The gesture is not an issue of media inaccuracy nor is it parochial journalism; rather, the gesture is symbolic of our nation’s catastrophic flaw and it’s most unforgivable exploit…  Americans have allowed themselves the hubris of memorializing the pain they personally felt on that day as the greatest catastrophe, when in reality the supreme tragedy lies in the nation’s subsequent willingness to ignore the tangible sacrifices of the men and women who have fought since 2001 to reconcile the injustices of that day.

The righteous warriors have done nothing but willingly accept the burden of war on themselves and their families.  Their lives have been indelibly changed, only to be recognized by the unnoticing majority when a heartrending anniversary compels them to do so.

Thus, as the nation is obliged to “remember” a horrific day, I humbly ask that it forever take ownership of the suffering felt by its silent warrior-minority since that day, because that burden will be carried well beyond the end of gratuitous news coverage.

Proper Exit

Feeling like a civilian the last two days has really been a nice break from the monotonous frenzy of Army life. The idea of having a life where waking up and doing whatever I feel like doing is almost to sweet to taste this far out, but sure looks good through the wrapper. That includes not shaving as well. I hung with my buddy Ryan, who used to be in the Army with me. He goes to North Carolina State University and works at the YMCA in Raleigh. As many friends as I have outside of the Army he is probably the best of them, just because he has the understanding of everything I've gone through. It's tough for someone who has lived a life so depraved, so deprived from normal existence for the the last five years to really connect with the other people, and I'm sure if you were in mine or Ryan's shoes you would feel the same way too. 

It's a brotherhood is the only way I could describe it. Not in the same way necessarily that a Fraternity is, but it is one none the less. The drinking, the social construct is very similar, but a startling difference is the fact that at the end of the day not all of us walk out of it alive. The loss of life around me while I've been in has certainly been minimal in comparison to others who have ventured the same route of life, however accidents in the 'real world', as I'll call it while looking in, do happen and friends are lost regardless of whether in combat or not. It's not easier just because we have that expectation in the back of our minds. I find that as my youth fades, so does my immortality. Not that I think that I will ever die, or sit there and ponder, freeze in fear for my life when doing hazardous to my health things, but I do think that at 20 I was more willing to jump from a plane than I am now, and regardless of that fact, I do it anyhow. 

A few weeks ago a fellow paratrooper, one that I did not know, fell to his death from 1000 feet above ground level. Neither his main parachute nor his reserve parachute opened according to hearsay and rumors. I was on that same training operation, though a different bird, and I don't feel bad for the guy because I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking the same sad thing, that I'm so miserable being trapped in this C-130 Hercules aircraft for the past four hours and am sweating because of the lack of air conditioning and I'm freaking out because I'm slightly claustrophobic and haven't been able to move my legs which are now searing with pain because the weight of multiple ruck sacks full of combat equipment are staggered on top of them. It's not easy to be a paratrooper, enduring physical pain for hours on end, after already having a timeline that started your day somewhere in the Jurassic period, you just want to get up and off of that 'bird' as quickly as you can. My thoughts heading to the door are: "I don't care if my chute doesn't open, I just want to get out of this plane."

It's of course a sad tragedy anytime that another soldier dies, especially when it's accident or training accident. We get paid $150 extra a month for taking that risk.

I feel the same way about the Army door of exit. I've been cramped and sweating for so long that I need to just get off of this plane and out the door. There's an exciting life out there when boots hit the ground, and I can't wait to be there. I know I'll miss it, miss the camaraderie, miss the things that I now consider normal that you could only dream of having the opportunity to do. The men though, they're who I'll miss the most.