To hear to the soul of America, seek not the monuments, the Capitol, or the White House. Hit up the Waffle House, amigo, and snag a place at the counter. That's where I was last night at 3am, I'm proud to say. We missed you, and when I say "we" I mean myself and a dozen of some of the most bizarre, friendly, and inspiration characters in America, maybe even the whole world. One fat black guy sounded just like Louis Armstrong, and when the Forrest Gump soundtrack came out of the jukebox at like 2'oclock for no apparent reason, it took him like 3 seconds to identify the scene as "when them leaves was falling." I'm not being snotty- college brat when I say I wish the guy was my uncle. I don't have time to write everything else down, but ask me later and I'll be more than glad to tell you.

How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand there is no going back?There are some things time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep that have taken hold. Our body is a  machine for living. It is organized for that. It is it's nature.  Let life go on in it unhindered and let it defend itself. It will do more than if you paralyze it by encumbering it with remedies."

 -Leo Tolstoy

AS you know, some of America’s first settlers were the escapees of religious oppression in 17th Century England. The Puritans, one of the first groups to set up shop in America, were simply looking for a place to be, well, Puritan.  Back then, New England was a wild place—no Dunkin’ Doughnuts, no Jersey Turnpike, and no Whoopie Pies—but the Puritans were a hardy bunch. They can thank their survival on a combo of law & order and spiritual moxie. To ensure the long-term health colony, they made each little boy and girl read the New England Primer, a small religious book filled with short verses, hymns, prayers, and rhyming alphabets.  The editor of my textbook on American literature claims that this little book “helped engrave Puritan ideals on the American mind.” That got my mind churning. My favorite selection, titled “The Dutiful Child’s Promises,” is just a kiddie version of the Ten Commandments. Here they are, as simple as can be (photo, right).

It’s been a long time since I’ve read them, but as I went down the list I realized how few held any weight within Christian circles in 21st Century America. Wait a minute. Are the Ten Commandments “dead”? Yes and no. As far as spiritual discourse goes, they’re dead from college campus to city sidewalk. You can’t fire them off around town when a theological gun-fight breaks out. No sir. It’s rusty old ammo. However silent, the consensus is solid: the Ten Commandments are (to borrow a line from Zoolander) “silly and outdated.” I think, therefore I am is the rally cry of Christianity in 2011.  

Lately, I've been frustrated by people saying the word "can't." It slithers off their lips in a wide variety of situations, but the role is always the same. "Can't" is the perfect prefix to an excuse. Nobody can continue to nag you after you've dropped a solid "can't". It closes the door and bolts it shut.

But what does "can't" really mean? It would imply that it's physically or socially impossible to fulfill a request. I physically can't juggle torches. I socially can't mow the grass in the nude. Let's also exclude schedule conflict: I simply can't do lunch with Jane and play golf with Joe at the same time. All things considered, these "impossible" circumstances make up, let's say, just one out of every ten "can'ts" that come my way. So what of the other nine?

In the other nine cases, "can't" is an expression of a lack of desire. You don't want to go bear hunting, travel to Indonesia, or do yoga at sunrise. When strangers request, a short "no" feels okay. It implies "I don't need to excuse myself because we're not kin." I use kin figuratively here.

But saying "no" to a brother's request puts a knot in your stomach. It reveals weak-hearted loyalty and undermines the friendship itself.  So you find the word "can't" slithering out of your mouth, somewhere between a forced apology and a weak excuse. Most common "can'ts" blame time, money, and fatigue; you're "Too busy right now," "So broke," or "Ready to go to bed."

None of these—time, money, or fatigue—are rigid physical boundaries, yet somehow the're your most treasured. They exist abundantly all around as resources, and you traditionally set aside a bit of time, money, or rest for weekly pleasure. Your sacred 60 minutes of coffee and newspaper in the morning. Your must-have expensive organic facial lotion. Your full 8 hours of nightly slumber. These our most precious resources, and sometimes they're all we've got to call our own. 

For me, it's my daily nap. I'd rather try juggling torches than lose my sacred hour of siesta. I'm not alone, either. Everyone has an extraneous possession that seems "impossible" to give away as if it were a vital organ. But it's not physical; it's spiritual. Time, money, and rest...they're all just spiritual boundaries of will & character.

C.S. Lewis said that charity is giving until it hurts. No, he's not talking about the monthly bills.  Charity is giving the stuff we don't need, but it goes deeper. It's giving until it aches, inside and out. What of my brother's occasionally absurd request? True comrades don't abuse each other's loyalty. Instead of making a careless request, a brother or sister will thoughtfully and frugally cash in on your love.

So, to sum it up, declining a comrade's request is to say "You're not worth the pain." You may object that it's unrealistic to accommodate everybody. I agree; One must limit his scope of influence. So invest your love wisely, exhaust yourself in charity, and think twice before saying "can't".

*Sorry if my ranting made no sense. If puzzles make your smarter, then go in peace.  

LET'S be real. There's not too much real thought in this blog. So here's an honest word as a new year approaches and another fades away. 

It was December 23, 2010. Christmas Eve Eve. I was smoking a cigarette with a friend in front of an downtown apartment, and I suddenly realized something. One year before, on Christmas Eve Eve of 2009, I'd been smoking a cigarette in front of the same front porch. "Holy smokes. Some things never change," I said aloud. But inside I asked myself, How much had really changed? 

A hell of a lot had changed. It didn't take me long to come to that conclusion. But the question itself is what I think the New Year is all about. It's about smoking on a front porch, same posture as last year, and taking an honest look back. It's about facing yourself and asking: Have I changed? 

I believe change, for better or worse, is good. If we're stronger, it's good. If we're weaker, we'll heal. Change is like a bubble in reef. Seldom does it go straight up. It has to slip around fish, coral, and kelp. It goes side to side, changing position, but it never goes down. It's always rising up, up, up to the light.