Crisis of Faith

A crisis of faith?

Perhaps that is the wrong description. Call it more of a crisis of belief? I am sure that I could come up with something more clever and apropos this morning, but I am simply not in the mood. I simply do not feel creative.

I have decided I am done with the practice of law.

Unfortunately, the existence of my LW and the Horde kind of make the practical desertion from the practice...um, unpracticable.

But my heart is no longer in it. At all.

It is not just the practice of consumer bankruptcy, although I think that has a lot to do with it. I have tried for years to salve my discontent with the answer that I am helping people, doing good for people's lives, and so forth. But I cannot use that excuse any longer.

There are just too many people that come in and want to abuse and play the system.

There are too many people who come in, after having dug themselves into an insurmountable hole, and then blame you for their trials and troubles.

There are too many people unwilling to take responsibility for their own actions.

There are too many people willing to lie to you, their attorney, simply because they think that it will turn out better for them in the end.

And there are just too few people willing to give a simple "thank you."

Not to mention the lousy pay.

Need I go on?

A friend proposed that what I am feeling is nothing more than a simple mid-life crisis. I do not believe that to be the case. I do not wish to buy a sports car, or a boat, or have an extramarital affair. I do not wish to go back to school, or open my own business, or take up sky diving, or any of the myriad of usual things men do when undergoing a mid-life crisis.

I simply want to take my LW and the Horde, load up the Ford, stock up the trailer, and drive off into the mountains. You know, find a little meadow somewhere and just BE.

I simply want to be left alone.

I want to not worry through the night about THAT client: the one who comes forward mid-case to give you a case-destroying piece of information that they "forgot"; the one that blames you for all of the post-filing pay-day loans she took out; the one who somehow sees it as your responsibility that they have not paid their mortgage(s) in seven months but could afford the trip to Disneyland; the one for whom the office buys a Thanksgiving dinner who later tells the Court she has no idea who you are.

The other day, I had a client thank me for helping themn get back on their feet, relieving their stress, getting them in a frame of mind where they could work and be productive again, and basically crediting me for all the recent good in their lives. It made me feel really good.

The warm fuzzies lasted about an hour.

Until another client called to accuse me of falsifying numbers in his case, numbers calculated by a formula that Congress, the Justice Department, the Courts, and the Chapter 13 Trustees have all developed and forced upon me. I did that; It's MY fault that she had overtime for the past two years and, despite that fact, the overtime is not guaranteed and somehow should not be calculated into her anticipated gross income.

For every one appreciative client, for every client whose life you actually touch for the better, for every client that understands that you are helping them out of a hole of (typically) their own creation, for every "good" client I am inundated with at least 99 more that are lying, unfeeling, uncaring, abusive cretins.

Oddly, it is not the confrontation with opposing attorneys; there is very little of that in our tiny little section of the Bar. It is the confrontation with our own clients that has driven me to detest the very practice of the Law, driven me to taste bile at the thought of my office, and to cause near-physical pain at the idea of getting up in the morning and facing the day.

It is a practice that drains your emotions, that drains your Spirituality, that drains your spirit, and that drains your love for practically anything else in your life.

It is a practice that wads up your creativity and tosses it in the toilet, that causes your Muse to turn her back on you in disgust, that causes food to taste like sawdust, music to sound like noise, and simple, peaceful quiet to become deafening.

It is a practice that causes you to vent your frustrations--at other drivers on the road, at your family, at your friends, and at your employees. It is a practice that literally made me weep as I drove to the office this morning.

Believe me, if there was anything else I could do that would provide sufficient financial support for my LW and the Horde, I would be there in a heartbeat. I probably would only stop to fill one box with possessions; the rest of my office space can just go hang. But I have to be an adult about this: someone once said that you are not supposed to enjoy what you do everyday--that is why it is called "work." Well, I do not enjoy what I do everyday; I cannot fool myself any longer.

I am done.

But I am still here.

Glimpse into the Future

This is me in 10 years, Heaven willing.

Jotting Tittles: Microwaves and Zombies

I want to explain the title of this post to you, "Microwaves and Zombies."

I really want to tell you exactly what it means to me and my life.

But I can't.

You see, I have a page of notes in my little notebook, a page titled "Blog Thoughts" with a date from last month. Under that is a bullet point labeled "Microwaves and Zombies" with no further explanation.

And the rest of the page is illegible. I must have been writing (a) in the car while driving in rush hour traffic; (b) on the bus on a bad road; (c) in the dark while half-asleep; or (d) (c) and either (a) or (b).

Take your pick.

First, on the subject of liberty. Remember in the coming week that Liberty--true Liberty--is the ability to choose for one's self, researching, studying, and learning about yoru choices. True Liberty does not come from blindly following the media.

Second, how blissful it is to lie in a tent surrounded by my LW and the Horde, on a crisp summer morning far up in the mountains in a quiet, secluded valley, the only humans for miles. How wonderful to lie there and read aloud the words from the Declaration of Independence. How marvelous to see the looks on the Horde's individual faces as they hear and understand the words written 232 years ago. It's dawn and the words leave my tongue with clouds of vapor in the cool air. THAT is Heaven.

Third, just a quick thought from one of the Presidential debates last month. A statistic was cited that deductibles (in looking back I think it may have been premiums and I wrote it down incorrectly) have increased by 30% and families are going bankrupt from health care.
(A) Very few of my clients are going bankrupt because of their heatlh care costs; most of them are going bankrupt from bad housing loans or high tax debt.
(B) I am struggling myself to pay my own health care costs. But you know what? I do not want it from the Government. It's not the Government's place. Period.

Fourth, O.K., one more thought from the Presidential debates. All of my readers know that I really do not like John McCain. He may be the lesser of two evils. That is yet to be seen, I suppose. However, one cannot deny that he has not performed very well since the Convention. Heck, he has not performed well since Mitt dropped out of the race, for that matter. One wonders whether McCain is so scared of being tagged with the "attack dog" label that he has held back. The one line that stood out from the debates for me? "I'm not going to set the White House visitor schedule before I'm President. I don't even have a Seal yet." I think that if he had spent the last nine months talking like this, he would be so far ahead in the race as to be nearly uncatchable.
As it is, I am afraid he looks like an old man weakly swinging his cane at a young whipper-snapper. (Aside: I can just hear him saying, "Sarah! Help me subdue...this beast." {while panting and flailing weakly) a la Montgomery Burns.)

Fifth, my LW and I just endured a Mormon ritual that normally comes about every five years or so: the reorganization of the Bishopric. Actually, that's just the event; the ritual is, in my household, not-so affectionately referred to as "Mormon Lotto." That's the phenomenon that has its genesis the very moment that the reorganization is to occur. From that moment on, the phone lines, back fences, and now e-mails are on fire with speculation about "who's worthiest?" "who's old enough?" "who's too old?" and so on. And then, when the announcement is made, all the gossipers look at one another and nod sagely, with a "I knew it all along" look in their eyes. Not my favorite ritual, by any means. It is a painful time. Pain. Mental, emotional, spiritual.

Sixth, It's nearly November again, and do you know what that means? Yep. Cranberry-flavored Sierra Mist is available again! I had my first bottle sighting yesterday! Hooray! Cranberry-flavored Sierra Mist. Mmmmmm.......

Seventh, It's nearly November again, and as I have recently said, that means NaNoWriMo! That means 1,667 words a day. Ugh. From now until the end of the first week of November, I am going to be questioning myself, wondering whether I can really do this--whether I really WANT to do this. I have been through this before and I can sense my reluctance starting again. Somehow I have to move past the self-editing-while-writing mode and move into a writing-for-the-sheer-pleasure-of-it-just-put-the-words-down-on-paper mode. I need to be ever-vigilant for a negative attitude (as opposed to ever-viligant, which does not make any sense whatsoever).

Now.... Where's my bag of fun-size Snickers bars?!?

Constructive Thoughts: Fatherhood, Pt. 2

I think I am a hero to my boys today.

I cannot quite get them to articulate it, but I'm getting the feeling of increased adoration.

You see, I took them camping this weekend. Just the Boys. None of those icky girl-folk around. Just Men, both aging and pre-pubescent.

I am still suffering for it, but it was definitely worth it to see the sparkle in their eyes.

I was doing some more thinking last week about my father. There will be some regrets when he passes, unfortunately. Hopefully not as many as there could have been, because I am trying to rectify some of the lost time. There are some things, however, that time has effectively stolen from me.

I will look back and see times when I was too "busy" or too "proud" (or too "bored") to do things with my father. I will also look back and see a few times when he was too "busy" to do something. Not many, but a few.

Camping is one of those things.

I never got to do a lot of real tent-camping with my father. Most of what I learned about tent-camping was as a Boy Scout. The sad thing is that my father has a lot he could have shared with me. He underwent rigorous survival training when he was in the Service. He grew up around some of the best Scouts I've ever known in my Grandfather and uncles.

I have never really benefitted from any of that knowledge.

You'll remember as I wrote last week that the one time he went to Scout Camp with me I was embarrassed by how he lectured us all on the finer points of something-or-other. Yeah, as I said, not one of my prouder moments.

Anyway, as I was sitting and thinking all these wonderfully depressing thoughts last week, I remembered a Church magazine article I read just before I graduated from high school. It may have been the Ensign or the New Era, I cannot remember exactly. I wish I could remember the author. What I remember is the image: the author said something to the effect of "picture a man and his sons as they walk to their tents, sharing feelings and memories." I remember the gist of it, because I remember being a senior in high school and thinking: That's something I've never experienced with Father.

Even "Fathers and Sons" outings were missed, as they were always held "too far away." I've never been to one. Not one.

Don't get me wrong: I clearly own a good portion of the blame, maybe even most of the blame. When I was younger, I was an ungrateful snot at times. I lacked the vision I have now and didn't realize what I would miss when he was gone. I am not proud of any of it and I will reap the whirlwind some day.

All that being said, I decided last week that I was going to surprise my boys. I used that surprise as leverage to buy their good attitudes and behavior for their poor mother all week long. When Friday's lunchtime rolled around, there was some doubt as to whether my oldest son would be joining us. Let's just say he wasn't honoring his mother or siblings to the level that I would expect him to do.

I overruled his mother, however, and raced home from the office to throw the bare necessities into the van. The small tent went in. Duffel bags for the boys. A few books for bedtime reading for Dad. The Coleman lantern and a couple flashlights. The food I took was already prepared and wouldn't take much time to get ready to eat.

That was it.

My LW and the rest of the Horde were jealous, but it was Just The Boys. I loaded them up and we headed to a nearby park that allows camping along some backwoods jogging trails.

And my boys got to experience what I never did. Walking at sunset from the restrooms the quarter-mile or so back to our tents, all of us with our arms around each other. We talked about the sunset, the burgeoning dark and slowly-appearing stars. As we sat in the small tent on the slowly leaking queen-size mattress we spoke of the day's experiences and ended with a prayer to our Heavenly Father.

Of course, Dad couldn't sleep: I tried to do some writing, but from the lantern-light my youngest inferred that it was now playtime. Reading was out for the same reason. So there I lay, playing a stupid game on my cell-phone in the dark, listening to my boys snoring. Laying in an over-crowded tent on an unseasonably warm summer night with my boys' random limbs draped over my legs, back, and head. There was no breeze to relieve and all the day's heat was trapped in the tent. I was miserable.

But I was happy.

And so were they.

In the August 2008 Ensign President Thomas S. Monson prays, "May we live so that when that final summons is heard, we may have no serious regrets, no unfinished business...." As I read the Ensign on Sunday that line jumped out at me. Good, timely counsel from the Prophet.

Ours wasn't a long camping trip. We weren't even that far from home. We did some walking, but otherwise just killed some time sitting and talking. It wasn't anything fancy.

I am afraid that I will have some regrets. But after this weekend, I am hoping there will be fewer regrets than there could have been.

It wasn't a long camping trip. But it was a good one, a special one.

Just the kind I wish I could share with my Father.

Just once more.