“Beyond the Bathtub” by Jason Kotecki. 20 x 20. Oil on canvas. Original is available 🟢 Shop this art!
I could have stayed in the bathtub.
Way back when, after completing my schooling and earning a degree, the safe path was waiting for me. A decent job in my hometown. It wasn’t particularly exciting, but it was close enough to what I went to school for that I could rationalize it as making sense. I could have taken the job, gotten married, bought a house, and started collecting benefits.
It was tempting, and by most standards, the smart thing to do. The only problem is that I knew exactly what life in the bathtub would look like for the rest of my life.
I may have been shy and quiet, but I grew up observing people who decided to stay in the bathtub. Whether they rationalized it as a smart choice or insisted they didn’t have any others, I could always sense a certain sadness, simmering just below the surface.
Life outside the bathtub is fraught.
The ocean is vast. The edges disappear as the shoreline fades from view. The waves toss us around until we’re seasick. At times it feels like we’ll drown—or be swallowed by something much bigger than ourselves. The current carries us in directions we never would have chosen. It’s disorienting. Terrifying. Unpredictable.
Of course we prefer to remain in an environment we can control!
The problem is that it’s not much of a life.
The bathtub is safe, controlled, and predictable. But it’s also small. Constricting. Eventually the what-ifs become impossible to ignore. What’s outside these walls? What am I truly capable of? Where might I go if I ventured beyond the edge of what I can see?
I was the kid my relatives called a scaredy-cat. Honestly, not much has changed. I’ve never become especially brave or outgoing.
I just knew there was life beyond the bathtub.
Although I’m just a tiny rubber duck, I sensed I was made for a bigger shore, farther away than I could get to on my own.
So I put my trust in the One who made the water, the waves, and the wind.
That choice came with no certainty, no safety, and no benefits package. There were seasons when I felt lost at sea. Driftless. Doubtful. Overwhelmed. Afraid.
You know what? I still feel that way sometimes. There are always temptations to pull into a safe harbor somewhere and settle down. To quit while I’m ahead.
But I can’t go back now.
Since giving my life to the Creator of the ocean, I’ve seen things, accomplished things, and experienced things I never would have known had I stayed in the bathtub. I’ve been swept up in an adventure that’s been wonderful, beautiful, and breathtaking.
The decision isn’t to become adventurous.
The decision is to leave the bathtub.
Everything else follows.
We’re destined for a life beyond the bathtub.
Of course it isn’t safe. But it is good.
Is it time for you to experience what lifeis like beyond the bathtub?
“Great Expectations” by Jason Kotecki. 30 x 24. Oil on canvas. Original is SOLD. 🔴 Shop this art!
I have a confession to make.
I fully expected to marry a brunette. I was pretty vocal about it, even. No blondes for me!
In retrospect, the women who caught my eye when I was young — Princess Leia, Lois Lane, Wonder Woman — were all brunette. Most of the girls I dated in high school were brunettes.
But after I met Kim, who was most definitely not a brunette, I didn’t waste any time wondering if I was making the right choice in spending time with her. I didn’t delay my decision to propose because I was holding out for a brunette to come along. I didn’t miss the opportunity of a lifetime because “this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.”
I wish I could say I was that flexible with all my expectations.
When I graduated from college with a degree in illustration, I expected I’d make my living as a freelance illustrator. A year into that pursuit led me to realize that I really hated taking orders drawing what other people wanted me to draw.
So I shifted all my attention to a comic strip I had been developing called Kim & Jason. I expected that I’d make my mark in the world by following in the footsteps of Charles Schulz and Bill Watterson.
I put everything into it for six years. Along the way, I fell into speaking, and it started to bring in money. Way more than the comic strip. I eventually made the difficult decision to retire Kim & Jason so I could double down on what was working.
With that decision, it felt that the naysayers were proven right: I really couldn’t make it as an artist. But the only reason they seemed right is that my expectations were wrong.
I once heard a talk by Fr. Mike Schmitz in which he said, “Expectations are a thief of peace.”
I recoiled at the idea at first, because I associate expectations with hope, and hope is good. If expectations are the thief of peace, is the antidote to become a pessimist? Lower the bar? Settle for mediocrity? Slack off? That seemed less than ideal.
Then it occurred to me: An expectation is a prediction.
It’s a prediction about what you think — and maybe even hope — will happen. Sometimes it’s little more than wishful thinking, but it could be a legitimate educated guess with actual data to back it up. And sometimes your prediction is correct and your expectations are met.
But it’s still a prediction.
One you might be making with a wildly insufficient lack of information.
Before I actually started freelancing, I didn’t know how I’d feel creating things that didn’t light me up. When I began my comic strip, I didn’t realize how quickly the internet would decimate newspapers and change the landscape. And back then, I didn’t know anything about the business of professional speaking.
Take a quick review of your life right now. How much current frustration, pain, or sadness is the result of circumstances turning out differently from what you expected?
Is holding on to what didn’t happen keeping you from appreciating all the great things that did and are happening now?
Maybe you can relate to this simple example. Recently, I had a wonderful, tremendously productive day that felt like a failure. One project took waaaay longer than I expected, blowing my to-do list to smithereens. Although some tasks got pushed to another day, I accomplished a few other things I hadn’t planned and took advantage of the unseasonably warm day to enjoy an invigorating walk in the sunshine. It ended with a delicious dinner with my beautiful bride.
By all objective measures, it was a very good day. But it didn’t feel like it.
The thing that soured it?
My expectations.
The day simply didn’t line up according to the timing and order of my expectations. Because some to-dos were left unchecked — even though other great elements were added — somehow it felt like I failed.
This is not a cautionary tale against planning or a list of pro tips to bulletproof your plans. It’s a reminder that it’s hard to appreciate accomplishments when they are in the same room as even one unmet expectation, one missed goal, or one unforeseen event that was out of your control.
In the battle between reality and expectations, reality is undefeated.
Expectations really are a thief of peace. They can ruin a day or derail our dream if we’re not careful.
I believe that God plants dreams in our hearts. The details we imagine in the early stages create enthusiasm that serves as fuel to get moving. But oftentimes, those details reflect immaturity, a lack of imagination, or are limited by the fact that we don’t yet have the relationships, technology, or knowledge that will eventually help us to get there.
Art was my first love; the first talent I discovered, and the one that was most nurtured early in my life. It’s easy to see why I would have the expectation of making it as an artist.
But that was before I took a creative writing class in high school.
It was before I discovered a gift for public speaking in college.
It was before I realized “professional speaker” was an actual job.
And it was before I figured out that my art, writing, and speaking could be combined to create something unique and bigger than the sum of their parts.
Like many people, when I was a young adult, I expected my career to go a certain way. It went a different direction, filled with opportunities and experiences I didn’t even know were possible when I was an 18-year-old kid.
But thirty years ago, if I had been given the choice between my original expectations and a full picture of how my life turned out, I’d choose my current reality.
Every. Single. Time.
And yet, here’s the crazy part: because it doesn’t match up with my original expectation — you know, the one I had when I was a naive, inexperienced teenager — I am sometimes tempted to wonder where I went wrong.
Expectations are a thief of peace.
Holding on to expectations that don’t match reality is a terrific way to go through life frustrated and disappointed.
When we become resentful of missed expectations, we are in danger of also missing other opportunities and blessings we didn’t see coming.
The astronaut in this painting represents a dreamer.
This dreamer has always possessed a spirit of adventure and imagined a life spent exploring the unknown, pushing past the boundaries of human understanding, and experiencing the supernatural enchantment. The dreamer expected this would happen as an astronaut in the context of space.
Instead, the dreamer’s story ended up in the ocean after a visit to Sea World, and now days are spent adventurously exploring the unknown and experiencing enchantment in encounters with sea creatures.
So…did this dreamer’s dream go unfulfilled?
My friend Jessica has some good advice about how we should handle our expectations: “When you write that first story, print it as a draft, triple-spaced with extra wide margins. You do this because you’re anticipating edits.”
Letting go of expectations is not about being pessimistic. One can be optimistic without becoming a slave to expectations. My optimism is grounded in the fact that God has ALL the data, loves me more than I deserve, and tells the best stories. We can make plans and hope for things to go a certain way, while still holding loosely to them, trusting that God may have different (and better!) ones.
If you want more peace in your life, don’t abandon hope.
“Rodeo Dolphin” by Jason Kotecki. 20 x 20. Oil on canvas. Original is available. 🔴 Shop this art!
This painting is a little bit crazy.
Some people will be quick to point out that cowboys don’t ride dolphins. They’ll scoff that dolphins don’t belong in the sky. They’ll demand an explanation about the meaning of it all.
Those were the same kind of people who scoffed at the Wright Brothers for having the audacity of thinking they could build a flying machine. Humans can’t fly, they said. They don’t belong in the sky, they scoffed. They demanded an explanation for why these two, with no college education, no formal technical training, no experience working with anyone other than themselves, no friends in high places, no financial backers, no government subsidies, and little money of their own, would ever think they could achieve such an absurdity?
To be fair, for more than fifty years, many others before them served as a source of comic relief, mocked and ridiculed in the press for their delusions of grandeur and “childish” flying machines.
Somehow, and to our benefit, this did not deter Wilbur and Orville Wright.
History is filled with people criticized for being crazy.
But, as it’s been said, monuments are not built for critics and statues are not dedicated to fault-finders.
Very often, our dreams appear absurd, especially to others. And especially the big ones.
A horseless carriage?
A self-powered flying machine?
A pocket-sized device you can use to communicate with anyone in the world?
What will they think of next? A flying car? A colony on Mars? A cure for cancer?
This reminder is not reserved for the select few who change world history and have statues erected in their honor. I make a living doing what I love from my studio on the shores of Lake Michigan. Trust me, in the early days of our business, when Kim and I were living on a diet largely dependent on Hamburger Helper and couldn’t afford to run our air conditioning during the hot summer, every bit of my current life seemed far-fetched, to say the least.
Of course, you can’t count on every dream coming true.
But you can count on somebody calling you crazy for dreaming it.
“Sunshine In My Soul” by Jason Kotecki. 12 x 12. Oil on canvas. Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!
I do not know how people survive without faith in this dark world.
Perhaps it’s why our rates of depression, anxiety, and suicide are at all-time highs. My faith is like having sunshine in my soul. No matter how heavy the storm or dark the night, there is a joy that never dissipates, giving me hope.
I did not always have this faith. Like many, my perception of God came from the reflection of Him I saw in others. Often, it was a pretty distorted version.
But there were people I encountered who were in alignment with the merciful, mighty, and loving Father I have come to know and love.
This is the God whose light I pray shines forth from my work, so that others may see, believe, and experience this sunshine in their soul.
“The Armada” by Jason Kotecki. 16 x 16. Oil on canvas. Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!
Quick! You’re on the beach with a friend and you spot something approaching on the horizon. To your amazement, you make out an armada of giant rubber ducks coming to shore. What is your reaction?
Are you excited? Overjoyed? Concerned? Skeptical? Worried? Afraid?
Are they visitors or invaders?
Do they bring good tidings or dark intentions?
Sometimes a painting can just be a fun picture that makes you smile. And sometimes it contains a deeper meaning. I asked people on social media to share their perceptions of this painting, and it may or may not surprise you that their responses varied greatly:
“Pure joy. I have a jacket printed with rubber ducks. They always make me smile, as does the ocean, and riding my bike!”
“Here comes whimsy!”
“Hope is on the horizon.”
“I’m a little worried.”
“Terrified.”
“Invasion from a Trojan Horse.”
“Plastic pollution and impending doom from climate change.”
It turns out that the meaning of this painting, as well as the meaning of almost everything in life, is largely determined by you.
Our perceptions impact our actions. For example, whether you’d run for cover or organize a welcoming party would depend on whether you see these rubber ducks as friends or foes. One side sees the other as hopelessly naive. The other side sees the other as paranoid. Both sides have a point.
If we respond too enthusiastically, we might fall into a trap.
If we respond with animosity, we may sabotage any chance of something good happening.
We can assume the best, assume the worst, or…perhaps the best, wisest, most productive thing we can do is keep an open mind and wait and see.
Now, let’s put the shoe on the other flipper. Imagine if you’re one of those ducks. You’re fun. Lots of people like you. You want to be helpful and bring joy to others. You’re new in town, but you have good intentions. But what are those locals on the shore thinking?
Do they see you as a visitor or an invader?
Do they think you bring good tidings or dark intentions?
We’ve all been the new guy. The new kid in class. The newest employee. Or, most recently for us, the new family in town. I like to think of this painting as a metaphor for our mission to bring wonder and whimsy to distant shores. I unveiled it at the first Wondernite we hosted in Sheboygan, having moved from Madison two years earlier. As relative unknowns, we wondered if anyone would come.
It turned out to be our biggest and best one yet.
It’s scary to consider what the natives might think of you. You feel like you stick out like a sore thumb because it seems obvious that everyone can tell you’re not familiar with the local culture, the shorthand, the inside information that everyone else takes for granted.
It’s tempting to want to appear big and important. Maybe pretend to be something you’re not. After all, you’ve got a clean slate. None of these new people know all your history and baggage. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, so it’s a chance to put forth something impressive.
I’ve found it’s easier, more effective, and frankly, less exhausting to just be yourself. People are drawn to authenticity, and we are very good at spotting a fake. Your weird flag may not inspire everyone, but it will attract your people.
It’s more beneficial to check your expectations.
If you expect the natives to be hostile, you’re likely to protect yourself by being hesitant and withdrawn, which may make you appear cold and aloof to others. But be warned: if you assume the locals will be hostile and unwelcoming, guess what you’re likely to get.
You see, there is this thing called confirmation bias. (Perhaps you’ve heard of it.) It’s applicable whether or not you see yourself as the kids on the beach or the newcomers floating to shore. How it works is that we make an initial judgment or tell ourselves a story about a person, group, or situation. Then we reflexively look for evidence that supports our case and confirms our bias.
Meanwhile, we subconsciously filter out any information that runs contrary to our story. We interpret new information as being supportive of the opinions we already hold, and it doesn’t matter how poorly it fits. Our dutifully protective brain finds a way without us having much of a say.
If you think your spouse is ignoring you, you’ll be on the lookout for all the evidence to make your case.
If you expect to have an awesome day, your antenna will be up and scanning for proof all day long.
If you think Republicans are the worst, you will notice and remember every example that proves your point.
If you think Democrats are the enemy, well, you get the point.
So…what if we paused at the very beginning to realize we don’t yet know the truth and take a wait-and-see approach? Thanks to confirmation bias, if you expect the best in others, the odds are better you’ll find it.
This might just be a fun, whimsical painting that makes you smile.
Perhaps something light-hearted to hang in your bathroom.
It might also be a reminder to always be yourself while giving other people a chance to do the same.
“Surfer Chicken” by Jason Kotecki. 16 x 16. Oil on canvas. Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!
I’ve watched surfers in Hawaii, San Diego, and yes, even here in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, which is also known as “The Malibu of the Midwest.”
The majority of a surfer’s time seems to be spent paddling, floating, and waiting. From what I hear, it’s all worth it, because the feeling you experience when you’re in the middle of a great wave, having timed it just right, is a moment of euphoria.
I feel like I have some sense of this as an artist. There are moments when I’m in the zone at my easel, when time stands still, every brush stroke feels pre-ordained, and the joy of creating fills my soul.
But in between, there is the fishing for ideas, prepping the canvas, preparatory drawings and color studies, uncertain brushstrokes, frustration in mixing just the right color, constant distractions, and results that don’t match the vision in my head.
The moment of euphoria — the small sliver of time in the zone — truly does make it all worth it.
The magic doesn’t just happen, though. It requires a routine. You have to pull on your wetsuit. You have to lug your surfboard to the beach. You have to get out on the water. You have to put yourself in a position for the perfect wave. You have to wait and wait…and wait.
I learned this as a cartoonist. When I was creating my comic strip, Kim & Jason, I spent time every morning writing. Most of the time, this so-called “writing” looked an awful lot like staring blankly into space. (Like how much of surfing looks like sitting on a surfboard floating in the water.) I realized that the key was committing to the entire time, no matter what, even if that meant I came away with zero ideas. Because a few minutes of staring blankly into space has a way of making you feel pretty foolish. You think of all the other things you have to get done, rationalize that maybe you just don’t have it today, and you’d be better served to switch to something more “productive.”
This is a trap! I reframed the win as sitting there for the whole thirty minutes, not coming up with a great idea.
Putting in the time, regardless of the result, is the key. Sometimes it involved jotting down ideas that weren’t very good (much like a surfer mistiming a wave or committing to one that peters out). More times than not, the best ideas came at the very end, after a long stretch of nothing.
I also discovered that ideas came more easily when I was faithful to the daily habit. Too long a break dried up the well and made staring back up even harder.
No matter what our activity of interest, we want to experience the sexy highlights, like gliding effortlessly across a rushing wall of water, or putting the finishing touches on a masterpiece.
But committed dedication to the practice is how you get there.
A surfer who goes out every day is the one most likely to catch the wave when it comes. And because she is out there every day, practicing and honing the craft, when the ultimate wave does come, she’s more likely to have the skill to catch it properly and ride it as well and for as long as possible. She will possess the experience to make the most of that moment.
The fisherman who fishes every day has the best chance of making the best catch.
The runner who runs every day has the best chance of completing the marathon.
The writer who writes every day has the best chance of writing something great.
The parent who spends time with their child every day has the best chance of creating a memory that will last a lifetime or having a conversation that changes a life.
It’s easy to desire the moment of euphoria.
It’s even easier to give up too quickly when that moment feels too hard or too long in coming.
The in-between parts are long, hard, and boring. They are also normal. Don’t let them take you by surprise and trick you into quitting too soon.
You can’t predict or summon the ultimate wave on demand, just as you can’t predict or summon a great idea.
But you can make yourself ready to make the most of it when it comes.
“To Sheboygan with Love” by Jason Kotecki. 16 x 16. Oil on canvas. Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!
On our very first date, Kim and I agreed to live on a lake.
As we began the process of getting to know each other, we got talking about our ideal place to live. For some reason, Idaho was mentioned. (When you grow up in a small town in Illinois surrounded by cornfields, almost everywhere feels more exotic.) We talked of mountains and potatoes (obviously), but pine trees and lakes took precedence.
We both agreed that living on a lake surrounded by tall pine trees would be an ideal place to settle down. (We didn’t necessarily know it would be together.)
The two of us dated for five years before getting married, and that vision of lake living stayed with us. We never lived on any of the four lakes that make up the heart and soul of Madison, Wisconsin, in the twenty years we called it home. We did spend hours and hours walking along those lakes, dreaming and scheming together, trying our best to figure out how to make it happen.
We were also open to other lakes in other locations. We just knew it needed to be bigger than a pond, something large enough to accommodate a pontoon boat. We tried on lots of places, including Idaho, where we finally visited for the first time while celebrating our twentieth wedding anniversary. After all those years, we couldn’t shake the dream of living on a lake.
We never anticipated it would be a Great one.
Sheboygan didn’t hit our radar until one day during the height of the pandemic. A friend of ours knew our dream. He took note of the fact that we often took vacations near the ocean because we loved the sound of the waves, and suggested we check out Lake Michigan (which looks a lot like an ocean when you’re standing on the shore, unable to see the other side).
The idea had never occurred to us. We pulled up a map and surveyed the cities east coast of Wisconsin. What about Sheboygan? I had spoken there once, and remember enjoying a few moments I had to spend sitting by the lake. We googled it, and learned it was known as the Bratwurst Capitol of the World and the Malibu of the Midwest because of its unique geographical qualities that provide ideal surfing conditions.
That kicked off a magical and miraculous journey, a long story made short by saying we now live in Sheboygan. On a lake.
This painting celebrates Sheboygan, the funny-sounding city on the shores of Lake Michigan, known for brats and surfing. But it also represents our prayers.
Saying a prayer is like launching a message in a bottle into the ocean. Once a prayer leaves your heart, you lose all control. You hope it reaches God, but once it floats out of sight, it’s easy for doubt to creep in: Did it get lost? Swallowed by a shark? Did it reach its destination only to be rejected or forgotten? You might be tempted to wonder how you could have been so foolish to trust in such an uncontrollable, unpredictable, mysterious method. Did you think this would actually work?
Our prayer to live on a lake was a message in a bottle. It floated out there for two decades.
The dream felt more and more foolish as the years wore on and our business took longer to grow than we’d expected. There were times I thought the dream was lost at sea. There were moments I wished it really was, because I was so weary from wondering what happened to it. I figured it would be easier, and less painful, to have never dreamed the dream or prayed the prayer at all.
Maybe you have a prayer like that, a message in a bottle that you’re certain is lost. I can’t tell you how your prayer will be answered, but I know for sure it’s not lost. It’s definitely not forgotten.
Somehow, our prayers find our way back, with answers washing up on unexpected shores at unexpected times. But it’s always at exactly the right time and delivers exactly what we need, even if it looks different than we imagined.
God will not let you miss your future.
It takes faith to release a prayer into the great unknown, and that faith is always rewarded.
“Evening Show” by Jason Kotecki. 24 x 30. Oil on canvas. Original is SOLD. 🔴 Shop this art!
A clear night sky is a thing of beauty, with millions of stars blinking silently overhead.
It’s a pity we rarely notice them.
In an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, Larry David is speaking with a receptionist at a law firm who has a spectacular view of the city behind her. “Beautiful view here! How long did it take you to take it for granted?”
She replies, “Umm, not long I guess.”
He candidly admits, “It would take me about a day. Maybe less. Maybe half an hour. And I would never look out the window again.”
How quickly we take wonder for granted.
This painting was inspired by a passage I read in the book The Sense of Wonder, by conservationist Rachel Carson, who wrote about a summer her grandnephew visited her cottage in Maine, and together they wandered the surrounding woods and tide pools.
She recounted a particular evening when they gazed in awe at one of those breathtaking night skies:
“It occurred to me that if this were a sight that could be seen only once in a century or even once in a human generation, this little headland would be thronged with spectators. But it can be seen many scores of nights in any year, and so the lights burned in the cottages, and the inhabitants probably gave not a thought to the beauty overhead; and because they could see it almost any night perhaps they will never see it.”
Because they could see it almost any night, perhaps they will never see it.
This painting takes its inspiration from those lights burning in the cottages, with the inhabitants giving not a thought of the beauty overhead.
What if a party of giant glowing jellyfish appeared above your town and put on a light show? Surely that would get your attention.
But what if it happened every year? Every week? Every night? How long would it take before everyone stopped caring?
Not as long as you’d think.
Apollo 11 landed on the moon. It was a huge source of national pride. Half a billion people were glued to their television sets watching the historic achievement.
Nine months later—nine months!—flights to the moon had already become boring. By the time Apollo 13 came around, the television networks didn’t even bother covering the launch or broadcasting the live video of the crew from space because they felt there wasn’t enough interest. Nobody wanted their soap operas or game shows interrupted by another group of heroes doing what most people had never done before. Only until Apollo 13 got into trouble did anyone care.
We grow numb to wonder.
Look around you. What are you taking for granted? What are you missing?
Be honest: When was the last time you gazed at the stars?
Stood in awe at a sunrise bursting forth with color on the horizon?
Sat in silence amidst the peace of a placid snowfall?
I don’t know about you, but I am disgusted by this propensity to grow numb to wonder.
But can we do anything about it?
Fortunately, Rachel Carson shows us a way:
“One way to open your eyes to unnoticed beauty is to ask yourself, ‘What if I had never seen this before? What if I knew I would never see it again?”
One painting and two powerful questions remind us to keep our eyes peeled for the wonder all around us.
“If There Was A Problem” by Jason Kotecki. 16 x 20. Oil on canvas. Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!
What if your biggest problem isn’t a problem at all?
I love watching otters do meal prep.
They float on their back as they work to open an oyster for lunch. They put off a nonchalant vibe, like they’re nursing a margarita on an inflatable raft in a pool at an all-inclusive resort. They have the cool confidence of Vanilla Ice, who famously rapped, “If there was a problem yo, I’ll solve it.”
The situation is actually a matter of life and death because if they don’t eat, they don’t last long. But of course, they are well-suited for the task, so their body language gives away the fact that there’s not much drama involved.
I wonder how our lives would look if we went about our challenges the same way, looking at our problems more like…brain teasers. What if we saw them as fun puzzles to solve, like oysters that just take a bit of patience and persistence to crack open? Too often, we (and when I say we, I mean me, but perhaps you can relate), run around in a frenzied state, lamenting the sorry state of our affairs and worried that we’ve already eaten our last meal.
I, for one, have perfected the craft of rejoicing over all the times God has blessed me and provided for me, while feeling absolutely certain that He’s forgotten about me this time. Sure, there was that time I never thought I’d be brave enough to make it through freshman year. That time we had less than $100 in the checking account. That time, the mechanic left a rag in the engine that prevented us from decelerating on the highway. And the time we came home from vacation to find bullet holes and glass in our living room.
Sure, those all worked out ok. But this time…?
Sometimes I look back at old journal entries and come across my account of a five-alarm dumpster fire written as if it were the sign of the pending apocalypse. With a few years of hindsight, I often have to work to even remember the event.
Like just today, I stumbled across an old photo of a car that had been in an accident. The hood was crumpled like a Shar-Pei, and it reminded me a lot of a silver Grand Am we used to have. Upon further inspection, it was our Grand Am, and memories flooded back of a fender-bender that happened after a family outing at the zoo. That, too, seemed like a disaster at the time. It was apparently so disruptive to my life that I’d forgotten all about it until I saw the photo in my photostream.
We encountered a problem, we solved it, and life went on.
Most problems in life are like that.
I’m not suggesting we ignore our problems or pretend they don’t exist, but merely to reframe them as cosmic crossword puzzles to decipher, a Rubik’s cube to solve.
It’s realizing that problems are a part of life, and the only people without them are taking up residence in those extended stay resorts called cemeteries. It’s about acknowledging that most problems are not as catastrophic as they feel. It’s about maintaining an attitude that problems are solvable while refusing to underestimate our ability to solve them.
And it’s about accepting that even if you don’t solve the problem right away, even if you’re still trying to crack that baby open, that’s ok, too.
What if we adopted the frame that these problems are not sent to destroy us, but to keep our minds sharp? Novelist and poet Wendell Berry reminds us that, “The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.”
Perhaps the next time we encounter a problem – especially the kind that leaves us hysterical – we can try a little harder to adopt the posture of an otter with an oyster. Yes, it’s important. But it’s figureoutable and nothing to panic over. Maybe the calm would give us the clarity we need. Maybe an air of nonchalance would invite the playful spirit we need to crack the case.
We are more creative than we give ourselves credit for. We are stronger than we feel. And we are loved by a God who is stronger still.
Like the otter, we are well-suited to overcome any problem we encounter.
“Teenage Mutant Ninja Sea Turtle” by Jason Kotecki. 40 x 40. Oil on canvas. Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!
If the movies taught me anything, it’s that superheroes wear spandex.
We’ve been led to believe that superheroes are special. They come from another planet. They are blessed with superhuman abilities. They are super smart, or rich, or got involved in some sort of dangerous science experiment that turned out ok. They typically wear cool outfits while traveling in cool vehicles and wielding cool accessories.
Also, their muscles have muscles.
This painting is an homage to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, who, when they first emerged from the sewer in 1984, clearly challenged the notion of what heroes are supposed to look like.
The truth is, real heroes hardly ever look like they do in the movies.
Oftentimes, they look a lot like you.
The turtle in this painting has emerged from its comfortable ocean surroundings and is wearing a mask that symbolizes two important concepts.
The first is that it’s not all about us.
Superheroes often hide their identity, giving them a sense of anonymity. Real heroes don’t do it for the glory, and they don’t demand credit. They serve a cause greater than themselves, and their chief motivation is doing the right thing and helping others. The mask can serve as a physical reminder that it’s not about us.
Secondly, the mask gives us permission to act “as if.”
Part of the reason children and adults alike enjoy wearing Halloween costumes is that it gives us permission to be someone different. The mask can be an opportunity to wander outside our comfort zone and try on a new way of acting, to be someone better than perhaps we believe we are. I like the advice from Joe Rogan, who suggested that if you’re unsure about what action to take in a particular situation, ask what the hero in the movie would do. In the beginning, it might feel a lot like acting, but that way of acting might just stick, and before you know it, you’ll end up doing something that once seemed superheroic.
Ultimately, being a hero is not about how you look, what you wear, or where you come from.
This painting challenges the notion of what superheroes look like and reminds us that in order to become one, we might need to leave our comfort zone in order to take action.
It might be serving a cause greater than ourselves, standing up for what’s right, regardless of how unpopular it makes us.
It might be standing up to the bully at work (or the one in our head).
It’s often as simple as staying under the radar and just helping someone who needs help, whether it’s a child, an elderly neighbor, or a random guy struggling to load something into his car.
We are all called to be heroes.
This calling may require sacrifice, a bit of discomfort, and a new way of acting, but it doesn’t require spandex.
