I’ve always hated it when adults—both the fictional and non-fictional in my life—offer some exasperated trope about “teenagers being teenagers.” As if they (or any of us) have no other choice but to suffer the rebellious, obnoxious, distant, and disrespectful behavior expected of metamorphosing children. It’s an “established” cultural fact that teenagers behave this way. They withdraw from their parents, shut their bedroom door for four years, offer only monosyllabic answers, treat their siblings and elders with contempt, and generally become disagreeable know-it-alls.

The trope is earned. The above description pretty well fits me in my teenage years. Clearly something inherent about the way a teenager’s life (and body) changes during those years pushes them in the direction of withdrawal and rebellion. But is it inevitable? Or could it be that culture and parents fulfill their own prophecy of resignation by resigning in the first place?

I use this example to illustrate the generally poisonous attitude of resignation. I find it especially toxic in the arena of parenting and marriage: my weathered forerunners patting me on the proverbial back and telling me that “you’ll never really understand women, son,” or “that first year of marriage will be euphoric but then it all goes downhill from there.” Sometimes the resignation is accompanied by a hearty, knowing laugh, but it’s usually spiked with at least a tinge of bitterness and resentment. “This is the way life is,” they essentially say. “We may not like it, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

I admire people who choose to stick out their crummy marriage or keep plugging away as parents to unappreciative children. Surely there is some virtue in resigning to endure despite oppressive circumstances. But—speaking as an (admittedly potentially naïve) young buck just striking out—your worldly-wise, exhausted, and cynical advice is…well, awful. It is cynicism and resentment dressed up as wisdom, and it poisons our expectations of what life will be like (if we choose to adopt your view).

Marriage will undoubtedly be challenging, but it doesn’t have to be a nightmare. Children will undoubtedly be frustrating, but my relationship with them doesn’t have to be that of a parole officer and his keep. My career will certainly take dips and even nosedives, but it doesn’t have to be the slave master I resentfully report to 40 hours every week till I’m 65. Your life experience does not have to be my experience, and—with an attitude adjustment—your current experience does not have to be your future experience.

Sunday marks the first anniversary of magical vows spoken which supernaturally morphed Alison and I into an indestructible (half-male, half-female) cyborg. At midnight on May 15, our powers will grow exponentially stronger. Each year the transformation will reach a new stage of development—we will amass new strength and new abilities, and in the process shed old weaknesses and mortal failings. Anniversary by anniversary, our collective mind will absorb the two separate minds, elevating us to a higher level of consciousness. We will increasingly become ONE FLESH, one impervious entity of indescribable power.

…or something like that.

I still haven’t totally figured out this whole marriage thing. The rules and mythology are still a bit hazy. But I have observed several fascinating phenomena during this first year, and they inspire and inform my imagination about what matrimonial wonders are yet to come.

For instance, I notice that I operate at optimal levels when with Alison. The occasional solitude is nice, but my power supply begins to run low when away from my other half. I run smoother and perform better when synced up with Alison. From this I can only deduce that my performance (when alone) reveals the weak, half-state I was in before drinking the vial of marital union—and that when we are together we operate with the force of two vitalities. Simply marvelous.

It may only be in the larval stages, but we are also beginning to inherit each other’s personality—forming one new super personality. Our ways of talking, senses of what’s funny, culinary preferences, choice of literature, and theological framework are all starting to meld into an entirely brand new person. It’s difficult from within to see whose old personality is the dominant one (if there isn’t total equilibrium), but there is no doubt that a miraculous synthesis is taking place.

Unfortunately Alison and I still can’t read each other’s thoughts—although we are getting better. I imagine that power comes along (in its fullness) a bit later. I’ve learned this year that, despite our growing abilities, I still have to communicate what I’m thinking with Alison, especially when it’s a matter of great concern to her. Eventually our minds and thoughts will effortlessly operate in tandem, but until then I have to remember to verbalize.

What new marvels lay in store for our union? What strange new powers will we come to possess? All I can do is stand down in awe of the mighty wonder that transpires when TWO BECOME ONE.

I constantly wrestle with what is the right tone, content, and emphasis of this blog. After every third essay I publish, I hate myself for being narcissistic. Who really wants to read my loving ode to extinct Disney attractions or my Honda Accord? Who cares—besides (maybe) my mom and grandmothers—how I feel about my inadequacies of articulation or memory? But then I think, Well, this is a personal blog. Isn’t it assumed I’ll be writing about myself? Referring back to the charter I outlined in my maiden post,

this here blog will be a place where I log the things that I’m thinking about, things that are happening in my life, things I would like to see generate some discussion, and funny videos of cats getting hurt.

Now, I’ll admit, there has been an embarrassing dearth of cats-getting-hurt videos, and indeed, anything cat-related. But I’d say the general promise from that inaugural essay is pretty much what I’ve delivered on (which just goes to show how craftily safe I played it on the campaign trail).

Feedback to a recent Facebook question assured me that my readers enjoy a more buffet-like approach (topically) to the blog, rather than a single concentration. This came as a relief—both as affirmation of the blog as it is, and because I have so much more freedom when I’m only limited by my own creativity.

Here’s the rub. The one area of my life which is, arguably (and ideally), the most significant is my faith—and that’s the one area I’ve been shy to explore on here. Partly that’s because I have a pretty diverse audience (which I am thankful for), and the rule at any polite dinner table is “no politics or religion.” I don’t want to chase any one group off by favoring a niche topic, and I especially don’t want to scare readers off with soapbox, and potentially suffocating, material.

This was never “a Christian blog,” and I don’t really want it to be. But I also feel it’s dishonest for me to muffle the most important element in my life. So how do I broach topics of cosmic and spiritual proportions without smoking out my nonreligious friends or offending my religious friends (and family) who might be shocked at my stance on various doctrinal matters? I definitely don’t want this to turn into a platform for religious debate or heated discussions, and yet I would love to stimulate deep discussion in the comments.

Yes it’s my blog, my turf, my party. I can write about anything I want. But I’d prefer not to end up standing here talking to myself.

I believe in the afterlife. I believe there is a heaven and a hell. Just don’t ask me for particulars, because they are in short supply and tend to change from day to day. One thing I don’t believe in, however, is reincarnation. This is largely because my beliefs about the afterlife are framed by what is revealed in the Bible, and there is no suggestion in its pages that our souls have more than one go-round on this crazy Ferris wheel. But all theology aside, on a purely philosophical and aesthetic basis I find the idea of reincarnation unappealing.

What has prompted such cosmic thoughts was my recent completion of both the 1998 film and 1978 novel, What Dreams May Come—Richard Matheson’s imaginative exploration of what awaits us after we die. Matheson, apparently through extensive research, attempted to merge the eschatological beliefs of diverse cultures and religions into one comprehensive picture of heaven and hell. After the protagonist has plumbed the riches and horrors of both, he opts to be reincarnated in the body and life of another person. This is presented as a common (and even ideal) choice for the inhabitants of the hereafter, a means of taking another stab at life (making better choices, gaining new experiences), and of refining the soul in order to reach higher levels of heaven.

After traveling through the life, death, and afterlife of this prototypical man, the prospect of being reincarnated and doing life again with a clean—and different model—slate strikes me as absolutely…exhausting. Why would he want to do it all over again? This life is great in many ways, sure, but even the ecumenical alloy and New Age fuzz of the novel’s heaven would be superior to the literal world of hurt we’re living in (and I believe the biblical vision of heaven is that much more beautiful than the book’s). The thought of finally reaching the finish line only to reenter the race in a completely different pair of legs makes me dog tired.

Of course, the truth is not subject to my whims or aesthetic preferences—so I would need to dive deeper if I really wanted to grapple with the doctrine of reincarnation. But strictly as a matter of choice and taste, I dislike the idea of it. I can definitely accept that my soul needs further refinement and growth even after I kick this corporeal can—and believe that God has some mechanism for doing just that (Now perhaps He grasps the hilt; weighs the new weapon; makes lightnings with it in the air. ‘A right Jerusalem blade.’). But please, let Him do so in the undiscovered country of the life to come—in the new spiritual frontier adjacent to this groaning, spent place.

There’s nothing like discovering (for yourself) a new band. Having migrated almost completely to the film music camp, long disillusioned with the formulaic predictability of popular music, it has been several years since I’ve known that experience. But I fondly recall the times in junior high, high school, and college when a song on the radio, a serendipitously soundtracked trip in someone’s car, or the linking of one favored band to another introduced me to an artist it seems I was destined to love.

Whether that discovery simply catches me up to the pace of popular culture, or ushers me into a secret club of “the initiated,” there is something profoundly personal about it—like making a new friend where everything just clicks.

The Denver station 97.3 KBCO introduced me to Moby (with his trancelike single “Porcelain”) and Chris Isaak (with the sweet, cyclical I-♭VI-IV lap of “Please”). Isaak became a constant companion throughout my high school years, his soulful crooning on numbers like “Somebody’s Crying” and “South of the Border” pouring out from my perpetually shut bedroom door—allowing me vicariously to experience romantic love and loss.

Then came the British occupation. I think it was my friend Padraic who introduced me to the Scottish band Travis, whose mellow albums The Man Who and The Invisible Band drifted through the open windows of my car like a summer breeze. And then, around the same time as rest of the world, I was bewitched by Coldplay—the seeds quietly planted with the oft-played “Yellow,” then coaxed to full bloom with my exposure to the lovely, lovelorn anthem “In My Place” through an episode of Smallville.

Some discovered artists were shortlived affairs, sustained only by a catchy single or solitary album (Tal Bachman, anyone?). Others, undeniably guilty pleasures, nestled themselves into my good graces far beyond their artistic shelf lives (I draw the jury’s attention to Exhibit A: the Backstreet Boys). And then there were the really special artists, with whom it was only a matter of time before I found and became lifelong friends: Elton John, Michael Jackson, and Rufus Wainwright among their elite number.

Discovering a favorite artist—discovering music in general—is one of life’s simplest and sweetest pleasures. An infectious melody surfing the airwaves directly into your head—the slow, adventurous journey through a prolific artist’s treasure-filled catalogue. No matter the scale of the band’s appeal, whether they play arenas or pubs, you discovered them and you love them. You proclaim them like an allegiance, and cherish them like a dear friend.

Through the referral by some music-savvy friends (and the instant gratification of the internet), I recently discovered the British band (this is a pattern), Elbow. Time alone will tell, of course, whether this new friend (whose layered, orchestral rock won me almost immediately) will remain in my inner circle throughout the harsh years of new releases, band breakups, and my ever-changing tastes. They may fall by the wayside of my life’s musical path, as so many others have before them. But that sheer rush of discovery, those first blessed listens to a captivating new album—when the brightest sparks of the best songs keep burning in my mind, driving me to return and listen again and again—that is an unparalleled pleasure which always has about it the wild, boundless texture of youth.