Author: joshwiley

Having spent the first 18 years of my life growing up in Pakistan, I now live in Canada with my beautiful wife, Michelle. I teach in a small rural school in Alberta and am passionate about culture, travel, languages, history, writing and sports. This blog has been a way to process my thoughts over the years, and is a continually evolving space that transitions with my own heart through life.
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The journey is more important than the destination

My four-year-old cousin and I play quite a few games together when I visit from college. He is really quite a smart little guy, so most of the time I try hard to beat him at his games – and usually do. He’s quite a sore loser, so I’ve taken it upon myself to give him lots of practice.

Yesterday we were playing Rummikub, by his own rules, of course. It was very much like Calvinball in many ways, for those who know how Calvinball is played. Ben would dump all the tiles out on the floor and tell me we could choose whatever tiles we liked. Then, once our racks were full, we began to play out our tiles a few at a time – the only real rule being that the tiles had to connect numerically with others in runs. But if one of us wasn’t able to play, he could easily pull a tile from the large pile, clearly visible to all.

In many ways, it was a very relaxing experience. Without any rules, clear objectives, or competition, the focus took a complete change. Instead of worrying about what we were trying to do or a point we were trying to reach, the entire enjoyment of the game came simply from the experience – just from playing. I think there’s something that needs to be learned from this kind of attitude – one where the journey is more important than the destination.

I have seen that phrase quoted often, but have never really understood it. Of course the destination is more important than the journey! Why bother going somewhere if you don’t care to get there? All that I could think of was the long trips in the mountains of Pakistan, where your bottom would ache for hours on end, and where the destination was pure relief – a chance to lie on your front and give your sore bottom a much-needed rest.

I think a great deal of our North American, or perhaps human, culture moves away from this kind of thinking. We focus so much on objectives and gain, that sometimes we forget to enjoy the moment. We get lost in the effort to go somewhere that we forget to enjoy here and now. We will strain so hard towards the peak that we forget to enjoy the climb and smell the flowers.

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Flying Cars and John Locke

When you are a child, there are some rules and facts that you are simply born with, which make complete logical sense to everyone at the time. I helped out with children’s church today, teaching some of the short story of the first part of Christmas, as well as playing cars with the kids after. I was reminded today of a simple fact of childhood: that if you open both a car’s doors at the same time, it is capable of airborne flight. No one questions it, in fact, I can hardly believe I had forgotten it at all.

However, we did have some problems with a little girl who, despite the fact that her monster truck could not open its doors, somehow thought it could fly and hunt down a similarly airborne police car. Foolish little girl. Maybe someday she’ll have some sense knocked into her – car’s only fly with their doors open!

One learns all sorts of things around children, the very first of which is that there is very little different between them and adults. It baffles me to think that someone would even consider John Locke’s ideas of children being ‘blank slates’. Which world did he live on? Perhaps very few would accept the philosophy if the realized the man never had any children himself! Only  imagine if he did. We would read instead of tabula stinky poopy anarchy. 

I mean, when it comes to children, I really think that, in many ways, William Golding’s Lord of the Flies has a great deal more to offer us. At least he had a wife and children. But seriously, who wouldn’t argue that people are born good. They only learn to be selfish, brutal, greedy liars by the time they are four because…. well, because of society – it’s their society of selfish greedy little four-year-olds that turns them evil really. And those other four year olds… they learned it from… well, it just wouldn’t be philosophy if it had any answers, would it?

As a side note, I just want to say that I am really looking forward to heaven. If every bad thing comes as a result of sin, I would put the need to use the toilet as a result of sin. Think about it, no poo poo means no potty, and no potty with the poo poo means no cleaning the poo poo potty! So, there’s one more thing to look forward to in heaven. Take comfort in that thought, for all those blessed enough to be reminded constantly that toilet hygiene comes at a price.

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Dishes, Dry Yourselves

I’m not quite sure what psychological phenomenon happened to me when I was young, but I hate drying dishes.

When I was younger and would have to wash the dishes at home, I think I hardly ever dried the dishes at all. In fact, I think I could probably count on my fingers the amount of times I dried the dishes. And I think I could even carry that over to putting the dishes away. How did that happen?

When I recollect my various times of doing the dishes, I remember someone would always clear the dish rack for me while I ran the water. It was not because I was unable to, but I always remember wither my mum or my dad telling me that they would clear the dish rack for me while I started. I can hardly remember a time when I actually had to put the dishes away.

Another factor that played into my strange dish-washing psychology is the fact that we have a huge dish-rack at our house. Large, and with three levels, one hardly had reason to run out of space for dishes and, if planned well, one could cram a piles of dishes into the space that was there. Besides, on rack, the dishes simply dried themselves, by no effort my own.

And so, somehow, from these various elements that made up my dish washing history, I spawned an aversion to drying dishes. I really don’t mind to wash them – in fact I find it a relaxing, almost therapeutic exercise – just don’t ask me to dry them.

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The Choices That Make Us

I yearn for pieces of my past – perhaps because they are pieces of me. Something as simple as eating my rice with my hands while sitting cross-legged on the couch – I love it.

These things never had this much importance to me. I certainly didn’t eat with my hands every day in Pakistan. But there’s something about it – something nostalgic that transcends experience. I find that I feel a greater desire to live stereotypes – to fulfill every expectation of the displaced immigrant, pining for home. I become that person. I choose to become him.

Everyone has their aspirations. Everyone wishes they were different in some way, whether for better or for worse. And there comes a time, or we can make it come, when we are faced with a choice to live that person. In many ways it really just comes down to that, a choice. Some people make it. They dress as if from another world, or act like they are from another time. They live and breathe a persona that they themselves invented, and eventually chose to live. They become that persona, that character.

I’ve never quite understood those people. The people who cut a path apart from everyone else. But I see the method in it. I too make choices that comprise who I am – we all do. Sometimes I even shape my surroundings with the hope that somehow they will bring me to be the person I want to be. That perhaps surrounding myself with books will make me read them, and that putting notebooks on my shelves, I will be forced to write in them.

Ultimately everyone makes choices of who they are. In many ways we are shaped by the world around us, but in many ways we are really shaped by the choices we make – the things we let in, and the things we leave out. I don’t have the flame-red hair, the 20s wardrobe, or piercings all over my face, but perhaps that just makes me who I am as well. I am a simple guy. I like books, and sometimes I read them. I keep a lot of notebooks, and sometimes I write in them. I like chai, rice and I eat pie for birthdays. I like international relations, cultures and colours. I serve a great God and I don’t belong in this world. I live because of something I had no control over, an act of incomprehensible grace – but I made a choice, and I live each day in the grace of that choice.

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My Brother, Inspiration

I had a brother once.
I knew him well.
I loved him.

He was my spark of life,
My hopeful glimmer,
My friend.

But as I grew,
and work set in,
I slowly shut him out.

Each day his cries
To play and talk,
Would fall on empty ears.

I had less time,
We seldom spoke,
And he was wearing thin.

Each time he came
I strangled him,
my hand upon his mouth.

Come later! Maybe then
I’ll have time to laugh,
to play with you

But he came less,
I didn’t notice-
Work was everything.

I stifled every sound
and wouldn’t let him breathe.
Slowly I forgot

I had a brother once.
I killed him.
Choked out every breath.