Dirt On Your Hands, In A Nutshell

I get asked a lot of questions about this site (really, an entire lot). So before we get back into the swing of things, let's get these inquiries out of the way. Here's who we are and what we do in a nutshell.

First of all, yes we are back.

Why?

It's simple. Last we spoke, we left with the impression that you had stepped things up a bit and decided that wading in the kiddie pool of mediocrity just wasn't for you. We thought that you were ready to dive in the deep end and breaststroke to the best life possible, setting rugged goals, taking direct action, and smirking like a Nike swoosh as you conquer each one of them.

It turns out we were wrong. Somewhere along the way, you got scared, bored, and complacent. You settled for settling and along the way your hands lost their hue and silt; they grew soft and pale. You cleaned up. Maybe we did, too.

                                              Not the good kind of settling.


We're back because to hell with that; because damn the torpedoes. We're back because join or die.

So, what is Dirt On Your Hands?

Again, it's simple. Hanging on the wall above my desk (notice the subtle change in voice) looms a framed 8.5"x11" piece of paper with no glass cover. On the paper sits a grid, fifty-two squares across and eighty squares down. Perched in the top left corner above the first square is my date of birth. Holding up the bottom right corner is the same date, eighty years later.

This aging, wrinkled page is my life*.

Each square represents a week of my life. Those weeks that I've already lived are filled in and every week that goes by is darkened accordingly.

So, what the hell is the point of this?

My life (and yours) is ending before my very eyes. The seconds that I spend on this earth are diminishing as I type this. They are counting down on Justin Timberlake's forearm. In short, we are inching closer to death every second.  This makes every moment precious. Minutes are money that you can't refund or exchange no matter how badly you want to. So, how are you going to spend those minutes?

                    "We'll move to Arizona, babe. They don't have daylight savings."

How many of those minutes are you going to spend in a classroom learning Algebra and Geography? How many are you going to spend in traffic driving to and from a job that you can only describe as "good enough"? How many of those minutes are you going to spend on the receiving end of cathode rays, mindless entertainment streaming in and out of your head while your heart rate crawls to a halt in what Kelly Starrett calls the "Sit of Death"?

Now how many minutes do you want to spend speaking a foreign language in its home country or slurring those words over a native feast? How many will you spend on the Pacific Crest Trail, watching the sun rise to your right and fall to your left with no other soul within a hundred miles to hog its rays? How many will be spent under a barbell, on a mat, or under the load of a rucksack, far away in hostile territory? How many will you spend reading books that shaped the world or writing the next words that will sharpen its edges? How many will you spend serving others? If the answer is more than one, you'll have to get your hands dirty.

Here's what it comes down to. In ten, twenty, thirty years or more, you may be a grandparent. Your grandkids are going to sit on your lap and like you probably did at their age, they'll want to hear stories. Are you going to tell them about all the episodes of Real Housewives that you've seen or your high score on Xbox; how many Tinder matches you have or the hours you waited in line for the new iPhone?

They're going to ask you why your hands are so soft and why you don't have any scars; why every picture in the house is of places you wished you'd gone. Are you going to answer with "well, I was going to but..."?

In a nutshell, we'd prefer you didn't.




*I stole this idea from Craig Weller.