Category Archives: B words

Business

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Business: (n) the practice of commerce.

“Business as usual.”

Maybe if we clarified what “usual” is, we might have a better idea of the true nature of business.

If by business we mean simply finding a way to create commerce without any real concern except profit margin, then we unleash an unruly effort on the world that doesn’t seem to answer to any higher guideline.

But if we know what the “usual” is of business, and that “usual” has productive roots, then business can be a good thing–matter of fact, the heart of every endeavor.

For even the Good Book tells us not to be slothful in business. What is slothful in business?

Anyone who starts a storefront or an Internet escapade should ask two questions:

  1. Is this needed?
  2. Can I maintain quality?

Because if it’s not needed, it not only will have a short life, but it continues to increase the cynicism about true ingenuity in the marketplace.

And if the essence of quality if sacrified to manufacturing costs, then people will cynically hold a broken piece of junk in their hands that makes them further suspicious of the world as a whole.

Slothful in business is when we’re more concerned with producing than we are with being productive.

Not every corporation needs to have a noble cause–but everyone who decides to market a product needs to be able to give a quick explanation of its purpose and value, and also a guarantee that it was put together with tender, loving care.

Anyone who thinks that’s unrealistic will probably find him or herself in a slothful profile. And anyone who asks the two magic questions–is it needed and can I maintain quality?–is helping to build the trust among humans that is necessary to keep us from self-destruction.

 

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Bushel

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Bushel: (n) a measure of capacity

The Good Book was written in ancient Mesopotamia, translated in Merry Old England when men wore powdered wigs, and is now trying to be understood by a Smart Phone generation.

Problematic.

One of the examples that immediately jumps to mind is that Jesus suggested that we should not hide our aspirations, talent and insight “under a bushel.”

That was the King James translation.

Dare I say that most of the people in this country under the age of thirty have probably never seen a bushel of anything.

Most of them would think the word “bushel” is a mispronunciation of our 43rd President.

Yet truth leaps over generational gaps and maintains its integrity. Therefore we should take obscure terms and translate to make them comprehensible. (And by the way, the more emotionally charged we can make that presentation, to give it lasting quality in the human spirit, the better.)

Therefore, what was once translated from the Good Book writers as a “bushel” really is a prison cell–a place where we lock ourselves up and cease growing because the fear of failure, inadequacy, and even the apprehension over accidentally doing something evil has left us lying on our bunk, biding time.

We’re still alive, we’re still breathing, we’re still consuming three square meals a day and every once in a while we stroll through the court yard. But we desperately try to avoid confrontations and we shower in fear.

A bushel is where you gather an abundance.

There is so much fruit that you can’t put it in a bag.

A little box won’t contain it.

It needs a bushel basket.

If we don’t believe that God has called us to be fruitful, we will arrive with a tiny teacup instead of showing up with a gallon jug.

 

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Bushed

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Bushed: (adj) tired out

“Be zealously affected by a good thing.”

What does it mean?

Allow ourselves to become emotionally stimulated, involved and energized by the fact that we’re pursuing something that has value.

There are two reasons:

First, it’s a lot easier to be successful when you’re excited about your pursuits.

But secondly, it quickly establishes the projects that have value and bring happiness, and those that don’t. If we decide to treat everything the same in our lives, we soon feel bushed–totally exhausted, carrying ourselves like a leaden weight from one mishap to the next.

There has to be a difference between the pleasure of going to a grocery store and buying food to eat, and cleaning the underneath of the refrigerator. If both evoke the same weary reaction, then you have accidentally turned your life into a grindstone instead of a merry-go-round.

Added onto that old adage of “being zealously affected by a good thing” should be the closing remark, “and be gloriously, deliciously tired over a sense of accomplishment.”

This is human life. This is why we are here.

Otherwise, our facial expressions and lack of passion simulate a premature death.

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Bush

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Bush: (n) a shrub or clump of shrubs

One of the more comical things to pursue is a return visit to the homestead of your youth, to discover that everything is half the size, half the beauty, half the value and therefore, half the blessing.

I did it.

I went back to my home and just had to giggle all through the process, peering at the lawn I was convinced was twenty acres in size when I had to mow it, but now seemed barely large enough for three children to play.

The brick home I remembered as being hugely sufficient was now a postage stamp for a very tiny letter.

But there, next to the driveway, was the bush–still remaining–always a great paradox to me, or maybe even a metaphor. Because every year this bush sprouted little red berries, which looked so tantalizing, but my mother insisted were poison. And every time I reached over to pick them, or even touch them, she screamed her warning about their danger.

Yet in all the years we lived there, nobody ever tried to remove the damn bush so little fingers wouldn’t be tempted. It just sat there, being beautifully red with fruit, crying to me to disobey my mother and pursue the wonder of the unknown.

Yes, now I know how Eve felt.

 

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Bus

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Bus:(n) a large motor vehicle carrying passengers by road

I was a town kid.

Growing up, I always lived close enough to my school that I was expected to walk.

I would occasionally complain that I was at least a half a mile away, and maybe the school bus could pick me up. The administration thought it was neither valid nor particularly humorous.

So I never got to ride a school bus.

It was annoying. Other kids who came in “from the country” always got off the big, yellow magic machine with frowns, and I thought to myself, don’t they understand the beauty of the moment? They’re on a school bus. I’m walking or peddling my cheap Schwinn bike.

Then came football season.

Our first two games were held at the local field, so there was no travel. But the third game was scheduled away from our little burg, so required a school bus to take the team to the game.

Even though I was excited about playing the sport, what really thrilled me was that I would get to climb on a school bus and travel.

It was a road trip.

I couldn’t sit still in my seat. I kept trying to get everybody to sing songs. I even fought back some tears over the sanctity of the surroundings. I was so loud, so overbearing, so all-encompassing that the coach finally screamed, from the front of the bus, “Shut up! We’re just going to Mount Gilead!”

My fellow teammates laughed.

But I was hurt.

It is an evil thing to quell the enthusiasm of an expanding mind.

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Bury

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Bury: (v) to put or hide under ground.

Everyone loves a good resurrection. No one wants to bury anything, to see if it can be awakened.

Yes, for a resurrection to occur or even for a revival to be plausible, we have to admit something is dead–and bury it.

How do we decide if something is dead?

It doesn’t have a pulse.

There’s a good sign. The lack of a pulse is a pretty clear indication that something should be buried.

It doesn’t have breath.

We find ourselves staring at it instead of experiencing conversation, with enthusiastic ideas spurting forth.

It starts turning gray.

Yes, even when things are valuable, you need to make sure they don’t turn old.

It decays.

And as it starts to fall apart, it stinks. Maturity is when we stop pretending that something isn’t smelling up the joint, and we talk about how bad it reeks.

It’s not responsive.

The world is going on around it, and there is no acceptance, realization, acknowledgment or participation.

It’s in the way.

Because it does not offer contribution, it clutters.

There are many things in our society which are dead and need to be buried, but we keep them around because we have a flag to commemorate them, a sanctuary to revere them or an office building to house them.

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Burrow

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Burrow: (n) a hole or tunnel

In the great “Wheel of Fortune” of the calendar, this particular essay happens to fall on Easter Sunday morning.

So when I saw the word “burrow,” I realized that throughout history–and especially that fateful weekend two thousand years ago in Mesopotamia–mankind has always tried to dig holes and bury things we don’t wish to pursue.

The interesting fact is that in saner moments, we may even acknowledge we might be better off if the truth we burrow away could come to light and function in our everyday lives.

It’s the process that bothers us.

It’s the loss of our lazy determination that annoys us.

We have grown accustomed to the face of blandness–and even though the consideration of adding make-up to improve our overall countenance is tempting, it seems both unnecessary and exhausting.

Jesus said, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Our response? “We’re halfway there.”

We love our own ass. Trying to transfuse and transfer that same energy to our respect for others appears overwrought.

So since he was unwilling to shut his damn mouth, we attempted to shut it for him.

It wasn’t good enough to merely kill him.

We also stabbed him with a spear.

We quickly stuck him in a grave.

We rolled a stone in front of it for fear that any of his dangerous organs might try to dribble out.

And then we hired guards to secure the location just in case somebody was interested in collecting the corpse of a beaten and broken man.

Thorough we were–but sometimes the angels our efficiency do mock.

They rolled the stone away and resurrected the “love your neighbor” boy.

So now we are stuck using our selfishness–but having to do so with a clump of guilt.

 

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Burp

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Burp: (n) a belch

The definition of crazy: believing what is in your head because it had the spunk to come to your mind.

If a persistent idea can survive some scrutiny, it should be granted merit. But if the notions floating in your gray matter cannot be confirmed by other independent gray matter, then you may need to have a full brain-flushing.

I bring this up because in the first couple decades of my life, I found it difficult to burp. People even tried to teach me how to do it at will (since it was a favored pastime of males age twelve to sixteen). I was never successful.

Now, I won a gold star at farting. It was the burping that escaped me. Often I found myself struggling with some gas and pain because I couldn’t be relieved through the burp.

It became an obsession with me. When other people heard a loud burp from an individual in a room, they would crinkle their faces and say “gross.” My thought was much different. In my brain, I mused, “God bless you, genius. Could you teach me to do that?”

It seems so silly.

But worst of all, when I did occasionally burp, it was so poorly performed. It was more like a silent hiccup that barely lifted my shoulders. That resounding, basal explosion of vibrating magnitude of sound totally and completely avoided me.

So I guess I have a different attitude toward burping. Although I do not hold to the Aramaic tradition of thinking that it’s a sign of expressing appreciation for a meal, I do think it is an art form–which will probably never receive its due.

You know.

Similar to poetry. 

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Burnout

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Burnout: (n) physical or mental collapse caused by overwork or stress.

One of the most interesting little stories in the Good Book, whether you hold to its authenticity or not, is the tale of Moses and the burning bush.

Although I’m sure most folks are greatly impressed by the fact that God spoke to Moses from the flames, the thing that strikes me is that according to the story, the bush was burning, but not consumed.

In other words, God wanted to talk to Moses, but being a great caretaker of His creation, He decided it was not necessary to kill a bush to do it.

Isn’t that amazing?

Yet there is a deep, abiding, adult attitude–that we prove our prowess by stressing out and warning people how “burned out” we are with our circumstances.

Can we teach ourselves that it is possible to produce light without fire? Because it is completely plausible to emit an incandescence from the soul, which pours out of our eyeballs with a sense of enlightened contentment.

I have a simple rule: if it gets hard, stop.

If it seems difficult, take five. And if I’m convinced I am being punished, quickly climb down from the cross.

The only light that is truly powerful is the one that’s generated from my own heart, as I comfortably, joyfully and simply live out who I am, realizing that I possess illumination.

 

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Burnish

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Burnish: (v) to polish something by rubbing.

An important exercise:

Add up all the hours you and I have spent complaining, resisting, avoiding or diminishing the need to improve something. Now compare that to the number of hours it would have taken to do the job.

Every single time, the amount of energy expended in bitching exceeds the required minutes necessary to burnish up the situations in our lives.

Case in point: when I was much younger and rented an apartment, my parents gave me a beat-up coffee table. It was light brown wood, so every little scrape, nick and stain was very noticeable. Bluntly, I did not care. I was a punk.

One day a girlfriend of mine came in and told me that if I took some furniture polish to the table, it would look a hundred percent better. I nodded my head, simulating interest, but inwardly dismissed all her claims. She made the point three more times before she finally walked in, polish and cloth in hand, and quickly–no more than five minutes–transformed that piece of worn down trash into a burnished surface.

It was so shiny that I could actually look down and see my face.

I didn’t know whether to be grateful or angry over her interference. Before I could decide which profile to select, she gave me a quick hug and said, “You’re a man. You’re often too dumb to do what’s necessary.”

She left the room.

My problem was not being a man. My difficulty was that I did not believe I was worthy of a polished table, so I decided to leave it as ugly and unkempt as I felt myself.

 

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