Category: Life Stuff

It’s officially 2026, and I don’t feel any different.

Not that I thought I would, but I thought I might at least have a little motivation to kick the year off right — a little gusto or something. I have a habit of setting myself up like this, though. I have high expectations and then let myself down.

I’m trying to create small wins for myself. This post being one of them. My hope is that momentum builds upon momentum — tiny habits become larger ones.

New Year’s Eve we watched the ball drop in New York, counted down with the proverbial millions, wished each other Happy New Year and then decided to watch one of the most bonkers holiday specials ever conceived.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen “Rudolph’s Shiny New Year,” but it’s a must-watch. Apparently, in Rudolph’s world, each year has a physical manifestation in Father Time. He starts the year as a baby and ends it as an old man carrying a sickle. My working theory about this particular detail is that when it’s time for the new Baby New Year, he puts the hood of his cloak over his head, it turns black and he becomes Death.

Anyways…the new Baby New Year has disappeared. Apparently, he has huge ears (pictured above), and people tend to laugh at them, which, of course, hurts his feelings and makes him run off yet again.

So, Santa sends Rudolph on a mission to find him with a “real Clock Soldier,” which is apparently a big deal in Rudolph-world. I won’t go plot line by plot line, but Rudolph has to go through the time archipelago, a series of islands that are specific years in time, to find the baby. Along the way, he meets a caveman, this big camel/clock, a whale/clock and a knight (voiced on steroids by Frank Gorshin) and is chased by a giant bird called “Eon,” who wants to make sure the baby never gets to Father Time’s castle because his time is apparently up this year.

It’s every bit as surreal as it sounds, but it’s one of our favorite animated holiday specials.

Earlier this week, I saw “It’s a Wonderful Life,” another attempt to hang on to Christmas spirit long after it was over. I’ve been thinking about that movie ever since. It’s about a man who learns to be grateful for his life.

I love the part where he’s just come back to Bedford Falls after experiencing what it’s like to have never been born, and upon realizing that his mouth is bleeding again (like it was before we was whisked to an alternate dimension), he starts shouting, “My mouth’s bleedin’ Bert! My mouth’s bleedin’!” His unbridled excitement about it is contagious, and it gets me every time.

I was thinking about gratefulness as I watched that goofy Rudolph movie with my kids…thinking about how grateful I am to be alive…to have a good job…to have a roof over my head, food to eat, cars that work…and the fact that I have use of my legs and arms and brain and all. So many people have none of that.

I’ll tell you truthfully, my four faithful readers, I don’t feel whole these days. I feel like something broke in me, and I’m not sure what it is or what will repair it. But I’m grateful for another day, another year.

I’m grateful for another opportunity to figure it out and learn how to move on.

I’m a man who has to introduce himself at least twice.

When your name is “Doy,” there’s a good chance people are going to misunderstand the sound you’re making with your mouth. “Did you say ‘Coy?’” “Doyle?” Or my favorite — “Hi, Dwayne! Nice to meet you.” That last one I’ll just have to live with unless I’m sure I’ll see them more than once in my life.

After I’ve repeated myself or, finally, sounded the word out phonetically — “So, it’s like ‘Toy’ but with a D instead of a T at the beginning” — they’ll inevitably ask where in the Sam Hill I got the name. It’s a fair question, especially considering the fact that “Doy” is a cruel, multilingual joke.

In Spanish, it means “I give.” In Portuguese, it means “pain.” In Romanian, it means “two,” which absolutely delighted a three-year-old Romanian child I met in Brăila, who kept counting “Un, DOY! Un, DOY…!” pointing at me every time, and laughing hysterically as if it was the first time he’d said it.

In Mandarin, “Doy” means “bag,” and in Vietnamese, “ka-Doy” is the name of the female sex organ. So there’s that. I found that out, incidentally, from a college neighbor originally from Laos, who called me “ka-Doy” for the remainder of our college years.

According to Google translator, “Doy” means “blessings” in Bangla, and it means “please” in Gujarati, which I assume is spoken somewhere on this planet (possibly at Trekkie conventions?)

I got to Serbian before I abandoned this search, if you’re wondering.

I relay all this useless information to acknowledge the fact that it’s been some two years or more since I’ve written here, and my neglect demands that I reintroduce myself.

I’m Doy. Yes, that’s my real name. And the story of my name is pretty boring as far as I know. My dad gave the name to me, his dad gave the name to him, and his dad gave the name to him.

I have no idea if they were teased as mercilessly in elementary school as I was.

At any rate, this is my little digital corner of the interwebs. Glad to have you here. I’ll write about writing, books, and other stuff here whenever I get the itch.

In the meantime, please feel free to dig through the archives…but please don’t call me “ka-Doy.”

Most writers I know are terrible on the fly, but great in revision. That’s my excuse, anyway.

Case in point, today at lunch my sister asked me the five things I love best about my mother, and I stared at her like a bewildered child. Mind you, we were sitting in a packed restaurant, surrounded by our families with TVs everywhere. There was the constant clanging of forks against plates, shuffling chairs, and restaurant patrons opening the door just at my back — I’m sure you can visualize the excuses I’m painting here.

If I’m honest, I just chickened out on the truth. How do you open up an emotional well like that while sitting over chips and salsa? Instead, I ended up thinking of the funniest things I could think of and rolled them off in a light-hearted, almost flippant way. My mother, I could tell, was probably looking for some substance. I told her I love the way she sings songs even if she doesn’t know the words. I told her I love her inability to drive, her laugh, and something else I’ve now forgotten. The conversation quickly shifted and I figured I was off the hook, but it bothered me that I couldn’t say more in that moment.

Here’s what I should have said…

I love my mother’s joy. My mother is truly one of the most joyous people I know. She’s the most joyous person most people know. Somehow, even though we had so little to offer in the way of luxury or food when I was growing up, our house was always a place our friends and family would regularly visit. We would watch movies together, have the whole youth group over for games and bible study, or just hang out, tell stories and laugh together. My “broken” home was absolutely soaked in joy, and that’s because Brenda Cave lived there.

I love my mother’s courage. I can’t imagine the fear my mother must’ve felt at the prospect of raising three young children alone. She was the breadwinner, propping up the family on paltry wages and little help, and having to exhaust the charity of family members both immediate and remote just to keep the lights on. We tore through more automobiles than I could count, but Mom would keep pressing forward, finding a way to keep us mobile, clothed and fed, no matter what it took to make it happen.

I love my mother’s selflessness. In the same way, my mother rarely ever sought things for herself. She didn’t get vacations with the family, but she made sure we could go to summer camp. She didn’t get to take date nights or nights out on the town with friends, but she did make sure we could get to any and all church functions on weekdays and weekends, and she was there every time the doors were open. Keeping me in shoes cost a small fortune, and my mother was happy with hand-me-downs in her own closet if it meant that I could have a pair of shoes that fit in mine. I wish I was more like her in this way, especially.

I love my mother’s faith. I’ve seen my mother cry when she had no idea what would happen next. I’ve seen her break down over a stack of bills, or on the side of the road when the wheels literally came off. I’ve seen her lose it, but I’ve also seen her pray her way into peace. My mother has a strong faith in God, and that faith got planted deep at Burkhalter Baptist Church, where we found an extended family we still love today. I didn’t have a dad at home, but I had Randy Murray and Charlie Cooper and Gary Mobley and Gordon Pearman and Tom Russell and dozens of others we could call at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t have known what little I know of being a man if it weren’t for them, and for her insistence that we be active in our faith at church.

I love my mother’s friendship. I’m honestly grateful for my mother’s friendship. She’s one of my best friends in the world, and I still talk to her about life, seek her advice, ask for prayer — I can talk to her about anything, really. I get restless if we haven’t talked in the last few days, and I love to spend what little time we get together whenever we can, even if she’s really there to see my children. I put her through a lot when I was growing up, and I know she’ll always love me, but it’s good to know she likes me, too. I’m sure I didn’t always make it easy for her to do.

So that’s what I should’ve said. I mean, I absolutely do love the way she will attempt to sing a song she’s barely heard, and how, when driving, she addresses bumps or obstacles with more throttle. But those are just the fringe benefits of having her as a mother.

She keeps life interesting, and ensures that we’ll be telling stories about her long after she’s retired her license.

Do you ever get caught up in the drama of your own life narrative?

It’s that voice inside your head that tells you that you’re destined to be a writer or a doctor or a singer — a rock star, even! — no matter what happens. It’s the movie playing in your head — the one where you’re being interviewed or walking the red carpet or being adored at a huge book signing event. It’s the door that leads you into your daydreams.

The problem, however, is that this narrative is about a million miles removed from your reality. Despite your dreams or the narrative playing in your head, you aren’t anywhere close to seeing those dreams fulfilled.

I see this scenario play out with my kids, especially. My middle son, Caleb, says he wants to be a scientist. He’s definitely curious, which is a good prerequisite. When we visit a park or a playground or just go for a walk, he’s always searching for something, hoping to find interesting leaves or insects or trinkets or feathers — anything he can touch and inspect. I would love for him to pursue that dream.

His problem, however, is that he couldn’t care less about school. We’re having to do everything in our power to motivate him to learn. He rushes through worksheets and homework, with no care for its content. It doesn’t matter whether it’s science, social studies, math or English, he just wants to be done with it and onto the next thing, preferably video games. His grades are bottoming out, but he wants to be a scientist.

His problem is that he isn’t special. It sounds harsh, but it’s true. I’m not, either. Neither are you.

I want to write a novel. I have two of them buzzing around in my head, with notes galore. This year, I set out to write 750 words per day in order to realize that goal. I even bought one of those “At A Glance” calendars that shows the whole year on one 3’x4’ sheet, so I could mark an “X” on each day I hit my goal. “Don’t break the chain” and all that.

There are a woeful number of blank spaces where X’s should be.

I’ve joined writer’s groups, watched webinars, read books and articles on writing. And in those online groups, I’ve listened to people talk about their memoirs and self-help books and ideas and often counted myself better than them, as if my desire and my life narrative — as if my destiny! — is going to get me to a published novel.

But the thing is, I’m not special. I’m not going to realize this dream in a daydream. I’m not going to realize it by waiting on inspiration or timing. I’m not special, and the rules positively, absolutely apply to me and to everyone else.
You want to be a writer? Write. Write more. Write even more than that. You want to be a singer? A rock star? Write, sing and create songs. Everyday. Twice a day. All day, if necessary. Are there songwriting workshops? Attend them! Are there online courses? Watch them!

I’ve never done anything in my life because I’m special. I didn’t lose 140lbs because I’m special. I lost it because I ate right, every single meal. It took me a year of doing that every single day. And on the days I didn’t do it completely right, I had to do it completely right the next meal. And the next. And the next.

Realizing that I’m not special is the most liberating thing in the world. It means I can’t bypass the path to success in anything, which is pure, unadulterated, persistent work. Hustle. Perseverance. Nose to the grind.

I think this realization can be the most liberating thing for you, too. It means you aren’t waiting for a sign. You aren’t looking for a shortcut, and you won’t find one.

It means you can just pick a time and a place and do the work, every day, until the door to your daydreams is your own front door.

What daydreams are occupying your mind? And what are you doing about making them a reality?

Photo by Dustin Scarpitti for Unsplash

In college, I learned a valuable (and painful) lesson about momentum.

In the thick of Rush Week shenanigans, my friend and I were chasing down some sister sorority girls who had stolen one of our banners. We stopped them in their car and sat on the hood before they could take off. The driver, surprisingly, decided to take off anyway.

I still remember the way the wind blew through my hair as parked cars, spectators and my life whooshed past me. I began to howl like a hand-wound siren as I fumbled for something to grip, grab or hide behind and my friend, who was desperately doing the same, finally slipped off the side of the hood in a fit of skin-against-metal squeaks.

The driver slammed on the brakes — brakes which had apparently been serviced only minutes before the incident — and stopped the car abruptly and immediately. I had the fleeting sensation of flight for a moment, but quickly decided I would try to run while airborne in order to hit the ground in a sprint. As my churning legs touched asphalt, I surmised, I could just slow myself down to a jog and avoid any injury.

Once my feet hit the pavement, however, I tumbled and careened in a ball of gyrating legs and flailing arms until I stopped awkwardly and painfully in a heap some 20 or 30 feet from the car.

The lesson? Things in motion tend to stay that way.

#SO14

I’ve been thinking a lot about the past year lately, reviewing all the goals and plans I made, and deciding on what I’d like to pursue this year.

I exceeded some of the goals I set, most notably reading 40 books this year, 10 more than my goal. I didn’t meet some of my others, and fell short of reaching 210 lbs. by the year’s end (there’s still time, so we’ll see).

When I think back to the beginning of the year, however, I realize I didn’t make any firm goals. The goals I ended up pursuing were plans I slowly steered into my life. Some of them were unrealistic in hindsight (I wanted to get 1000 followers on Twitter but had zero plans to change my content or strategy), but others were things I was already doing, but hadn’t really written down (I started trying to find times to write on a regular basis, but I nailed down a time in the morning as part of my goal).

In both my successes and my failures with goals, I’ve learned the same lesson I learned in college: things in motion — people in motion — tend to stay that way.

Small Habits = Big Change

My buddy Jim wanted to build discipline into his life, so you know what he did? He didn’t run out and buy P90X, and he didn’t get a life coach.

He started making his bed every morning.

I thought it was funny at first, but he explained his rationale. “You don’t jump into discipline by tackling a complicated new habit,” he said. “When you tackle something difficult, you inevitably get burned out and quit. I’m starting with something simple, and when I’ve mastered it, I’ll take on something more difficult. Then I’ll take on something even more difficult.”

If you’re looking to build new habits into your life, if you’re setting goals and making plans to steer your life in a new direction, start with the smallest, easiest thing you can do to make that happen. “Discipline begets discipline,” as Jon Acuff says, and starting small can be the key to get your momentum going.

Do you want to start eating better? Pick one meal each day to eat healthy. Do you want to start exercising? Start taking the stairs rather than the elevator at work. Do you want to start saving money? Bring your lunch to work once a week instead of eating out. People in motion tend to stay that way.

I didn’t lose 140 lbs. by flipping a switch in my brain. It took small, daily, meal-by-meal habits that built up over time, lose a pound here, lose two pounds there, then a stumble, then gain a pound, until it added up to almost two years and 140 lbs lost. I still can’t believe it, but it’s not impossible and it doesn’t take an iron will.

Want to succeed in your goals and resolutions this new year? Start small, build your momentum, and start changing the course of your life.

What small changes can you make right now to get some momentum going in your life?

My heart is heavy tonight.

This silent, invasive enemy that I’ve battled for the past three years took my father, Doy Wheaton Cave, Jr., from me this week. Sometime between Monday and today, he dressed himself for bed, lay down and fell asleep for the last time. He was 66 years old.

As I turn it over and over in my mind, I wish for him what I’ve wished for myself: that we could both rewind time and discover the many ways to defeat this previously unassailable foe called heart disease,  which slowly gathers strength as it lies in wait along our arterial walls, choking the life out of us. I wish he’d found this solution sooner: before his quintuple bypass surgery in 2000, before his heart attack in 1990, before he picked up a smoking habit as a teenager. I wanted to keep him around much longer than this.

I don’t think I got to tell him how he saved my life once.

When I first began to experience my heart problems, my father told me the story of his first heart attack. It wasn’t the harrowing, frightening experience I envisioned it to be. It was more frightening than that, because it was painless.

He said the problem started as a slight pressure in his shoulder, not really painful at all, just something he noticed. As the day went on, the pressure became more of a throbbing, but didn’t hurt enough to make him concerned — certainly nothing that would’ve sent him to the hospital. As he lay down that night, he said the throbbing continued, so he decided he would see the doctor in the morning.

When he arrived at the doctor’s office and explained his symptoms, the doctor decided to get an EKG. He tore the sheet from the machine, gasped and said, “Oh, my gosh! You’re having a heart attack!” He was rushed to the hospital where they saved his life. Had he ignored the pressure or prolonged the doctor visit, he would’ve died that day…at age 42, the age I am today.

On New Year’s Eve 2012, I experienced a slight pain in my shoulder. I was shopping with my kids, running errands and driving around. The pain wasn’t intense, but it was noticeable, and the longer it wore on, the more I thought about my father’s story. Could this be a heart attack like his? After a few waves of tight, squeezing pressure in my shoulder, I decided to go to the emergency room. I’m glad I did. It turned out I needed two more stents in my heart that day and had I waited, I’m not sure I would’ve lived to tell the tale. Thanks, Dad.

My father and I often checked on each other over the last couple of years. We shared this common enemy in heart disease, and we were both keenly interested in how the other battled it from day to day, sharing medications and nutrition advice. I’m thankful for that time, and I’m thankful he battled so valiantly for so long.

My father was one of the hardest workers I’ve ever known. His house, his cars, his yard were all immaculate. He found great joy in a job well done and valued this quality in others. I always admired that in him and wish I possessed it more.

He was devoted to his family and to the preservation of its history. We would often visit our relatives, and he would make sure we understood where we came from. The Cave name truly inspired a deep pride and reverence in him, and he wanted us to feel it, too. I hope I can live up to that expectation.

I want to call him and have him tell me it was just a hiccup, just a mistake someone made. I want to hear him say that he’s fine, laugh and tell me I shouldn’t worry about him so much. My mind won’t accept my inability to do that.

Every year, 600,000 Americans die of heart disease — a disease that’s preventable, beatable and fallible! I know this can seem like a remote number, so large it never touches the door of your own home. That number is infinitely more personal for me today, the fight more real.

I want everyone to stop, I want to make time stop, I want to make all noises stop to remember this person I loved, taken from me without warning.

Here’s to my father, a fallen soldier who fought the good fight. Rest in peace tonight, Dad. I love you and will miss you terribly.

When I was a kid, I absolutely hated cutting the grass.

I don’t know if “hated” really captures the pure revulsion I’m trying to communicate. I can only tell you that it usually took escalating threats of violence from my mother, then even more threats from various family members and friends before I’d get up off the couch and crank that lawnmower.

Even then, I’d look for ways to avoid it, including but not limited to: faking a stomach ache, disappearing to a friend’s house and/or pouring the gas out of the lawnmower.

Sadly, I never learned — at least not until very recently — the somewhat paradoxical truth about starting a task: the quicker you start, the easier you finish; and, consequently, the longer you put it off, the more daunting and difficult starting the task becomes.

I’ve been putting off exercise for a long time. I understand the importance of it — my cardiologist won’t let me forget! — and I understand the great benefits I’ll experience as a result. I just haven’t done it.

I’ve waffled about what kind of exercises I want to do. Should I do strength training? Should I just start with walking? I should probably start with walking. So, I’ll need a treadmill to start walking because what if the weather is bad and I can’t walk in the rain and treadmills are how much again? Before I know it, I’m stressed out. I’m dreading the very idea of exercise, viewing it as some impossible, unreachable goal that I might attempt when I have the time, money or both. In any case, I keep putting it off.

I ran across a great quote the other day, and it’s honestly revolutionized the way I think about exercise, writing, work — anything, really.

“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.” — Theodore Roosevelt

That’s it. It’s ridiculously simple, isn’t it? It’s like an invitation and a kick in the pants at the same time. I want to pull it apart because there is really so much there. I see it as three steps you can take right now to start something great.

Do what you can…

When I would think about cutting the grass, and how much I hated it, our yard suddenly became the grounds of a 50-acre estate. I would look at it and think about the vastness of it, stretching, it seemed, from one end of the earth to the other.

There were, however, two small strips of grass and then a larger piece in the front yard, and then a medium piece in the back. When I would start on that smallest strip and finish it quickly, it was all the satisfaction I needed to keep going.

Doing what you can means selecting that thing you can do right now. For exercise, I had to make a choice. What is something I can do right now? How can I just jump in and get started today?

With what you have…

It’s so easy to put off a worthy goal when we feel under equipped for the task at hand. If I only had this tool or software or shoes or exercise equipment.

Obviously, I don’t have a treadmill, but this shouldn’t be the obstacle that keeps me from a worthwhile goal. What do you have on hand? Are you trying to start a writing habit? You don’t have a computer? Do you have a pen and paper?

Start with what you have.

Where you are.

I think we all get hung up on location, both in the physical and mental sense. When we attempt something worthwhile in our lives, we’re going to face resistance. Our mind will immediately tell us we’re not ready, and point out all the obstacles to keep us firmly planted in our seats. I don’t know why this is so, but it’s a fight you have to take on if you’re going to succeed.

From the physical standpoint, it’s easy to get stuck on where you aren’t. I don’t have a gym membership. I don’t have access to exercise equipment. I don’t have a desk where I can write. What do you have? Start with where you are.

My Solution

As I said, this quote was truly revolutionary for me. I’d been stalled on exercise for over a year, coming up with an endless list of reasons to put it off a little longer. I don’t have the time. I don’t have the equipment. I don’t have the membership. I don’t have the money.

This quote forced me to think about what I do have, which is a lot, actually.

I do have two legs, which give me the ability to walk. I do work on the beautiful campus of Georgia Southern University, which offers me miles of sidewalks and a constant view of grand buildings and landscapes. I do have two 15-minute breaks during which time I can take a walk if I want.

And so a month ago, I started. I’ve been taking a 15-minute walk at least once a day, every weekday for the past month. The weather has been pristine. The walk is always refreshing. And when I return to my desk, I’m more alert and engaged than when I left. I look forward to it each day.

I know I’m going to have to create backup plans for the days when the weather isn’t great. I’m sure I can invest in an umbrella, and I’m pretty sure I can walk just as easily in a coat. If worse comes to worst, I can always climb some stairs in one of the huge buildings on campus. I have options, and options trump excuses every time.

What is it that you’re putting off, focusing on the obstacles that keep you from success? What can you do with what you have, where you are? How can you start right now?