"I was just thinking that of all the trails in this life there is one that matters most. It is the trail of a true human being. I think you are on this trail and it is good to see."
- Kicking Bird to John Dunbar, Dances With Wolves
Yesterday was my birthday. I am now 42...my lord.
I watched Dances With Wolves the other evening with my kids. I still remember seeing Costner's epic in 1990, the year it released, on the big screen. Some critics noted the film remembered wrong, warped the facts. I believe the film did so a little "in order to reach for the fictional or poetic truth that I would rank a little above history" - (Wallace Stegner).
Kicking Bird's words struck me, again, on hearing them the other night - "the trail of a true human being." As I look back at my trail, now at 42, it's been a crooked little path. But a good crooked. I grew up the son of a preacher man, in a home filled with Johnny Cash music and love. We told each other "I love you" every night before falling asleep; that seems so natural for me, yet I fear many of my peers did not have that cushion, that safety. I married a raven haired girl almost twenty years ago. We loaded up a truck and moved out to Texas and she finished college while I experienced divinity school. She graduated with honors; I finished a little-less-than-divine. We spent more than a decade of our lives together as pastor and pastor's wife in different churches, mainly in the South, places where they called me "preacher." In those years, she carried three children to term and I stood and cut the umbilical, freeing those so fresh from God into this world, onto their own trails. We tell each other "I love you" every night before falling asleep.
And then we loaded up another truck and moved out to Colorado, hours upon hours away from all that was familiar and familial; one might call it an outpost. We've been west, me and my girlfriend and our three kids, half a decade now. The trail here has led me away from preaching and into writing. That umbilicus was a hard cut, a bleeder; pain always accompanies being born again. My hair has grown long, my language at times salty, and my faith deep and wide. I have learned to pray T.S. Eliot's words: Lord, teach us to care and not to care. A few plows are worth our hands; others, many others, aren't worth a damn. Earlier, younger aspirations of following some holy path have given way to step-by-stepping the trail of a true human being. Now, at 42, I believe the holy path is to become a true human being. It is the most difficult and most glorious quest we can take, what old Sam Keen calls "the difficult splendor."
Years ago, a group of special friends and I were sitting on a dock in the middle of a pond at a retreat center. We were smoking cigars, partly for the novelty, mainly to keep skeeters at bay. We decided to "name" one another, Indian names. As the path finally came to me, my friends paused and then bestowed me. It is a name I keep written on a piece of paper, folded and tucked away in my heart. I pull it out from time to time and remember. The movie the other evening and my approaching birthday compelled me to take it out and read it, again. I think that maybe I am on this trail, the trail of a true human being. I am humbled, grateful. It is a good thing to see. I have no idea where it will lead...
Only the Dream
[the first stirrings of a short story I'm writing]
"Perhaps the truth depends upon a walk around the lake."
- Wallace Stevens
§
It’d been almost a year since the call at 11:17pm. Since then, he’d become old before his time. Close friends encouraged getting back into life. He wondered if the human heart ever truly recovers from anything, especially trauma like the death of a spouse. The word closure gagged him.
Her name was Jane. She was returning home from Thursday’s 3-11 at the hospital when a sixteen-year-old girl named Chelsea shitfaced on Barefoot wine escaladed through a red light at fifty miles per hour. She hit the driver’s side of Jane’s VW Bug. The force of impact, aided by seat belt and airbag, literally ripped his wife in half. At brunch that morning, they had made the decision to go off the pill. Her last words to him: “Tom, I want to have your baby.”
§
“God, Tom. Trust me. It’s grisly.” He knew Doctor Peters from St. Andrews; they had served together in a fundraising campaign. But he insisted on seeing her face, just her face, one last time. “O.k. You’ll have to give us a little while. Sit over there.” The waiting room smelled like fear. He saw the tattered book on the end table, strangely out of place. One would expect back issues of Time or People, not Legends of the Fall. That’s how he felt - tattered; he was not supposed to be there either. Years ago, before he met her, he was driving east on I-30 out of Dallas, along rows of black earth while Copland’s “Tender Land” played on the radio. Song and soil charmed long held tears. He had never wept like that before. Until now. The nurse said “Mr. Nichols, you can come back now” and the book throbbed, a life beacon. So he grabbed it and held on. When the sheet was pulled back, he wished he’d listened to Dr. Peters.
Tom read Harrison’s three novellas on the third day after Jane died. Raw grief coupled with jubilant prose. An extravagant darkness was conceived.
Jane’s father was a Baptist minister. He officiated at their July wedding: What God hath joined together. Two years later, in the same month, her father presided over what a teenager had put asunder. The good reverend surprised everyone graveside by screaming Lama sabachtani! with raised fists. This singular act comforted Tom. Then Jane’s mother, Gwen, swooned. The two “survived by” sisters rushed to their mother’s side; Jenny and Leslie both vying for best supporting actress in a dramatic moment. Tom said goddamn and walked away toward the pines that surrounded the cemetery, side-stepping the dead. Honeysuckle filled the air. Cries of Tom! Come back, Tom! could not compete with the cicadas. Then the sound of running water.
The swift creek met him not a mile away. His grief was parched in the cemetery, thirsty. He shed the Haspel suit bought especially for the occasion, then decided t-shirt and boxers too. A half dozen blue jays screamed as a naked man crawled into the creek on all fours. He told Giardia to go to hell and lapped at the water like a dog.
§
That was almost a year ago. He had been awarded a sizeable settlement after the accident. The teenager’s father was a long-seated congressman with a family legacy in oil. Tom used some of the money to pay off Jane’s student loans. He put half of what remained in savings. With the rest, he left.
Family and friends had told him not to make rash decisions so soon after Jane’s death. Don’t sell the house. Don’t give away her clothes. Draw the curtains. Give yourself time to grieve. But he could not resist the full-nature growing within him. And so he disappointed them by following everything but their advice. It would become a habit.
The mountain town of Grand Lake, Colorado had long been attractive to him. The realtor showed him a small chic cabin for rent at the edge of Rocky Mountain National Park. An aspect of her “showing” included the retelling: Legend has it that one summer the Utes were camped along the Grand Lake shore. An Arapaho and Cheyenne war party ambushed them. During the melee, the Ute women and children escaped on a large raft, pushing out into the safety of the lake while the battle raged. Suddenly, the wind grew wild and a gust overturned the raft. All the women and children drowned. The Ute warriors who survived the battle lived from then on grief-stricken, haunted. The story goes that in the winter, when the lake was frozen, they could hear the shrieks of women and crying children from beneath the ice. Some say you can still hear them, if you listen. His tears dropped unashamed. “Yes, I’ll take it.”
Those autumn and winter months, he let himself go. Early mornings were filled with reading the corpus of Harrison’s work. Dusk was spent walking the lake’s edge, listening. Every day was sabbath.
He discovered this running theme in Harrison: Saudade – the Portuguese notion of a person or place or sense of life irretrievably lost. Only the dream might be recovered. Only the dream...
"Perhaps the truth depends upon a walk around the lake."
- Wallace Stevens
§
It’d been almost a year since the call at 11:17pm. Since then, he’d become old before his time. Close friends encouraged getting back into life. He wondered if the human heart ever truly recovers from anything, especially trauma like the death of a spouse. The word closure gagged him.
Her name was Jane. She was returning home from Thursday’s 3-11 at the hospital when a sixteen-year-old girl named Chelsea shitfaced on Barefoot wine escaladed through a red light at fifty miles per hour. She hit the driver’s side of Jane’s VW Bug. The force of impact, aided by seat belt and airbag, literally ripped his wife in half. At brunch that morning, they had made the decision to go off the pill. Her last words to him: “Tom, I want to have your baby.”
§
“God, Tom. Trust me. It’s grisly.” He knew Doctor Peters from St. Andrews; they had served together in a fundraising campaign. But he insisted on seeing her face, just her face, one last time. “O.k. You’ll have to give us a little while. Sit over there.” The waiting room smelled like fear. He saw the tattered book on the end table, strangely out of place. One would expect back issues of Time or People, not Legends of the Fall. That’s how he felt - tattered; he was not supposed to be there either. Years ago, before he met her, he was driving east on I-30 out of Dallas, along rows of black earth while Copland’s “Tender Land” played on the radio. Song and soil charmed long held tears. He had never wept like that before. Until now. The nurse said “Mr. Nichols, you can come back now” and the book throbbed, a life beacon. So he grabbed it and held on. When the sheet was pulled back, he wished he’d listened to Dr. Peters.
Tom read Harrison’s three novellas on the third day after Jane died. Raw grief coupled with jubilant prose. An extravagant darkness was conceived.
Jane’s father was a Baptist minister. He officiated at their July wedding: What God hath joined together. Two years later, in the same month, her father presided over what a teenager had put asunder. The good reverend surprised everyone graveside by screaming Lama sabachtani! with raised fists. This singular act comforted Tom. Then Jane’s mother, Gwen, swooned. The two “survived by” sisters rushed to their mother’s side; Jenny and Leslie both vying for best supporting actress in a dramatic moment. Tom said goddamn and walked away toward the pines that surrounded the cemetery, side-stepping the dead. Honeysuckle filled the air. Cries of Tom! Come back, Tom! could not compete with the cicadas. Then the sound of running water.
The swift creek met him not a mile away. His grief was parched in the cemetery, thirsty. He shed the Haspel suit bought especially for the occasion, then decided t-shirt and boxers too. A half dozen blue jays screamed as a naked man crawled into the creek on all fours. He told Giardia to go to hell and lapped at the water like a dog.
§
That was almost a year ago. He had been awarded a sizeable settlement after the accident. The teenager’s father was a long-seated congressman with a family legacy in oil. Tom used some of the money to pay off Jane’s student loans. He put half of what remained in savings. With the rest, he left.
Family and friends had told him not to make rash decisions so soon after Jane’s death. Don’t sell the house. Don’t give away her clothes. Draw the curtains. Give yourself time to grieve. But he could not resist the full-nature growing within him. And so he disappointed them by following everything but their advice. It would become a habit.
The mountain town of Grand Lake, Colorado had long been attractive to him. The realtor showed him a small chic cabin for rent at the edge of Rocky Mountain National Park. An aspect of her “showing” included the retelling: Legend has it that one summer the Utes were camped along the Grand Lake shore. An Arapaho and Cheyenne war party ambushed them. During the melee, the Ute women and children escaped on a large raft, pushing out into the safety of the lake while the battle raged. Suddenly, the wind grew wild and a gust overturned the raft. All the women and children drowned. The Ute warriors who survived the battle lived from then on grief-stricken, haunted. The story goes that in the winter, when the lake was frozen, they could hear the shrieks of women and crying children from beneath the ice. Some say you can still hear them, if you listen. His tears dropped unashamed. “Yes, I’ll take it.”
Those autumn and winter months, he let himself go. Early mornings were filled with reading the corpus of Harrison’s work. Dusk was spent walking the lake’s edge, listening. Every day was sabbath.
He discovered this running theme in Harrison: Saudade – the Portuguese notion of a person or place or sense of life irretrievably lost. Only the dream might be recovered. Only the dream...
Time to Smithereens
If you watch television near a window you note that life doesn't move all that much outside unless you're near a highway or crowded city street. You keep making subliminal primate adjustments to all that fast action on television and end up with a scrambled mind that takes a while to regather itself. Your accomplishment is that you've quite literally killed time.
- Jim Harrison, The Road Home
As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.
- Henry David Thoreau, "Economy," Walden, 1854
I've been thinking lately about some of this new reality we're living in; mediums like Facebook and Twitter and such. I'm "on" Facebook and was feeling a little confident when great horneytoads they changed the look and now I'm a little queasy. And twitter? Well, that little bird makes me think of The Partridge Family and all of a sudden I'm seeing Susan Dey as Laurie Partridge on piano in a short skirt and well, cmongethappy.
Now I realize I'm about two d's from a Luddite. I also realize I'm living in this new reality and no, it ain't going away. But there's something I believe we need to be careful of as we twitter in each other's faces. And that's what we're doing with time; namely, blowing it to smithereens.
I mean, what, after all, is "real time"? There's the real time messaging we do throughout the day and the real time scenarios played out on television and the web and then there's the real time you notice sitting by a window, which most of us don't do because it's, well, slow. It's that time in which seasons change and animals burrow and folks write novels and success finally comes and your beard thickens and you realize what for better or worse really means. Yeah, that time.
Here are two examples. First, I remember a time, driving back into Santa Fe with a friend after having visited Christ in the Desert Monastery. I don't think we said much of anything on that drive. We just drove. And friendship thickened like soup on the stove overnight. Real time. In this "other time" we'd of been required to keep telling each other what we were thinking or updating our status or something and chances are, by the time we got back to Santa Fe, we'd been about ready to kill each other. Or at least "unfriend" one another.
And second, there's the way we all too often read the Bible. We don't read entire books or letters at a time; no, we read verses or a couple of chapters or a devotional thought. Not a one of these approaches values "real time." A couple of chapters in Acts under our belt and we believe our lives oughta be an unbroken string of signs and wonders, displays of power. That's a lot more exciting than two week's worth of listening to disgruntled widows not getting their due or the several hundred year gap between testaments when God was fairly quiet. And then there's Jesus not coming until the fullness of time, which to my mind, indicates it took time for time to get full.
And that raises another aspect of all this; namely, that we believe talking or typing or texting is thinking. RU4Real?
I haven't got it all figured out yet, but something's going on with this "time" thing. Give me a little, well, time and maybe I'll have more clarity on it. Maybe I'm just getting old and don't really care for busy cities and enjoy just sitting by windows, not talking or typing or texting, just thinking...
- Jim Harrison, The Road Home
As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.
- Henry David Thoreau, "Economy," Walden, 1854
I've been thinking lately about some of this new reality we're living in; mediums like Facebook and Twitter and such. I'm "on" Facebook and was feeling a little confident when great horneytoads they changed the look and now I'm a little queasy. And twitter? Well, that little bird makes me think of The Partridge Family and all of a sudden I'm seeing Susan Dey as Laurie Partridge on piano in a short skirt and well, cmongethappy.
Now I realize I'm about two d's from a Luddite. I also realize I'm living in this new reality and no, it ain't going away. But there's something I believe we need to be careful of as we twitter in each other's faces. And that's what we're doing with time; namely, blowing it to smithereens.
I mean, what, after all, is "real time"? There's the real time messaging we do throughout the day and the real time scenarios played out on television and the web and then there's the real time you notice sitting by a window, which most of us don't do because it's, well, slow. It's that time in which seasons change and animals burrow and folks write novels and success finally comes and your beard thickens and you realize what for better or worse really means. Yeah, that time.
Here are two examples. First, I remember a time, driving back into Santa Fe with a friend after having visited Christ in the Desert Monastery. I don't think we said much of anything on that drive. We just drove. And friendship thickened like soup on the stove overnight. Real time. In this "other time" we'd of been required to keep telling each other what we were thinking or updating our status or something and chances are, by the time we got back to Santa Fe, we'd been about ready to kill each other. Or at least "unfriend" one another.
And second, there's the way we all too often read the Bible. We don't read entire books or letters at a time; no, we read verses or a couple of chapters or a devotional thought. Not a one of these approaches values "real time." A couple of chapters in Acts under our belt and we believe our lives oughta be an unbroken string of signs and wonders, displays of power. That's a lot more exciting than two week's worth of listening to disgruntled widows not getting their due or the several hundred year gap between testaments when God was fairly quiet. And then there's Jesus not coming until the fullness of time, which to my mind, indicates it took time for time to get full.
And that raises another aspect of all this; namely, that we believe talking or typing or texting is thinking. RU4Real?
I haven't got it all figured out yet, but something's going on with this "time" thing. Give me a little, well, time and maybe I'll have more clarity on it. Maybe I'm just getting old and don't really care for busy cities and enjoy just sitting by windows, not talking or typing or texting, just thinking...
Mark 11.15-17, sorta
Once upon a Sunday, Jesus and his disciples drove into Colorado Springs, easily one of America's holy cities. They wanted to worship the Father with other believers. As they stepped into the Welcome Center of one of Outreach magazine's 100 Most Influential Churches, Jesus' eyes grew wild, feral. The disciples stepped back from the Son of Man.
Jesus walked straight to the coffee bar where folks were socially networking and building faux community and pitched all the condiments on the tiled floor. Then he threw a glass carafe at the liquid plasma TV on the wall scrolling how to "do life together." Not even taking a breath, he turned and ran to the God's Men display, complete with Braveheart sword in the middle. Jesus took the broadsword and totally demolished the books and DVD curriculum that had been painstakingly arranged in relevant stacks. One of the elders directed the security guards to "move in!" The leader of Growing Spiritual Champions began shielding the children behind her skinny jeans, screaming "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Breathless, Jesus wept: "You're lost; lost, I tell you! Tell the leaders to pastor; search and find the old words. For it is written My house shall be known as a house of prayer. You pray and beg God to "show up"? Well, I'm here and I hate this!"
[Notes - As I read this passage this morning, it seemed so remote, so sterile. The thought struck me that unless we can "see" this passage in a way that brazenly offends much of what we currently hold dear, then our lips are near, but our hearts are far away. There was no intent to translate, but rather paraphrase "cotton-patch" style.]
Jesus walked straight to the coffee bar where folks were socially networking and building faux community and pitched all the condiments on the tiled floor. Then he threw a glass carafe at the liquid plasma TV on the wall scrolling how to "do life together." Not even taking a breath, he turned and ran to the God's Men display, complete with Braveheart sword in the middle. Jesus took the broadsword and totally demolished the books and DVD curriculum that had been painstakingly arranged in relevant stacks. One of the elders directed the security guards to "move in!" The leader of Growing Spiritual Champions began shielding the children behind her skinny jeans, screaming "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Breathless, Jesus wept: "You're lost; lost, I tell you! Tell the leaders to pastor; search and find the old words. For it is written My house shall be known as a house of prayer. You pray and beg God to "show up"? Well, I'm here and I hate this!"
[Notes - As I read this passage this morning, it seemed so remote, so sterile. The thought struck me that unless we can "see" this passage in a way that brazenly offends much of what we currently hold dear, then our lips are near, but our hearts are far away. There was no intent to translate, but rather paraphrase "cotton-patch" style.]
More Conversation with God
God: My, you're up early.
Me: (grimaces) Indigestion.
God: It was all that cheese.
Me: I knew it.
God: Are you sure you want to do this today? I mean, on your blog? You received some affirming words about our conversation yesterday. It might be tempting to try and copy-cat or even one-better it today. Or not try at all.
Me: Goodness, cuttin' to the chase early, Lord.
God: Well, you're up and I'd hate for you to start the gift in fear.
Me: (takes 2 Tums) Please have mercy. I'll let this be what it is.
God: I am. And yes, let it be. So, what are you thinking about right now?
Me: (hesitates)
God: John?
Me: I'm thinking about a movie I saw last night. But then a part of me thought I should be thinking about Lent or Rwanda or something.
God: (laughs) I thought we weren't going to one-better this? This really only works if you tell the truth. Rachel Getting Married - I saw it too. And?
Me: Do you remember the part where Anne Hathaway's character lied in rehab and her sister found out and confronted her with the recovery-only-works-if-you-tell-the-truth speech? Wait...Lord, you just said that, right?
God: I remember. And yes, I did. I'm glad Anne received that Oscar nomination.
Me: (grins) Me too.
God: Nice moon out this morning. I love these conversations we have.
Me: (tears) Yeah, me too.
Me: (grimaces) Indigestion.
God: It was all that cheese.
Me: I knew it.
God: Are you sure you want to do this today? I mean, on your blog? You received some affirming words about our conversation yesterday. It might be tempting to try and copy-cat or even one-better it today. Or not try at all.
Me: Goodness, cuttin' to the chase early, Lord.
God: Well, you're up and I'd hate for you to start the gift in fear.
Me: (takes 2 Tums) Please have mercy. I'll let this be what it is.
God: I am. And yes, let it be. So, what are you thinking about right now?
Me: (hesitates)
God: John?
Me: I'm thinking about a movie I saw last night. But then a part of me thought I should be thinking about Lent or Rwanda or something.
God: (laughs) I thought we weren't going to one-better this? This really only works if you tell the truth. Rachel Getting Married - I saw it too. And?
Me: Do you remember the part where Anne Hathaway's character lied in rehab and her sister found out and confronted her with the recovery-only-works-if-you-tell-the-truth speech? Wait...Lord, you just said that, right?
God: I remember. And yes, I did. I'm glad Anne received that Oscar nomination.
Me: (grins) Me too.
God: Nice moon out this morning. I love these conversations we have.
Me: (tears) Yeah, me too.
Conversation with God
Me: Mornin', Lord.
God: Mornin'. Nice moon, huh?
Me: Gorgeous and full; you know I like that.
God: I do know that.
Me: A Southern Baptist pastor was shot the other day, I believe while preaching. Folks thought it was a skit, but it wasn't.
God: Yes, I was there. It wasn't a skit. Blood was shed. Children's eyes were opened too soon.
Me: Is heaven richer now, with Rev. Winters there?
God: Earth is poorer.
Me: Yes, that's what I thought too.
God: You know, I heard you, when you prayed for your friend, the one looking for work.
Me: He's a good man, Lord. George-Bailey-good. He'll be a father soon too...well, you know that. Please help him, Lord.
God: I am.
Me: Lotta church folk asking isn't there more? these days.
God: It is not that what is isn't enough, for it is; it is that what is has been disarranged, and is crying out to be put in place.
Me: Mercy, that's good.
God: (Grins) I can't take direct credit for those words; they're from Madeleine, as in L'Engle. She's here, you know. Heaven is richer.
Me: (Grins)
God: You've got a birthday coming up, right?
Me: (Grins wider)
God: Forty-two years. My, my...
Me: When you knit me, did you know everything that was going to happen?
God: (a tear falls) Mostly. But my knitting is not as you knit. (divine pause) Is there anything you'd like for your birthday? I mean, if you're going to ask somebody, then...
Me: Well, a new ball cap would be the berries. The one I've worn for eight years now needs to be retired. It's got some Southern Baptist missions logo on the back; I believe a missionary gave it to me.
God: You've got a decent memory. You've been on quite a crooked little path, but Southern Baptist - that's where you cut your teeth, right?
Me: (a tear falls) Yes...my life's been richer for it.
God: (Smiles) Your welcome. It's a wonderful life, John. I'll be with you today.
Me: Thanks. Amen.
God: Mornin'. Nice moon, huh?
Me: Gorgeous and full; you know I like that.
God: I do know that.
Me: A Southern Baptist pastor was shot the other day, I believe while preaching. Folks thought it was a skit, but it wasn't.
God: Yes, I was there. It wasn't a skit. Blood was shed. Children's eyes were opened too soon.
Me: Is heaven richer now, with Rev. Winters there?
God: Earth is poorer.
Me: Yes, that's what I thought too.
God: You know, I heard you, when you prayed for your friend, the one looking for work.
Me: He's a good man, Lord. George-Bailey-good. He'll be a father soon too...well, you know that. Please help him, Lord.
God: I am.
Me: Lotta church folk asking isn't there more? these days.
God: It is not that what is isn't enough, for it is; it is that what is has been disarranged, and is crying out to be put in place.
Me: Mercy, that's good.
God: (Grins) I can't take direct credit for those words; they're from Madeleine, as in L'Engle. She's here, you know. Heaven is richer.
Me: (Grins)
God: You've got a birthday coming up, right?
Me: (Grins wider)
God: Forty-two years. My, my...
Me: When you knit me, did you know everything that was going to happen?
God: (a tear falls) Mostly. But my knitting is not as you knit. (divine pause) Is there anything you'd like for your birthday? I mean, if you're going to ask somebody, then...
Me: Well, a new ball cap would be the berries. The one I've worn for eight years now needs to be retired. It's got some Southern Baptist missions logo on the back; I believe a missionary gave it to me.
God: You've got a decent memory. You've been on quite a crooked little path, but Southern Baptist - that's where you cut your teeth, right?
Me: (a tear falls) Yes...my life's been richer for it.
God: (Smiles) Your welcome. It's a wonderful life, John. I'll be with you today.
Me: Thanks. Amen.
Some Days
Some days are better than others; days like this past Friday.
She was all agog at the prospect of the afternoon with me. It would be just the two of us. Her brother would be at a friend's after school and her sister and mother would be at a Girl Scout party. Five minus three leaves two - she and me. Her nickname since birth has been sunshine.
Her mom, my wife, met me at the predetermined drop-off at 12:45pm. Little miss sunshine got into my '97 black Dodge Stratus and we drove away.
Do you have any good music in here?
I've got some John Denver. How's that?
Uh, let's listen to the radio. Why don't we eat at Noodles?
Excellent choice, my dear.
As we made our way across the parking lot to the restaurant, she took my hand.
We both ordered mac-n-cheese and used chopsticks to stir sugar in our iced tea and sat across from each other in a booth and talked like fathers and daughters should. The conversation was filling; we do not live by mac-n-cheese alone.
Where to from here, Dad?
Well, you really need a couple of new shirts. How about some shopping?
Excellent suggestion, old boy.
The next thing I know I'm sitting outside the dressing room in Old Navy, waiting for the sun to shine. Several very young Old Navy females smiled at me; however, these were not God, what a man! smiles but rather Oh, how sweet! giggles. I returned the smiles, wondering if I had mac-n-cheese in my beard.
I'm not sure about all the deep-down-every-girl-is-a-princess emphasis these days. I'm just not sure. That's o.k. But I can tell you this. Each time my daughter came out of that dressing room, she spun, twirled, curtsied, and danced before me. Someone might say that's what girls do when they're trying on new clothes at Old Navy. Bullshit. Everything, and I mean everything, from that store looks like a t-shirt and t-shirts don't elicit spinning. No, the axis she twirled upon was, well, me - the Dad. In those dressing room moments, there was no other female on earth except for her; even the young Old Navies had faded. She had my undivided attention. And sunshine beamed.
Nothing wow-ed us, so I suggested a couple of other stores. As we left the Navy, she took my hand. We were searching for something just right; mostly what we found was too small, too big, too long, dear-Lord-too-short, too little-girly, too collegiate, too...it was Goldilocks revisited, allowing the old bear to tag along.
I could conclude this story in a very postmodern, angst-filled way, with Goldilocks never finding the just right; something like: The little girl realized that life is not a fairy tale, you don't seek and find. No, the harsh fluorescent mall lighting revealed it's the journey that matters and being in the moment and you're on your own, even beside the ones you love. Blah, blah...blah, blah. Dear God help us all. But I cannot conclude in such a fashion for that's not how this story ends.
We walked, hand-in-hand, through the perfumed entrance to Macy's, which is probably owned by Old Navy or vice versa. And there, in the Girls 7-16 section, they were. A white top with a scalloped (didn't know I could use fashion words like that, did ya?) neck with embroidered flowers at the top and a pair of lightly faded blue jean shorts that came to the knees. Classic hippie sans the angst. She tried them on. Just right. Goldilocks and the old bear swiped the debit card and walked back through the gauntlet of white-jacketed-fragrance gals misting Clinique's Happy in the air. I thought what the hell, might as well smell like we feel. It was too hot for soup and we didn't want to wait for it to cool, so a Sonic blizzard with M&Ms capped her afternoon happily ever after. Mine too.
I could further conclude this story by saying that I arrange dad-daughter afternoons like this frequently. But I cannot. I want to try and do better at this while there's still time. I can say two things though. First of all, thank you to the Grace that keeps this world for a golden afternoon. Some days are better than others. And last, a word to all the dads out there who don't read blogs but your wives do; in the voice of that Old Navy looking singer -
On behalf of every man
Looking out for every girl
You are the god and the weight of her world
So fathers be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do...
She was all agog at the prospect of the afternoon with me. It would be just the two of us. Her brother would be at a friend's after school and her sister and mother would be at a Girl Scout party. Five minus three leaves two - she and me. Her nickname since birth has been sunshine.
Her mom, my wife, met me at the predetermined drop-off at 12:45pm. Little miss sunshine got into my '97 black Dodge Stratus and we drove away.
Do you have any good music in here?
I've got some John Denver. How's that?
Uh, let's listen to the radio. Why don't we eat at Noodles?
Excellent choice, my dear.
As we made our way across the parking lot to the restaurant, she took my hand.
We both ordered mac-n-cheese and used chopsticks to stir sugar in our iced tea and sat across from each other in a booth and talked like fathers and daughters should. The conversation was filling; we do not live by mac-n-cheese alone.
Where to from here, Dad?
Well, you really need a couple of new shirts. How about some shopping?
Excellent suggestion, old boy.
The next thing I know I'm sitting outside the dressing room in Old Navy, waiting for the sun to shine. Several very young Old Navy females smiled at me; however, these were not God, what a man! smiles but rather Oh, how sweet! giggles. I returned the smiles, wondering if I had mac-n-cheese in my beard.
I'm not sure about all the deep-down-every-girl-is-a-princess emphasis these days. I'm just not sure. That's o.k. But I can tell you this. Each time my daughter came out of that dressing room, she spun, twirled, curtsied, and danced before me. Someone might say that's what girls do when they're trying on new clothes at Old Navy. Bullshit. Everything, and I mean everything, from that store looks like a t-shirt and t-shirts don't elicit spinning. No, the axis she twirled upon was, well, me - the Dad. In those dressing room moments, there was no other female on earth except for her; even the young Old Navies had faded. She had my undivided attention. And sunshine beamed.
Nothing wow-ed us, so I suggested a couple of other stores. As we left the Navy, she took my hand. We were searching for something just right; mostly what we found was too small, too big, too long, dear-Lord-too-short, too little-girly, too collegiate, too...it was Goldilocks revisited, allowing the old bear to tag along.
I could conclude this story in a very postmodern, angst-filled way, with Goldilocks never finding the just right; something like: The little girl realized that life is not a fairy tale, you don't seek and find. No, the harsh fluorescent mall lighting revealed it's the journey that matters and being in the moment and you're on your own, even beside the ones you love. Blah, blah...blah, blah. Dear God help us all. But I cannot conclude in such a fashion for that's not how this story ends.
We walked, hand-in-hand, through the perfumed entrance to Macy's, which is probably owned by Old Navy or vice versa. And there, in the Girls 7-16 section, they were. A white top with a scalloped (didn't know I could use fashion words like that, did ya?) neck with embroidered flowers at the top and a pair of lightly faded blue jean shorts that came to the knees. Classic hippie sans the angst. She tried them on. Just right. Goldilocks and the old bear swiped the debit card and walked back through the gauntlet of white-jacketed-fragrance gals misting Clinique's Happy in the air. I thought what the hell, might as well smell like we feel. It was too hot for soup and we didn't want to wait for it to cool, so a Sonic blizzard with M&Ms capped her afternoon happily ever after. Mine too.
I could further conclude this story by saying that I arrange dad-daughter afternoons like this frequently. But I cannot. I want to try and do better at this while there's still time. I can say two things though. First of all, thank you to the Grace that keeps this world for a golden afternoon. Some days are better than others. And last, a word to all the dads out there who don't read blogs but your wives do; in the voice of that Old Navy looking singer -
On behalf of every man
Looking out for every girl
You are the god and the weight of her world
So fathers be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do...
Believe in the Dark?
His question was pointed: "Who do you say I am?"
Peter spoke: "You are Messiah."
And then warnings and instruction, like a father to children: "Don't tell anyone, anyone, about me. The Son of Man, me, I must...endure...endure many things. And those in authority - elders, chief priests, scholars - they will disown me...and kill me. Three days later, I will rise again." Jesus spoke plainly.
Peter, still somewhat in the wake of "You are Messiah", tried to handle him and caution him.
But the Son of Man would have none of it. He turned around to see his disciples. He whispered to Peter: "Don't handle me, Satan. Your thoughts are not God's thoughts."
Peter was speechless.
Jesus called the crowd and his disciples to come close: "If anyone, anyone, wants to try and catch me, let him try. But he will have to shed his skin, wrap himself in a cross, and run hard after me. If you try to save your own skin, just know you'll lose. But if anyone, anyone at all, will believe in the dark - me and my good news - just know you'll be saved. Your skin or your soul? Just know that one must lose."
- Mark 8.31-37
[Notes - I love this word endure. Most translations use the word suffer, but endure has the nuance of one acting decisively, rather than as a victim. I also saw Jesus whispering to Peter as opposed to calling him out in front of everyone. You may disagree, but I see it as a difference in style between Jesus and Satan. The former didn't come to bruise the reed; the latter is all about shame. And as I read through these verses, I was struck by the phrase believe in the dark, a.k.a, faith. The phrase felt appropriate in these Lenten days...]
Peter spoke: "You are Messiah."
And then warnings and instruction, like a father to children: "Don't tell anyone, anyone, about me. The Son of Man, me, I must...endure...endure many things. And those in authority - elders, chief priests, scholars - they will disown me...and kill me. Three days later, I will rise again." Jesus spoke plainly.
Peter, still somewhat in the wake of "You are Messiah", tried to handle him and caution him.
But the Son of Man would have none of it. He turned around to see his disciples. He whispered to Peter: "Don't handle me, Satan. Your thoughts are not God's thoughts."
Peter was speechless.
Jesus called the crowd and his disciples to come close: "If anyone, anyone, wants to try and catch me, let him try. But he will have to shed his skin, wrap himself in a cross, and run hard after me. If you try to save your own skin, just know you'll lose. But if anyone, anyone at all, will believe in the dark - me and my good news - just know you'll be saved. Your skin or your soul? Just know that one must lose."
- Mark 8.31-37
[Notes - I love this word endure. Most translations use the word suffer, but endure has the nuance of one acting decisively, rather than as a victim. I also saw Jesus whispering to Peter as opposed to calling him out in front of everyone. You may disagree, but I see it as a difference in style between Jesus and Satan. The former didn't come to bruise the reed; the latter is all about shame. And as I read through these verses, I was struck by the phrase believe in the dark, a.k.a, faith. The phrase felt appropriate in these Lenten days...]
I tried...
So you see, I came originally from the center. I tried to stay. But the edge beckoned...
- Charles Bowden, Blues for Cannibals
I tried. I really tried. I sat down and tried to participate, be a witness. But I'd been up since 3:30am and it was then 6:30pm and the room was dark, lit only by candles, and the music was soft and moody and the voices were quiet and reverent and everybody got real still and Lent-like. My family was fully in the moment, so too the people around me, all standing when prompted, singing loudly the songs on high screens. I tried to stay. But the edge beckoned. It was centrifugal - spinning, pulling, slipping.
If I say that I have no sin, I deceive myself...
Come on, God. Is this my Lent? To be among the people, but not of them? The emphasis last night was on telling our stories, being a witness...is this the story I'm to tell, God? Hey, everyone, I'm over here, on the edge. Don't worry about me. I tried to stay. I really did. But the scripture was cotton stuffed in my mouth and the songs put me to death and instead of the white of candlelight, I needed bright, rusty, blood-red something, I don't know what, but something red, something like what's on the tips of my fingers as I tried to hold on but couldn't, scraping, clawing to stay. But the edge beckoned. But maybe, just maybe someone needs to be on the edge, tipsy with Lent-lust and exhaustion with Sunday's communion wine still in his beard and bloodshot eyes...then again, maybe that's it. That could be it. Maybe the Lenten wheel is turning, gathering steam, like some god-awful-centrifuge; yes, maybe that's it. We'd all love to stay in the center, all Christmas-like, but Lent starts spinning, pulling, and we all begin careening toward the edge, clawing with blood-red fingers to stay in the creche with baby Jesus and the cattle lowing. But we can't. We're trying, but we can't. And maybe, just maybe I'm the first to go, some forerunner, an example of what it looks like. A witness. A fool. A sinner. Maybe Lent is the love of God going helter-skelter-spinning-crazy, throwing everyone and everything, all creation, off it's center, hurling us screaming and scraping the floor to the edges where the darkness lives, where death lives. For only that which dies can be resurrected.
As for now, this is my story. This is my song.
- Charles Bowden, Blues for Cannibals
I tried. I really tried. I sat down and tried to participate, be a witness. But I'd been up since 3:30am and it was then 6:30pm and the room was dark, lit only by candles, and the music was soft and moody and the voices were quiet and reverent and everybody got real still and Lent-like. My family was fully in the moment, so too the people around me, all standing when prompted, singing loudly the songs on high screens. I tried to stay. But the edge beckoned. It was centrifugal - spinning, pulling, slipping.
If I say that I have no sin, I deceive myself...
Come on, God. Is this my Lent? To be among the people, but not of them? The emphasis last night was on telling our stories, being a witness...is this the story I'm to tell, God? Hey, everyone, I'm over here, on the edge. Don't worry about me. I tried to stay. I really did. But the scripture was cotton stuffed in my mouth and the songs put me to death and instead of the white of candlelight, I needed bright, rusty, blood-red something, I don't know what, but something red, something like what's on the tips of my fingers as I tried to hold on but couldn't, scraping, clawing to stay. But the edge beckoned. But maybe, just maybe someone needs to be on the edge, tipsy with Lent-lust and exhaustion with Sunday's communion wine still in his beard and bloodshot eyes...then again, maybe that's it. That could be it. Maybe the Lenten wheel is turning, gathering steam, like some god-awful-centrifuge; yes, maybe that's it. We'd all love to stay in the center, all Christmas-like, but Lent starts spinning, pulling, and we all begin careening toward the edge, clawing with blood-red fingers to stay in the creche with baby Jesus and the cattle lowing. But we can't. We're trying, but we can't. And maybe, just maybe I'm the first to go, some forerunner, an example of what it looks like. A witness. A fool. A sinner. Maybe Lent is the love of God going helter-skelter-spinning-crazy, throwing everyone and everything, all creation, off it's center, hurling us screaming and scraping the floor to the edges where the darkness lives, where death lives. For only that which dies can be resurrected.
As for now, this is my story. This is my song.
Funky White Boys
I wrote the other day about valuing the beautiful no during Lent. Yesterday morning I received numerous, repeated no's from my son: No, Dad, I'm not going to church. This went on for about a half hour. I gave him the two minute warning: Get dressed; we're going as a family. I respect your desire not to go, but you have no choice. If you've not yet had moments like that with your children, I believe you will, just wait. If you reply with a beautiful no that your kids just don't do that kinda stuff, then I bow before you, o great parenter of spiritual champions, and beg that you pray for the rest of us mere mortals. That last sentence is dripping, I tell you the truth dripping with sarcasm.
Back at the ranch, following church, he came in my bedroom: Dad, I'm sorry I was in a funk this morning. I just was. I gave him a hug, brushed his mane back from his eyes: We all get funky sometimes, white boy.
Later that afternoon, I told him I was going for a run and asked if he wanted to ride along on his bike. A beautiful yes. As we donned our wicking clothing and such, he said Dad, you should get some longer shorts; I can see too much of your legs. Obviously the grand sweep of my quadriceps was overwhelming to him. What, my muscles too big for you, white boy? My son chuckled, I tell you the truth chuckled in my face: Yeah, I'm really envious, Dad. I was self-conscious the entire run.
He rode ahead of me, stayed where I could see him. I huffed along behind on bird-legs, praying for him each step of the trail. I prayed for him, for his mom and sisters, for his girlfriend, for him again, shucks, even prayed for me; it got quite rhythmic. He only had to stop a couple of times, such was the distance between us. Thanks for stopping for the old man. He would just grin: sure.
The evening concluded with my twelve year old white boy in my lap, I tell you the truth my lap watching The Amazing Race. I made some editorial comments along the way, as only a skinny-legged man can truly do, and he laughed aloud. Inside, I felt the beautiful yes. One of the male contestants in the race so amazing was crying, having made some poor decisions. I spoke to the screen: Hey, get a Kleenex and some backbone, and get back in the race. More laughter from this boy-man in my lap.
And I thought yep, we all make poor decisions, get funky on ourselves and those around us; even get teary. It's best to wipe our eyes, ask for forgiveness, and cowboy up 'cause the race is still on. And we're not finished yet.
I may possibly look into purchasing some longer shorts as it looks like I've still got a lot of running ahead of me. The beautiful maybe.
Back at the ranch, following church, he came in my bedroom: Dad, I'm sorry I was in a funk this morning. I just was. I gave him a hug, brushed his mane back from his eyes: We all get funky sometimes, white boy.
Later that afternoon, I told him I was going for a run and asked if he wanted to ride along on his bike. A beautiful yes. As we donned our wicking clothing and such, he said Dad, you should get some longer shorts; I can see too much of your legs. Obviously the grand sweep of my quadriceps was overwhelming to him. What, my muscles too big for you, white boy? My son chuckled, I tell you the truth chuckled in my face: Yeah, I'm really envious, Dad. I was self-conscious the entire run.
He rode ahead of me, stayed where I could see him. I huffed along behind on bird-legs, praying for him each step of the trail. I prayed for him, for his mom and sisters, for his girlfriend, for him again, shucks, even prayed for me; it got quite rhythmic. He only had to stop a couple of times, such was the distance between us. Thanks for stopping for the old man. He would just grin: sure.
The evening concluded with my twelve year old white boy in my lap, I tell you the truth my lap watching The Amazing Race. I made some editorial comments along the way, as only a skinny-legged man can truly do, and he laughed aloud. Inside, I felt the beautiful yes. One of the male contestants in the race so amazing was crying, having made some poor decisions. I spoke to the screen: Hey, get a Kleenex and some backbone, and get back in the race. More laughter from this boy-man in my lap.
And I thought yep, we all make poor decisions, get funky on ourselves and those around us; even get teary. It's best to wipe our eyes, ask for forgiveness, and cowboy up 'cause the race is still on. And we're not finished yet.
I may possibly look into purchasing some longer shorts as it looks like I've still got a lot of running ahead of me. The beautiful maybe.
In my own words
Once upon a day, something good from Nazareth, Jesus, came and John pushed him face-first completely in the muddy Jordan. As Jesus broke the river's brown coming up, the blue above tore and the Spirit flapped to him like a dove.
There was a voice out of the sky: My son, the loved one. You are my heart's delight.
Then the Spirit wrangled him, still dripping wet, into the dry margins where wild animals lived. Jesus was badgered by Satan forty days and nights.
The angels were close at hand.
Then John was handed over and Jordan's surface was stilled. Jesus tramped into Galilee announcing something good: It is time. God's reign is here. Now turn around and believe.
Mark 1.9-15
There was a voice out of the sky: My son, the loved one. You are my heart's delight.
Then the Spirit wrangled him, still dripping wet, into the dry margins where wild animals lived. Jesus was badgered by Satan forty days and nights.
The angels were close at hand.
Then John was handed over and Jordan's surface was stilled. Jesus tramped into Galilee announcing something good: It is time. God's reign is here. Now turn around and believe.
Mark 1.9-15
Dust
Twenty-nine people were "let go" from our company yesterday. Regular income, health insurance, friendships and projects now are gone. Dust.
I was told my position would not be affected. My position was not. But my position is not me. Two ladies I will miss especially. C and K managed the small cafeteria in our building. Some would not touch their fare deeming it too starchy or too common. I ate as much of it as I could afford. I work on the third floor and truck in words and sentences. They worked on the ground floor and created dishes out of Velveeta cheese and butter. My walk down to their area always seemed to ground me, remind me of first things: food, drink, breath, laughter, friends. Dust.
My little girl had an accident at school yesterday; she peed her pants. Why? I don't know. Why does anybody pee their pants? In the rush of after-school-do-your-homework-let's-get-ready-for-church, her story was I spilled my drink. The confession just before leaving the house left no time to change. She sat close beside me during the Ash Wednesday service, smelling of urine and little girl. Dust.
Her confession led to anger, frustration, sadness: Why didn't you tell the truth? Then tears, harsh words, several of the deadly sins. As I pulled out of the driveway with a vanload of people having the same last name as me, there was fury: Why in the name of God almighty are we going to church tonight? Huh? Somebody tell me. Dust.
The church was filled with people, many more than they'd anticipated. Before entering the sanctuary, I bent my six-foot frame to forty-one year old knees and felt the priest's thumb: Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. It was as if the ashes were still hot.
We all came from different places to have a spiked-hair priest tell us something we already knew. I'd had dust in my mouth all day. But the conclusion of the service surfaced another "remember": remember me when you come into your kingdom. The dust-pocked thief on the cross, hanging by tendons and a prayer. Me.
Almighty, remember us. Please, O God, do not forget us. We have lost our jobs, our way. We have peed and shit ourselves and lied about it, thinking, hoping no one would know. We have grown angry at those so fresh from you and the fruit was anger, wrath. We have spoken words like sticks and stones, words that hurt. We have wrapped ourselves in ourselves and told everybody else to kiss our ass. We've had black-thumbed priests press ashes into our alpha-hydroxy-ed skin and we've risen to then sit before one another, forced to see the marks. Thieves, one and all. Dust.
You hate nothing you have made and forgive the sins of all who are penitent. You have put us in mind of the message of pardon and absolution. Remember us. Remember me. Amen.
To keep my mouth shut. To turn away my face. To walk back down the aisle. To slap the bishop back when he slapped me during Confirmation. To hold the word no in my mouth like a gold coin, something valued, something possible. To teach the no to our daughters. To value their no more than their compliant yes. To celebrate no. To grasp the word no in your fist and refuse to give it up. To support the boy who says no to violence, the girl who will not be violated, the woman who says no, no, I will not. To love the no, to cherish the no which is often our first word. No - the means to transformation.
- Louise Erdrich, The Blue Jay's Dance
Tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, begins the Lenten season. Maybe, possibly, you're even now making plans to give up something during this time. I usually hear of folks giving up the Starbucks drive-thru or going to the movies or dark chocolate or crazy, Kama Sutra sex; you know, common everyday stuff. I'm not always sure how I feel about giving up those kinds of things. The original communal Lent has devolved into almost private discipline; it used to be the whole gang was prescribed the same thing, but now I get to choose my own medicine.
Here's a thought, just a thought. What if you gave up saying yes during Lent? No, not the yes of did you brush your teeth? or did you pick up the kids? I'm talking about that compliant yes; you know of that I speak. It's saying yes to any and every old thing that comes our way. It's often hard for folks who want to be Christ-like to refuse much at all, us wanting to have a servant's heart and all. Yes, there are times we entertain angels unaware and then there are weeks on end we let devils wring our souls dry.
What if this Lent was a returning to what is often our first word? The beautiful No. I agree with Erdrich; it is possibly the means to transformation. And you'd get to keep the chocolate and sex.
It's just a thought.
- Louise Erdrich, The Blue Jay's Dance
Tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, begins the Lenten season. Maybe, possibly, you're even now making plans to give up something during this time. I usually hear of folks giving up the Starbucks drive-thru or going to the movies or dark chocolate or crazy, Kama Sutra sex; you know, common everyday stuff. I'm not always sure how I feel about giving up those kinds of things. The original communal Lent has devolved into almost private discipline; it used to be the whole gang was prescribed the same thing, but now I get to choose my own medicine.
Here's a thought, just a thought. What if you gave up saying yes during Lent? No, not the yes of did you brush your teeth? or did you pick up the kids? I'm talking about that compliant yes; you know of that I speak. It's saying yes to any and every old thing that comes our way. It's often hard for folks who want to be Christ-like to refuse much at all, us wanting to have a servant's heart and all. Yes, there are times we entertain angels unaware and then there are weeks on end we let devils wring our souls dry.
What if this Lent was a returning to what is often our first word? The beautiful No. I agree with Erdrich; it is possibly the means to transformation. And you'd get to keep the chocolate and sex.
It's just a thought.
The Hero's Journey
I decided on breakfast at the Andiamo (Let's Go) restaurant. It was full of business travelers, as you'd expect at Chicago O'Hare's Hilton. The host seated me smack dab in the middle of suits and fruit, Blackberries that is. Not five minutes in my chair and I heard the word strategy, twice. Sweet lord, where am I? In moments like that, which happen occasionally, I need something to remind me of the ground of my being, the who of who I am. And suddenly, there it was, on the menu - corned beef hash, potatoes and onions. Excellent choice, sir. I'll have it right out.
Oh, and I'd like ketchup with that, please.
Catsup? Certainly. Andiamo.
Uh, yes...catsup. 10-4, good buddy.
**
I arrived at Gate K11 with thirty minutes before board-time. I thought it'd be an opportunity to read (Jim Harrison, The Woman Lit by Fireflies). And then they arrived, choosing seats on each side of me. I was then smack dab in the middle of two rather large ladies who'd been wheelchair-ed to the gate. The attendants locked the wheels and the ladies stood with much drama, took deep breaths, and then slowly stepped to their seats. The first of two wore sweat pants and a t-shirt: Eat More Chickin'. The second two-handed a tapestry carry-on while delicately balancing a 24 oz. smoothie between her breasts. Had I not seen it with my own two eyes, I would not have believed.
Any thoughts of semi-solitude with a woman lit by fireflies were quickly dispelled by two women grunting through life. I will refer to them, ever so briefly, as Chickin' and Smoothie. Chickin' had just experienced a knee replacement; the other to follow in a month. Smoothie's knees were both replaced last year, so they might as well've been two sisters, separated at birth, reunited in an airport.
Chickin': You know what bugs my doctor? He said it's that guy on House, the doctor who uses his cane on the wrong side.
Smoothie: That was the first thing I noticed about that show. I don't know why he does that; seems like the producers would know how wrong that is. That's Hollywood, I guess (sigh).
Chickin': You know, that attendant wheeled me all the way from the curb. Sweet girl. Said she never took breaks, just kept on working. I could tell she smoked though.
Smoothie: Well, I had to tell my helper every last thing to do. I guess if you want help, you've gotta ask for it (sigh).
It was then a strikingly handsome Hispanic lady in a white sweater dress and black knee-boots walked up and parked her rolling luggage right in front of me. She seemed truly lit by fireflies. Her dusky knees would not need replacing anytime soon. The relatively sweaty atmosphere evaporated as something like jasmine filled the air. Why in the name of all that's sane she chose to stand before me, I do not know. Maybe, sometimes, the prayers of a marginally righteous man availeth enough. She gently smiled at me, then answered a call on her cell phone.
**
My boarding pass had indicated my seat would be assigned at the gate.
Mr. Blase, are you o.k. to sit in the exit row?
Ah, the hero's seat. I said sure.
The flight attendant needed a verbal, so I had yet another chance to declare my intentions.
Are you willing and able to assist in case of an emergency?
The corned beef hash mingled with the vision of the lady in white to produce a hero's response: Yes, Ma'am, I am.
As she wiggled into the seat behind me, I knew there'd be trouble. She was all of eight and must've had a case of Red Bull for breakfast followed by a Mountain Dew pre-board snack. Her parents sat in the row behind her and promptly inserted iPods and closed their eyes. If she kicked my seat once, she kicked it twenty times from Chicago to Denver. Not gentle, white-sweatered kicks mind you, but hard so-you-wanna-be-a-hero-huh? kicks. After about kick ten of twenty, I turned to try and catch her eyes. As our gazes met, she stuck her tongue out at me. I did what any good hero would do; I stuck my tongue out right back at her. The last ten kicks of the trip felt harder, full of spite. Fireflies would stay the hell away from this girl.
A very anti-hero thought crossed my mind. If she keeps that stuff up, she's gonna have to have those knees replaced. I'm just sayin'.
Oh, and I'd like ketchup with that, please.
Catsup? Certainly. Andiamo.
Uh, yes...catsup. 10-4, good buddy.
**
I arrived at Gate K11 with thirty minutes before board-time. I thought it'd be an opportunity to read (Jim Harrison, The Woman Lit by Fireflies). And then they arrived, choosing seats on each side of me. I was then smack dab in the middle of two rather large ladies who'd been wheelchair-ed to the gate. The attendants locked the wheels and the ladies stood with much drama, took deep breaths, and then slowly stepped to their seats. The first of two wore sweat pants and a t-shirt: Eat More Chickin'. The second two-handed a tapestry carry-on while delicately balancing a 24 oz. smoothie between her breasts. Had I not seen it with my own two eyes, I would not have believed.
Any thoughts of semi-solitude with a woman lit by fireflies were quickly dispelled by two women grunting through life. I will refer to them, ever so briefly, as Chickin' and Smoothie. Chickin' had just experienced a knee replacement; the other to follow in a month. Smoothie's knees were both replaced last year, so they might as well've been two sisters, separated at birth, reunited in an airport.
Chickin': You know what bugs my doctor? He said it's that guy on House, the doctor who uses his cane on the wrong side.
Smoothie: That was the first thing I noticed about that show. I don't know why he does that; seems like the producers would know how wrong that is. That's Hollywood, I guess (sigh).
Chickin': You know, that attendant wheeled me all the way from the curb. Sweet girl. Said she never took breaks, just kept on working. I could tell she smoked though.
Smoothie: Well, I had to tell my helper every last thing to do. I guess if you want help, you've gotta ask for it (sigh).
It was then a strikingly handsome Hispanic lady in a white sweater dress and black knee-boots walked up and parked her rolling luggage right in front of me. She seemed truly lit by fireflies. Her dusky knees would not need replacing anytime soon. The relatively sweaty atmosphere evaporated as something like jasmine filled the air. Why in the name of all that's sane she chose to stand before me, I do not know. Maybe, sometimes, the prayers of a marginally righteous man availeth enough. She gently smiled at me, then answered a call on her cell phone.
**
My boarding pass had indicated my seat would be assigned at the gate.
Mr. Blase, are you o.k. to sit in the exit row?
Ah, the hero's seat. I said sure.
The flight attendant needed a verbal, so I had yet another chance to declare my intentions.
Are you willing and able to assist in case of an emergency?
The corned beef hash mingled with the vision of the lady in white to produce a hero's response: Yes, Ma'am, I am.
As she wiggled into the seat behind me, I knew there'd be trouble. She was all of eight and must've had a case of Red Bull for breakfast followed by a Mountain Dew pre-board snack. Her parents sat in the row behind her and promptly inserted iPods and closed their eyes. If she kicked my seat once, she kicked it twenty times from Chicago to Denver. Not gentle, white-sweatered kicks mind you, but hard so-you-wanna-be-a-hero-huh? kicks. After about kick ten of twenty, I turned to try and catch her eyes. As our gazes met, she stuck her tongue out at me. I did what any good hero would do; I stuck my tongue out right back at her. The last ten kicks of the trip felt harder, full of spite. Fireflies would stay the hell away from this girl.
A very anti-hero thought crossed my mind. If she keeps that stuff up, she's gonna have to have those knees replaced. I'm just sayin'.
Book Review
I don't read much non-fiction these days, at least not if I have the choice. It all seems so intent on making sure I "get it" that after about five pages I've "had it." But there is a short-list of non-fiction writers I'll shell out my hard earned greenbacks to read. Robert Benson is worth the day's wage.
Mr. Benson (he's a little older than I am, so I'll be respectful and all) has written more than a dozen books about the discovery of the sacred in the midst of our ordinary lives; titles such as Between the Dreaming and the Coming True and Digging In. January of this fine year witnessed the release of The Echo Within: Finding Your True Calling, published by the folks at Waterbrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc.
When I received a copy to review, I immediately turned to the table of contents. If you were to purchase this book and begin in the same way, which I heartily recommend, you would find ten chapter titles, words like Listening and Walking and Dreaming. All of these words are gerunds, from the Latin gerundus meaning "to bear" or "carry on." These titles seem fitting for this book as Mr. Benson's intent is to help us bear with who we've been called to be and carry on toward the reason we're here. Lofty intent, huh? It's a good thing Mr. Benson is our amicus, from the Latin for "friend."
My review of Mr. Benson's book will follow the old sweaty sermon structure of three points and a poem.
1. The words contained in these 192 pages seek to illumine rather than instruct. I believe when it comes to this thing known as "calling" that each person has to ask, seek, and knock for themselves. Mr. Benson agrees; his own has been a crooked, little path. Rather than giving us steps to ascend or boxes to check, Benson drops hints like Perhaps you should listen to that voice within that sounds so much like your own and Calling is not always static; it is not always a one-time event. If koans like these have a tendency to frustrate you, then so will this book. However, if you've the mettle to endure a little frustration, you might just start hearing a still, small Voice... that may sound a lot like your own.
2. Martin Luther King reminded us that "we all live in the red." In other words, each and every one of us are indebted to those who give encouragement in due season, words that help us see the person we could be and maybe the next step to take. Benson lives humbly in such a hue. He gives credit where it's due to such influential characters as Mac and Ben and Phyllis and Fred. Probably most of all, and rightly so, Benson obeys the fifth commandment by honoring his father, a rather colorful character in his own right. We are surrounded by mentors in our lives if we've the ears to hear and eyes to see and heart to trust.
3. Although he doesn't use the exact wording, Mr. Benson is an advocate of the arrogance of belonging, that belief that we, all of us, are something. And as such, we, all of us, are given the chance to dream. He poses the last-chapter question - Can we become something or another simply by dreaming it and believing in the dream hard enough and long enough? There is white space on the page after that question. A new paragraph follows it, with the grammatically correct indented spaces. Those combined spaces are enough for me to see the bearded face of this amicus, grinning a maybe...yes, maybe so...
Three points. Oh yes, the poem. Near the end of this book, Mr. Benson gently invokes the name of Rod McKuen. My own father spun McKuen love songs on the phonograph when I was young. That same father later gifted me with several books that housed his poems. I, like Benson, always knew many thought McKuen to be nothing but sappy. But there is a nuance between syrupy and sweet. The former will rot your teeth and mind. The later, if well-crafted, can rekindle something that we lost somehow, somewhere along the way in that region known as the cordis, from the Latin for "heart." The Echo Within hits the sweet spot.
For if you don't know where
It is you came from it's hard
to ascertain just where you might be
heading -in life or down the block.
A friend can help you sort that out
and will.
-Rod McKuen, "Nightwalker"
A Few Good Men
"Grandpa, were you a hero in the war?" Grandpa said, "No... but I served in a company of heroes..."
My son will turn 12yrs old on Tuesday. And so begins his first steps into the difficult splendor: becoming a man. We will celebrate his life on Tuesday with cards and gifts and his meal of choice - pot roast and potatoes. But I wanted to do something with him this weekend, just the two of us, to mark time; to begin the days.
A good man offered the use of his cabin nearby, so Will and I kissed the girls on Friday evening and drove away. We stopped at a local place and ordered a twenty-pack of wings and "killer seasoned fries." Then we snaked up hills until coming to our destination. It seemed a fitting place for us, as my friends use this cabin for their program of initiating boys into men - Training Ground.
After the meal which would leave us farting all night, we went upstairs and sat down for the main event - HBO's Band of Brothers, all of it.
Several months ago, I'd felt that we, my son and I, would need a common language or story to use as a foundation for his days ahead. I grew up watching westerns with my dad; it is our common story: Monte Walsh, the Cowboys, Lonesome Dove. At my father-in-law's house, over Christmas, Will saw one episode of Band of Brothers on the History channel; he sat transfixed. In that moment, I knew what our story needed to be.
A part of me is sad that my son has not warmed to westerns. I realize he may yet, but that genre does not stir him, not now. But I remind myself that the intent is not to help him become a cowboy or a soldier, but a man. The hero's journey is the same, whether it's hats or helmets. So off to Normandy we went.
I wanted the evening to be as natural as possible. I firmly believe that the soul of a boy, much like the soul of a man, is shy. You can slowly draw it out into the open and a jerky move can send it skittering back into the shadows. I fear our sometimes overt actions to help a boy "get it" do just that. That's what I'm interested in, my son's soul, that deepest part of his life. And, my son and I do a lot together, so it's not like an absent father coming in on furlough and trying to give him the goods before shipping off again. No, ours is as we go.
So we watched a little, talked a little, laughed a little, and cringed a little.
I watched to see what character he would be drawn to; just my luck, "Wild Bill" Guarnere, the toughass from Philly with a mouth to make even Southern Baptist mothers pray the rosary. Oh, he liked some of the others as well, but "Wild Bill" made his soul peek out. After a few episodes, I asked why he liked this character. He's a good man, dad. And I cried, just a little, and thanked the Grace that keeps this world for a moment when things seemed right. There aren't too many of those in this life; men know that.
And so we have our benchmark: a good man. That's what, in my better moments, I hope I am and that's what I pray my son will become. That's what my dad is. And it's what Will Bill was. I have heard, especially in the christian community, that it's not enough to just be a good man; that you've gotta be God's man or something like that. This grieves me; it's why I believe most of the loud male christian voices know little about the soul of a man. If you bristle at that statement, well, so be it.
There was a time when the world asked ordinary men to do extraordinary things. I believe we are still in that time. The world needs good men. And so we carry on, a little at a time, toward the mark.
This story shall the good man teach his son...
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers...
- Shakespeare, Henry V
Mind Blood
"Every year at this time it's as if I can taste faintly my mind's blood..."
- Jim Harrison, The Road Home
I swear I've tasted my mind's blood this week. I am familiar with this vaguely acrid taint. It is a flavor that arises when I speak my mind or entertain a thought and the witnesses simply will not have it. A bow is strung, an arrow flies, and thoughts and dreams are pierced; the aim is never to kill, just maim. Then the wounded limp and drag through the valleys of my mind, leaving the bright red trail. I track them and pause and kneel to finger the red. I taste and know. Mind blood.
Do you know this experience, this taste?
If you think this an occasion for sadness, then you judge too quickly. It is never pleasant, but it is good; a returning to myself. And for that, I am always grateful. It is then a quest to find and care for these fragments, these pieces of who I am, and bind them, tend them, nurse them back possibly stronger than before. To not search for the bleeding, to leave them to slowly cease because of some navy-blue shame, is to permit the gradual extinction of me. And so I leave the ninety and nine and search for the ones, such is their worth.
The taste of mind blood always brings clarity, differentiation. Yes, we are more alike than we know. We are also, at times, more different than we'd wish. Before the first person plural, there must come the first person singular; I before we. If the plural is truly comprised of singulars, then something tapestry-like exists; maybe the ragged old flag. The alternative is the melting pot, a gradual simmering away of character until the earth and all that is in it can be ladled into a bowl for public consumption; a mess of pottage for our birthrights.
I realize these thoughts are scattered from hell to breakfast; off the path, off the trail. It's alright. So am I right now. If you see the red on my lips, you needn't be afraid. To some, blood indicates death. To others, it is the taste of life.
- Jim Harrison, The Road Home
I swear I've tasted my mind's blood this week. I am familiar with this vaguely acrid taint. It is a flavor that arises when I speak my mind or entertain a thought and the witnesses simply will not have it. A bow is strung, an arrow flies, and thoughts and dreams are pierced; the aim is never to kill, just maim. Then the wounded limp and drag through the valleys of my mind, leaving the bright red trail. I track them and pause and kneel to finger the red. I taste and know. Mind blood.
Do you know this experience, this taste?
If you think this an occasion for sadness, then you judge too quickly. It is never pleasant, but it is good; a returning to myself. And for that, I am always grateful. It is then a quest to find and care for these fragments, these pieces of who I am, and bind them, tend them, nurse them back possibly stronger than before. To not search for the bleeding, to leave them to slowly cease because of some navy-blue shame, is to permit the gradual extinction of me. And so I leave the ninety and nine and search for the ones, such is their worth.
The taste of mind blood always brings clarity, differentiation. Yes, we are more alike than we know. We are also, at times, more different than we'd wish. Before the first person plural, there must come the first person singular; I before we. If the plural is truly comprised of singulars, then something tapestry-like exists; maybe the ragged old flag. The alternative is the melting pot, a gradual simmering away of character until the earth and all that is in it can be ladled into a bowl for public consumption; a mess of pottage for our birthrights.
I realize these thoughts are scattered from hell to breakfast; off the path, off the trail. It's alright. So am I right now. If you see the red on my lips, you needn't be afraid. To some, blood indicates death. To others, it is the taste of life.
Saint for a Day
A good friend reminded me that today is Saint Blase day. I kid you not...St. Blase. Here's a little info on the man.
Bishop Blase was martyred in his episcopal city of Sebastea, Armenia, in 316. The legendary Acts of St. Blase were written 400 years later. Blase was known to be a good bishop, working hard to encourage the spiritual and physical health of his people; in other words, "a good man." Although the Edict of Toleration (311), granting freedom of worship in the Roman Empire, was already five years old, persecution still raged in Armenia. Now I really like this next part.
Blase was apparently forced to flee to the back country. There he lived as a hermit in solitude and prayer, but made friends with the wild animals. One day a group of hunters seeking wild animals for the amphitheater stumbled upon Blase’s cave (possibly an early version of The Dirty Shame?). They were first surprised and then frightened (I'd bet the biblical "fear and wonder"). The bishop was kneeling in prayer surrounded by patiently waiting wolves, lions and bears. Yes, give sweet St. Francis the squirrels, lambs and turtle doves; my namesake prays alongside those big enough to eat you, my dear.
As the hunters hauled Blase off to prison (why must the wild man always be locked up?), the legend has it, a mother came with her young son who had a fish bone lodged in his throat. At Blase’s command the child was able to cough up the bone. And so, St. Blase's gift is the blessing of the throat.
Agricolaus, governor of Cappadocia, tried to persuade Blase to sacrifice to pagan idols. The first time Blase refused, he was beaten. The next time he was suspended from a tree and his flesh torn with iron combs or rakes. Finally he was beheaded. The wolves, lions and bears watched from the margins and wept and vowed to be even wilder in his memory (I added this last sentence, but it reads well, don't you think?).
There you have it. Quite a legend, huh? My pastoral credentials are quite cattywampus these days, but with what powers I still have, well, here goes:
We've eaten the food of the empire and it's choking us. May the bones in our throats be coughed up, out and away. May we strive to be good men and women. May we sing once more like young sons who still walk with their mothers. May we pray yet again with the patiently waiting wolves, lions and bears. May our voices ring true in a tame world, wild but good, eliciting fear and wonder. They can have our heads, but not our hearts. Blessings on the throats of all. Over and out. Amen and amen.
Bishop Blase was martyred in his episcopal city of Sebastea, Armenia, in 316. The legendary Acts of St. Blase were written 400 years later. Blase was known to be a good bishop, working hard to encourage the spiritual and physical health of his people; in other words, "a good man." Although the Edict of Toleration (311), granting freedom of worship in the Roman Empire, was already five years old, persecution still raged in Armenia. Now I really like this next part.
Blase was apparently forced to flee to the back country. There he lived as a hermit in solitude and prayer, but made friends with the wild animals. One day a group of hunters seeking wild animals for the amphitheater stumbled upon Blase’s cave (possibly an early version of The Dirty Shame?). They were first surprised and then frightened (I'd bet the biblical "fear and wonder"). The bishop was kneeling in prayer surrounded by patiently waiting wolves, lions and bears. Yes, give sweet St. Francis the squirrels, lambs and turtle doves; my namesake prays alongside those big enough to eat you, my dear.
As the hunters hauled Blase off to prison (why must the wild man always be locked up?), the legend has it, a mother came with her young son who had a fish bone lodged in his throat. At Blase’s command the child was able to cough up the bone. And so, St. Blase's gift is the blessing of the throat.
Agricolaus, governor of Cappadocia, tried to persuade Blase to sacrifice to pagan idols. The first time Blase refused, he was beaten. The next time he was suspended from a tree and his flesh torn with iron combs or rakes. Finally he was beheaded. The wolves, lions and bears watched from the margins and wept and vowed to be even wilder in his memory (I added this last sentence, but it reads well, don't you think?).
There you have it. Quite a legend, huh? My pastoral credentials are quite cattywampus these days, but with what powers I still have, well, here goes:
We've eaten the food of the empire and it's choking us. May the bones in our throats be coughed up, out and away. May we strive to be good men and women. May we sing once more like young sons who still walk with their mothers. May we pray yet again with the patiently waiting wolves, lions and bears. May our voices ring true in a tame world, wild but good, eliciting fear and wonder. They can have our heads, but not our hearts. Blessings on the throats of all. Over and out. Amen and amen.
Beautiful Due
...to give the mundane its beautiful due.
- John Updike on the task of a writer
It is staying light a little longer in the evenings. We noticed that last night, my daughter and I did. She was finishing up her homework, a spelling vocabulary assignment. One of her words was "pseudonym" - she had to define it, then choose one for herself. Dad, I'm going to choose Penny Brown because pennies are simple and pennies are brown. What would yours be, Dad? I thought a moment. I kinda like Luciano Sauvignon.
My son was laying on the couch, reading. He was able to do it sans lamps as the setting sun was brilliantly bright. I'd asked him to read a couple of fantasy books from an author I'd like my company to acquire. We compared notes on the first one. Did you get confused at the end? I got confused, there was a lot going on. He looked at me a moment, then answered. Sorta, but not really. The second one's a little easier to follow; I like it better, but they're both good.
In the lingering light of studious older siblings, my youngest was compelled to do something homeworky. She gathered up some paper and a black colored pencil. Dad, I'm going to do some math problems and you check them, alright? My southpaw wrote:
98
+98 = 186 - is that right, Dad? I accepted the black pencil and gingerly pointed out she'd forgotten to carry the one. She opted out of erasing and just wrote a 9 over the 8 really bold and black. She did a few more addition problems until Penny Brown finished her homework, then Polly Pockets replaced pseudonyms and carrying ones.
My fantasy co-reviewer finished book two just in time to see Faith Hill usher the planet into the pursuit of Lombardi. Faith looked like Catwoman in her NBC black leather, so his jump from one fantasy to another may have been microscopic.
The Beagle and my girlfriend were roused from their afternoon naps. He stretched and scratched to go outside to pee. She stretched and said Kurt Warner sure is cute. I waited for Penny Brown to reply yes, but he doesn't hold a candle to Luciano Sauvignon. But she didn't. Sometimes, in the lingering sunlight, it's easy to forget to carry the one.
- John Updike on the task of a writer
It is staying light a little longer in the evenings. We noticed that last night, my daughter and I did. She was finishing up her homework, a spelling vocabulary assignment. One of her words was "pseudonym" - she had to define it, then choose one for herself. Dad, I'm going to choose Penny Brown because pennies are simple and pennies are brown. What would yours be, Dad? I thought a moment. I kinda like Luciano Sauvignon.
My son was laying on the couch, reading. He was able to do it sans lamps as the setting sun was brilliantly bright. I'd asked him to read a couple of fantasy books from an author I'd like my company to acquire. We compared notes on the first one. Did you get confused at the end? I got confused, there was a lot going on. He looked at me a moment, then answered. Sorta, but not really. The second one's a little easier to follow; I like it better, but they're both good.
In the lingering light of studious older siblings, my youngest was compelled to do something homeworky. She gathered up some paper and a black colored pencil. Dad, I'm going to do some math problems and you check them, alright? My southpaw wrote:
98
+98 = 186 - is that right, Dad? I accepted the black pencil and gingerly pointed out she'd forgotten to carry the one. She opted out of erasing and just wrote a 9 over the 8 really bold and black. She did a few more addition problems until Penny Brown finished her homework, then Polly Pockets replaced pseudonyms and carrying ones.
My fantasy co-reviewer finished book two just in time to see Faith Hill usher the planet into the pursuit of Lombardi. Faith looked like Catwoman in her NBC black leather, so his jump from one fantasy to another may have been microscopic.
The Beagle and my girlfriend were roused from their afternoon naps. He stretched and scratched to go outside to pee. She stretched and said Kurt Warner sure is cute. I waited for Penny Brown to reply yes, but he doesn't hold a candle to Luciano Sauvignon. But she didn't. Sometimes, in the lingering sunlight, it's easy to forget to carry the one.
The Wrestlers
On Sunday afternoon, I saw Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler. It's the comeback story of an aging pro wrestler, Randy "The Ram" Robinson. "The Ram" is a battered, broke, lonely hero, living in a trailer park when he can pay the rent and his van when he can't. A heart attack hastens his retirement after which he tries to mend his damaged relationship with his daughter, as well as pursue a romantic relationship with his favorite stripper, Cassidy. Both of these attempts fail. Mickey Rourke and Marisa Tomei give stellar performances. The story is rough, harsh, abrupt, shocking...and tender. The film is a strong R, please hear that.
On Sunday evening, I saw the latest installment in the story of another wrestler. It's the won't die story of an aging megachurch pastor, Ted Haggard. He preached for years that we don't wrestle against flesh and blood, but he sure as hell wrestled with some - his own. A gay sex scandal full of drugs and deceit hastened his retirement a few years back. My gut tells me he's battered and lonely, although not-so-broke; he's not living in a trailer park or a van. The last I'd heard he'd gone through the "steps" of some accountability-group-directed-step-program and was considering days ahead as a counselor; he'd healed and was ready to move on and help others with their damage. Dear God.
The film is a fiction told to tell the truth and as such caused me to care about Randy "The Ram" Robinson. The news story appears to be a truth told to cover lies and as such elicits a radically different response in me: I don't care. The Wrestler is an honest story. The Haggard saga seems to be an ongoing exercise is managing appearances. I'd pay six bucks to see the film again. I'm fine not to ever hear another word about the other story.
As I thought about these two wrestlers, I also thought about us, and me, the other wrestlers. If we're alive, we're all in the ring to some degree. Yes, we're wrestling against principalities and powers but we're also wrestling with our own flesh and blood, ourselves. The choice I, we, have is the same choice "The Ram" and the pastor had: honesty or spin. The latter seeks a bright red bow wrapping everything up nice and tidy. The former seeks something much deeper, much more true and lasting - redemption - and trusts our landing off the top rope is ultimately in the director's infinitely tender hands.
The Long Road Home
Once upon a time, there was ... 'A king!' my little readers will say right away. No, children, you are wrong. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood...
I asked him, my firstborn son, if he thought his mother and I would approve. Through downcast eyes filled with middle school hair he said No, Dad...I just thought you wouldn't find out.
Our arrangement has been I take him to school in the mornings and he rides the bus home in the afternoon. Simple, clean, safe. His mother, my wife, ran an errand one day this week and on the return home saw some boys walking along the road, one of them ours. Not a school bus in sight. The story, which we believe, was he missed the bus and saw these neighborhood boys walking and caught up with them. The further story, which we believe, was that it happened once before, not due to missing a bus, but at the invite of these boys.
Some of you might think good lord, John, what's the problem? But he's not yours, he's mine.
...but then we are in deepest error when we think our children are truly our own. - Jim Harrison
In my mind's eye, my boy was walking alongside Fox and Cat, those two characters who led Pinocchio astray, telling him to plant his money in the Field of Miracles or something. The truth is my boy was walking alongside a couple of boys.
As we sat in his bedroom, I, also a firstborn who didn't tell my parents everything, said Will, I'd give my life for you, bud, no questions asked. Walking home like that puts you at risk. For a little while longer, I've got the responsibility to at least try and make sure you're safe. And then he started crying. I did too. Two firstborns who didn't and still won't tell our parents everything sitting there in our tears lost in the awkward dance steps of fathers and sons. I'm so sorry, Dad. I hugged my son and felt the broadness of his shoulders and his head tucked up under my neck. It was only yesterday his head barely reached my waist. Damn. Damn. Damn.
My firstborn son is on the long road home. So am I. So are we all.
Later that night, I remembered a time getting into a pickup with Lightbulb. Oh, that wasn't his name, but that's what we called him. I guess we just as easily could've called him Fox or Cat. I was probably my son's age, if not younger. Lightbulb took me on a stretch of highway between two sleepy little towns where boredom grew long like middle school hair. The speedometer reached 80, 85, 90...just a little more, Lightbulb...100 mph. We flew like bats in a black stepside Chevrolet. He held that speed the length of a Field of Miracles. My parents would not have approved. They never knew.
But now I know. The ache, the waiting until he hits that back door.
Skippin' out my door is the black sheep boy
And whichever way he runs he's gonna make a lot of noise
And I'm startled by the silence the minute that he's gone
And I pray for his protection and leave the porch light on
For my black sheep boy...
- Pierce Pettis, "Black Sheep Boy"
I asked him, my firstborn son, if he thought his mother and I would approve. Through downcast eyes filled with middle school hair he said No, Dad...I just thought you wouldn't find out.
Our arrangement has been I take him to school in the mornings and he rides the bus home in the afternoon. Simple, clean, safe. His mother, my wife, ran an errand one day this week and on the return home saw some boys walking along the road, one of them ours. Not a school bus in sight. The story, which we believe, was he missed the bus and saw these neighborhood boys walking and caught up with them. The further story, which we believe, was that it happened once before, not due to missing a bus, but at the invite of these boys.
Some of you might think good lord, John, what's the problem? But he's not yours, he's mine.
...but then we are in deepest error when we think our children are truly our own. - Jim Harrison
In my mind's eye, my boy was walking alongside Fox and Cat, those two characters who led Pinocchio astray, telling him to plant his money in the Field of Miracles or something. The truth is my boy was walking alongside a couple of boys.
As we sat in his bedroom, I, also a firstborn who didn't tell my parents everything, said Will, I'd give my life for you, bud, no questions asked. Walking home like that puts you at risk. For a little while longer, I've got the responsibility to at least try and make sure you're safe. And then he started crying. I did too. Two firstborns who didn't and still won't tell our parents everything sitting there in our tears lost in the awkward dance steps of fathers and sons. I'm so sorry, Dad. I hugged my son and felt the broadness of his shoulders and his head tucked up under my neck. It was only yesterday his head barely reached my waist. Damn. Damn. Damn.
My firstborn son is on the long road home. So am I. So are we all.
Later that night, I remembered a time getting into a pickup with Lightbulb. Oh, that wasn't his name, but that's what we called him. I guess we just as easily could've called him Fox or Cat. I was probably my son's age, if not younger. Lightbulb took me on a stretch of highway between two sleepy little towns where boredom grew long like middle school hair. The speedometer reached 80, 85, 90...just a little more, Lightbulb...100 mph. We flew like bats in a black stepside Chevrolet. He held that speed the length of a Field of Miracles. My parents would not have approved. They never knew.
But now I know. The ache, the waiting until he hits that back door.
Skippin' out my door is the black sheep boy
And whichever way he runs he's gonna make a lot of noise
And I'm startled by the silence the minute that he's gone
And I pray for his protection and leave the porch light on
For my black sheep boy...
- Pierce Pettis, "Black Sheep Boy"
It Has Begun
In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp...
- "Praise Song for the Day" by Elizabeth Alexander
I was grateful that poetry was given a place in yesterday's schedule. As the poet read the words that I'm sure auditioned before her many times, I watched the people gathered on the mall talk and laugh and rub gloved hands to stay warm. The words were not so much spoken to them as over them, like a prayer.
any sentence begun...
Some heard the word "sentence" drop from her lips and they thought of what judges hand down to guilty brows. Some believe our days ahead will be a prison sentence, that we have chosen poorly and will suffer.
Others listened to the word "sentence" and saw visions of verbs and nouns holding hands, dancing, achieving the poet's desire: hope.
Maybe yesterday's hope was wrapped in inaugural wool and circumstance. But hope is hope, my friends. And I will raise my candle to anyone or anything that can instill it, arouse it, remind us of it. Hope has only one author, one older and sweeter than yesterday's poet.
any sentence begun...
Today is today, it has begun. We are on the cusp. We, the people.
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp...
- "Praise Song for the Day" by Elizabeth Alexander
I was grateful that poetry was given a place in yesterday's schedule. As the poet read the words that I'm sure auditioned before her many times, I watched the people gathered on the mall talk and laugh and rub gloved hands to stay warm. The words were not so much spoken to them as over them, like a prayer.
any sentence begun...
Some heard the word "sentence" drop from her lips and they thought of what judges hand down to guilty brows. Some believe our days ahead will be a prison sentence, that we have chosen poorly and will suffer.
Others listened to the word "sentence" and saw visions of verbs and nouns holding hands, dancing, achieving the poet's desire: hope.
Maybe yesterday's hope was wrapped in inaugural wool and circumstance. But hope is hope, my friends. And I will raise my candle to anyone or anything that can instill it, arouse it, remind us of it. Hope has only one author, one older and sweeter than yesterday's poet.
any sentence begun...
Today is today, it has begun. We are on the cusp. We, the people.
What Matters
Two of our three kids and I went to the movies last night. Miss Middle was at a sleepover and my girlfriend was hosting this thing called Bunco, so we needed something to do for a couple of hours while the ladies, well, bunc-ed.
Anyway, we went to see Bedtime Stories with Adam Sandler and that ever handsome Keri Russell. I recommend it. It's not Gran Torino or anything, but it's a good story with some laughs and a few tears, reasons I go to the movies in the first place.
As we exited the theater to walk down the long hall toward the lobby, I noticed a couple in front of us; no, make that I noticed a man in front of us: hair nicely coiffed, long wool carcoat, polished Allen-Edmonds or some such nonsense. He was chatting with the lady who held his hand; she was holding his, not vice-versa - can you see it? I don't know how else to say it, other than the man gave off the air of importance. I immediately hoped some hyper kid would turn around and run into his groin or spill his Icee on his slippers.
As we walked through the lobby toward the front doors to the night air, he and his compadre were still directly in front of us. My youngest daughter was about a step ahead of me, walking and turning back to tell me her favorite parts of the movie. As Mr. Importance walked through the first set of doors, he didn't hold it open for the person behind him, in this case, my six-year old little girl. The Dad radar kicked in and I jumped ahead to catch the heavy glass door. The same thing happened as this man opened the final door. He didn't look back or hold the door open for those behind him.
Now, maybe this guy had just witnessed Defiance and was so engrossed in reflection that he was just, well, engrossed. Or maybe he'd just weathered Benjamin Button and was exhausted to the point of non-awareness of anything around him. And yes, dear reader, I am very aware of my own prejudices in this; namely, it's like a burr under my saddle when folks emit the vibe that they're Jesus H. Christ and their poop doesn't stink like the rest of ours. But to not hold the door open for the person behind you? Especially when the chances are good to great that the person just might be all of six years old and not yet adept at handling heavy glass doors? Heavens to mergatroyd.
The regulars here at The Dirty Shame uphold certain standards, like holding the door open for the person behind you. We even advocate men holding the door open for ladies. We say please and thank you; we also say dammit quite often, but it's never gratuitous. We drive slowly in neighborhoods because they're full of neighbors, whether we know 'em or not. We believe that at the end of the day, all that matters is how you treated folks, especially those smaller and less coiffed than yourself.
About halfway home, my youngest said thanks, Dad, for taking us to the movies. I loved it! And I said you are welcome, my dear.
This is a tough old world, full of heavy glass doors and all. Be sweet to folks.
You know, maybe nobody ever told that guy a bedtime story. That's no excuse, but it might be a reason.
Anyway, we went to see Bedtime Stories with Adam Sandler and that ever handsome Keri Russell. I recommend it. It's not Gran Torino or anything, but it's a good story with some laughs and a few tears, reasons I go to the movies in the first place.
As we exited the theater to walk down the long hall toward the lobby, I noticed a couple in front of us; no, make that I noticed a man in front of us: hair nicely coiffed, long wool carcoat, polished Allen-Edmonds or some such nonsense. He was chatting with the lady who held his hand; she was holding his, not vice-versa - can you see it? I don't know how else to say it, other than the man gave off the air of importance. I immediately hoped some hyper kid would turn around and run into his groin or spill his Icee on his slippers.
As we walked through the lobby toward the front doors to the night air, he and his compadre were still directly in front of us. My youngest daughter was about a step ahead of me, walking and turning back to tell me her favorite parts of the movie. As Mr. Importance walked through the first set of doors, he didn't hold it open for the person behind him, in this case, my six-year old little girl. The Dad radar kicked in and I jumped ahead to catch the heavy glass door. The same thing happened as this man opened the final door. He didn't look back or hold the door open for those behind him.
Now, maybe this guy had just witnessed Defiance and was so engrossed in reflection that he was just, well, engrossed. Or maybe he'd just weathered Benjamin Button and was exhausted to the point of non-awareness of anything around him. And yes, dear reader, I am very aware of my own prejudices in this; namely, it's like a burr under my saddle when folks emit the vibe that they're Jesus H. Christ and their poop doesn't stink like the rest of ours. But to not hold the door open for the person behind you? Especially when the chances are good to great that the person just might be all of six years old and not yet adept at handling heavy glass doors? Heavens to mergatroyd.
The regulars here at The Dirty Shame uphold certain standards, like holding the door open for the person behind you. We even advocate men holding the door open for ladies. We say please and thank you; we also say dammit quite often, but it's never gratuitous. We drive slowly in neighborhoods because they're full of neighbors, whether we know 'em or not. We believe that at the end of the day, all that matters is how you treated folks, especially those smaller and less coiffed than yourself.
About halfway home, my youngest said thanks, Dad, for taking us to the movies. I loved it! And I said you are welcome, my dear.
This is a tough old world, full of heavy glass doors and all. Be sweet to folks.
You know, maybe nobody ever told that guy a bedtime story. That's no excuse, but it might be a reason.
Wednesday Night
Have you ever seen a one-legged man trying to dance his way free?
If you've ever seen a one-legged man then you've seen me.
- Bruce Springsteen, "The Wrestler"
My girlfriend and the kids and I went to church last night. Wednesday night church. Mid-week service. Do you know how long it's been since I've gone to church in the middle of the week? Well, let's just say a long time.
Have you ever seen a one-legged man trying to dance his way free?
After four years of attending an Anglican church in Colorado Springs (a twenty minute commute), we decided we had to have something local; a church full of kids our kids know and people we see at the grocery store, that kind of stuff. We decided to say to hell with the quest for the perfect church; let's find one in the place where we live and commit, warts and all.
So, after visiting the locals, we're now attending Trinity Lutheran Church. My roots are Southern Baptist, I spent a year with the non-denominationals, then four years lovin' the Anglicans, and now find myself in the arms of those tuna-hot-dish Lutherans from Lake Wobegon. My lord.
Have you ever seen a one-legged man trying to dance his way free?
The Lutherans were starting a mid-week series on the seven deadly sins. I figured they might need an object lesson for each one, so I decided to go, help 'em out you know. It was a good evening for all of us. Folks introduced themselves to us, probably thinking we need to pray for this guy with a ponytail. Hell, I'll take all the prayer I can get. When the evening was said and done, I thought it felt like, well, home. My girlfriend agreed. The kids were in some classroom making s'mores while a teacher kept reminding them God is love, so they were slap-happy. I may go with the kids next week.
I don't know what church looks like for you these days; it may not even be a category in your life. That's fine; the grace that keeps this world is deep and wide. But a lot of folks, maybe even you, are disgusted with the gathering of God's people: the criticisms range from it's nothing but entertainment to isn't there more? Trust me, I've lobbed those same critiques myself. Some of you are searching for that pure expression of the New Testament church. Good luck. I believe the New Testament church was a room filled with folks chock-full of the seven, maybe even eight, deadly sins, and the folks back then knew it, so they prayed for one another, especially those with ponytails. Their saving mantra was God is love; they made sure to teach their children well. As to entertainment, well I'm sure things got a little interesting at times (read the New Testament). And as to isn't there more?, well, I've got a hunch they said sure, we've got more s'mores; there's plenty to go'round.
Have you ever seen a one-legged man trying to dance his way free?
It was a good evening in our little Lake Wobegon church. We didn't leave having witnessed those frequently sought after signs and wonders. Then again, maybe we did.
If you've ever seen a one-legged man then you've seen me.
- Bruce Springsteen, "The Wrestler"
My girlfriend and the kids and I went to church last night. Wednesday night church. Mid-week service. Do you know how long it's been since I've gone to church in the middle of the week? Well, let's just say a long time.
Have you ever seen a one-legged man trying to dance his way free?
After four years of attending an Anglican church in Colorado Springs (a twenty minute commute), we decided we had to have something local; a church full of kids our kids know and people we see at the grocery store, that kind of stuff. We decided to say to hell with the quest for the perfect church; let's find one in the place where we live and commit, warts and all.
So, after visiting the locals, we're now attending Trinity Lutheran Church. My roots are Southern Baptist, I spent a year with the non-denominationals, then four years lovin' the Anglicans, and now find myself in the arms of those tuna-hot-dish Lutherans from Lake Wobegon. My lord.
Have you ever seen a one-legged man trying to dance his way free?
The Lutherans were starting a mid-week series on the seven deadly sins. I figured they might need an object lesson for each one, so I decided to go, help 'em out you know. It was a good evening for all of us. Folks introduced themselves to us, probably thinking we need to pray for this guy with a ponytail. Hell, I'll take all the prayer I can get. When the evening was said and done, I thought it felt like, well, home. My girlfriend agreed. The kids were in some classroom making s'mores while a teacher kept reminding them God is love, so they were slap-happy. I may go with the kids next week.
I don't know what church looks like for you these days; it may not even be a category in your life. That's fine; the grace that keeps this world is deep and wide. But a lot of folks, maybe even you, are disgusted with the gathering of God's people: the criticisms range from it's nothing but entertainment to isn't there more? Trust me, I've lobbed those same critiques myself. Some of you are searching for that pure expression of the New Testament church. Good luck. I believe the New Testament church was a room filled with folks chock-full of the seven, maybe even eight, deadly sins, and the folks back then knew it, so they prayed for one another, especially those with ponytails. Their saving mantra was God is love; they made sure to teach their children well. As to entertainment, well I'm sure things got a little interesting at times (read the New Testament). And as to isn't there more?, well, I've got a hunch they said sure, we've got more s'mores; there's plenty to go'round.
Have you ever seen a one-legged man trying to dance his way free?
It was a good evening in our little Lake Wobegon church. We didn't leave having witnessed those frequently sought after signs and wonders. Then again, maybe we did.
Diet for Madness
I mentioned Jim Harrison as my favorite writer the other day. Wes commented that he'd never heard of him; maybe that describes you as well. I read Harrison with a pen in hand. Here are words or phrases I've underlined in my current read - The Road Home. I don't know that I'm encouraging you to read Harrison, for the practice can lead to a kind of madness; it makes you uncomfortable with television and politics and people who believe talking is thinking. But it's a relatively free country, so go for it if you choose.
...but then we are in deepest error when we think our children are truly our own.
How irreparably changed the world becomes when the loves of one's life are dead. It is always the last day of Indian summer. We are caught out in the cold and there's no door to get back in.
My father often railed against "common sense" which he viewed as most often an essentially petty mixture of greed and self-interest, the inanity of the "Onward, Christian Soldiers" attitude that propelled millions of nitwits westward, utterly destroying much of the earth and all of the Native cultures.
I suspect the wild calls the loudest when it has largely disappeared from our lives...
A Spanish poet, whose name I don't recall, wrote that we leave small pieces of our hearts here and there until there is not enough left to give away and stay alive.
I had begun to think it was central to my character and number of years to ache.
To the white people, whom I helplessly number myself, life is a very long and high set of stairs, but to my mother life was a river, a slow and stately wind across the sky, an endless sea of grass.
...it is arguable whether anyone ever truly recovers from anything.
The stars are the most soothing objects for the claustrophobe.
It takes a great deal of strength to keep January out of the soul...
These were not Methodist Indians but warriors with a lineage that owed nothing to the white man. We did not live upon the same earth that they did and we flatter ourselves when we think we understand them. To pity these men is to pity the gods.
With age I need not make judgments about their comparative merits, having lost the impulse to be right.
...but then we are in deepest error when we think our children are truly our own.
How irreparably changed the world becomes when the loves of one's life are dead. It is always the last day of Indian summer. We are caught out in the cold and there's no door to get back in.
My father often railed against "common sense" which he viewed as most often an essentially petty mixture of greed and self-interest, the inanity of the "Onward, Christian Soldiers" attitude that propelled millions of nitwits westward, utterly destroying much of the earth and all of the Native cultures.
I suspect the wild calls the loudest when it has largely disappeared from our lives...
A Spanish poet, whose name I don't recall, wrote that we leave small pieces of our hearts here and there until there is not enough left to give away and stay alive.
I had begun to think it was central to my character and number of years to ache.
To the white people, whom I helplessly number myself, life is a very long and high set of stairs, but to my mother life was a river, a slow and stately wind across the sky, an endless sea of grass.
...it is arguable whether anyone ever truly recovers from anything.
The stars are the most soothing objects for the claustrophobe.
It takes a great deal of strength to keep January out of the soul...
These were not Methodist Indians but warriors with a lineage that owed nothing to the white man. We did not live upon the same earth that they did and we flatter ourselves when we think we understand them. To pity these men is to pity the gods.
With age I need not make judgments about their comparative merits, having lost the impulse to be right.
Places In The Heart
Not long ago, I acquired some mail enhancement: I became a member of Facebook. I must admit, it's been an interesting experience so far. I currently have 172 friends, a fact that I've now added to my current resume.
One of the facets of my experience has been reconnecting with people from high school, many whom I haven't seen since we graduated in that very good year of 1985. Of the people I've reconnected with, some of them have been females, and of those females, some of them were girls that made concentrating on things like algebra or history rather difficult, if not entirely impossible. Human anatomy was a different matter, but I digress. I'm quite sure some of these girls knew I had a teenage crush on them; some of them didn't know I existed. Regardless of how conscious they were of me, they captured a place in my young heart; I felt affection for them, for they affected me. Make sense?
As I've seen their faces on Facebook and read snippets about their lives, I've been surprised to feel that old familiar pain (Dan Fogelberg). Evidently, they still hold places in my almost 42 yr old heart. I thought I had moved on. But, as another guy named Blaise said, the heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.
One of these girls-now-ladies mentioned something in a Facebook comment about the difficult times she was going through during those days. She was one of the ladies-then-girls that I thought was just beautiful. But when I knew her, I always believed she was hurting; in the language I now use as a 42 year old - she fought a lot of demons. When she mentioned this reality in her comment, it was a strange confirmation; somehow I had been able to really see her when others would not, could not. And it pained that small, but viable place that she had so long ago captured in my heart. I wished I'd of followed my heart's hunches and at least been a better friend to her, maybe even gathered up the courage to tell her I thought she was a vision on legs. It might've made a difference. Then again, maybe not.
In the interest of open communication in my current marital status, I mentioned this to my wife. She'd had the same sensation at being be-friended by someone who had shown her young heart attention years ago. The weight of his memory had surprised her; he'd had an affect on her. We, as husband and wife, had a good little face to face about feelings like this. We finished our brief conversation (because the Beagle was eating somebody's Polly Pocket) being reminded, yet again, that the heart is a mysterious thing indeed and that being an alive, large-hearted person means having room for many people and memories and being able to be moved by them all. Those feelings could generate jealousy, but they need not.
I realize there's a smidgen of a chance that Facebook chatting with old girlfriends like this could lead to a Motel 6 rendezvous in Amarillo by morning, with forty-something year old bodies going at it like, well, forty year olds. But that's not where my feelings were leading me. Besides, my '97 Stratus would never make it to Amarillo. No, my feelings were a good indication, I believe, that my 42 year old heart is still in pretty good shape. It can still feel like a 15 yr old. It's good to remember those places...(helluva segue, eh?)
There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
One of the facets of my experience has been reconnecting with people from high school, many whom I haven't seen since we graduated in that very good year of 1985. Of the people I've reconnected with, some of them have been females, and of those females, some of them were girls that made concentrating on things like algebra or history rather difficult, if not entirely impossible. Human anatomy was a different matter, but I digress. I'm quite sure some of these girls knew I had a teenage crush on them; some of them didn't know I existed. Regardless of how conscious they were of me, they captured a place in my young heart; I felt affection for them, for they affected me. Make sense?
As I've seen their faces on Facebook and read snippets about their lives, I've been surprised to feel that old familiar pain (Dan Fogelberg). Evidently, they still hold places in my almost 42 yr old heart. I thought I had moved on. But, as another guy named Blaise said, the heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.
One of these girls-now-ladies mentioned something in a Facebook comment about the difficult times she was going through during those days. She was one of the ladies-then-girls that I thought was just beautiful. But when I knew her, I always believed she was hurting; in the language I now use as a 42 year old - she fought a lot of demons. When she mentioned this reality in her comment, it was a strange confirmation; somehow I had been able to really see her when others would not, could not. And it pained that small, but viable place that she had so long ago captured in my heart. I wished I'd of followed my heart's hunches and at least been a better friend to her, maybe even gathered up the courage to tell her I thought she was a vision on legs. It might've made a difference. Then again, maybe not.
In the interest of open communication in my current marital status, I mentioned this to my wife. She'd had the same sensation at being be-friended by someone who had shown her young heart attention years ago. The weight of his memory had surprised her; he'd had an affect on her. We, as husband and wife, had a good little face to face about feelings like this. We finished our brief conversation (because the Beagle was eating somebody's Polly Pocket) being reminded, yet again, that the heart is a mysterious thing indeed and that being an alive, large-hearted person means having room for many people and memories and being able to be moved by them all. Those feelings could generate jealousy, but they need not.
I realize there's a smidgen of a chance that Facebook chatting with old girlfriends like this could lead to a Motel 6 rendezvous in Amarillo by morning, with forty-something year old bodies going at it like, well, forty year olds. But that's not where my feelings were leading me. Besides, my '97 Stratus would never make it to Amarillo. No, my feelings were a good indication, I believe, that my 42 year old heart is still in pretty good shape. It can still feel like a 15 yr old. It's good to remember those places...(helluva segue, eh?)
There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
The Brave Ones
Some of you commented with answers to those questions from the last post. You're a brave bunch; that's why I like you so much. That self-worth stuff is a tough one. I can go for weeks feeling a sense of confidence in who I am and what I'm to be doing and then bam! one word from the right (maybe wrong) person and I'm three steps back. Please know I'm not talking about thinking that I'm God's gift to the planet or anything; I'm talking about believing that I belong, that I matter, that my self has worth.
Another tough aspect of the self-worth thing is that there may be a consensus of voices out there conspiring against me, but many days the chorus of voices within are the ones shouting the loudest. I've said it before and I'll say it again, self-hatred is a monkey on the backs of us all. And some days, it's a jungle in here.
As to that second question, I really believe the advice I'd give to graduating college seniors would be: choose your life. Maybe it's more clearly stated as know the things you love, and go after them, so that when you lay your head on the pillow at night and you re-collect the day, you're able to say when I had the choice today, I chose the things I love.
I know that gets shaky and like someone commented, our vices can be rather, well, vicey. But even beneath those vices, I believe lies desire, albeit screwed-up a little, but it still can reveal something about us and the longings of our heart. It takes some wrestling to get beneath those vices, maybe the length of a lifetime; that's why courage is so very, very important, both for ourselves and those we call friend.
There are days when it just seems I cannot choose or something or someone is choosing otherwise for me. I trust you know what I mean. Foggy Blogger (always appreciate your comments, my friend) mentioned the classic predestined/freewill debate. FB, I'm at the point in life where instead of Calvin and Arminius, I'm putting my money on Calvin and Hobbes, wherein I find such truths as these: Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants won't help and What fun is it being cool if you can't wear a sombrero?
Some days, life'll choose for you, but if you get the chance to sit it out or dance, I hope you'll wear the sombrero.
Adios, amigos.
Another tough aspect of the self-worth thing is that there may be a consensus of voices out there conspiring against me, but many days the chorus of voices within are the ones shouting the loudest. I've said it before and I'll say it again, self-hatred is a monkey on the backs of us all. And some days, it's a jungle in here.
As to that second question, I really believe the advice I'd give to graduating college seniors would be: choose your life. Maybe it's more clearly stated as know the things you love, and go after them, so that when you lay your head on the pillow at night and you re-collect the day, you're able to say when I had the choice today, I chose the things I love.
I know that gets shaky and like someone commented, our vices can be rather, well, vicey. But even beneath those vices, I believe lies desire, albeit screwed-up a little, but it still can reveal something about us and the longings of our heart. It takes some wrestling to get beneath those vices, maybe the length of a lifetime; that's why courage is so very, very important, both for ourselves and those we call friend.
There are days when it just seems I cannot choose or something or someone is choosing otherwise for me. I trust you know what I mean. Foggy Blogger (always appreciate your comments, my friend) mentioned the classic predestined/freewill debate. FB, I'm at the point in life where instead of Calvin and Arminius, I'm putting my money on Calvin and Hobbes, wherein I find such truths as these: Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants won't help and What fun is it being cool if you can't wear a sombrero?
Some days, life'll choose for you, but if you get the chance to sit it out or dance, I hope you'll wear the sombrero.
Adios, amigos.
Q & A
(Taken from an interview with Jim Harrison, my hands-down favorite writer. I've italicized the last few lines of his answer as there is much there to be pondered. You can take out the word "writer" and insert whatever is appropriate, e.g., "river guide" or "guitar hero" or "stay-at-home-mom." Even "human being" works quite well if you're somewhat undecided.)
Q: Critics have wonderful things to say about you. For example, The Sunday Times (London) has said that "Jim Harrison is a writer with immortality in him." How do you keep such praise from going to your head? What do you consider to be your shortcomings as a writer?
A: I don't have any problem of keeping critical comments from going to my head. Much of my most extreme critical praise comes in France and I don't read French very well, so it's easy. There is no problem in that I've never paid much attention to reviews because by the time they appear I'm already working on something else. It's also very dangerous to base your self-worth as a writer on a media consensus because frequently the media isn't thinking about you at all which would then mean you don't exist. Thinking about your shortcomings as a writer should probably be avoided, as it would be quite paralyzing...I don't worry about that because I'm living the life I chose. (italics mine)
~~
Q: Are you basing your self-worth on a consensus of some kind? It could even be the consensus of one person.
A: (this is where you come in)
Q: Are you living the life you chose? Granted, some days life will choose for you, but for the most part, are you choosing your life?
A: (again, the ball's in your court)
One word of encouragement as you answer: try and keep it grounded. For example, if you answer the first question with something like well, John, I'm living for an audience of one (meaning God), then I believe you're taking the easy way out. It sounds incredibly spiritual; it also sounds like a bumper sticker. The same thing applies to the second question. If you answer with well, John, I'm living the life God chose for me, then again, I'd say you're not wrestling with the question.
These are not questions to answer quickly and then move on...
Q: Critics have wonderful things to say about you. For example, The Sunday Times (London) has said that "Jim Harrison is a writer with immortality in him." How do you keep such praise from going to your head? What do you consider to be your shortcomings as a writer?
A: I don't have any problem of keeping critical comments from going to my head. Much of my most extreme critical praise comes in France and I don't read French very well, so it's easy. There is no problem in that I've never paid much attention to reviews because by the time they appear I'm already working on something else. It's also very dangerous to base your self-worth as a writer on a media consensus because frequently the media isn't thinking about you at all which would then mean you don't exist. Thinking about your shortcomings as a writer should probably be avoided, as it would be quite paralyzing...I don't worry about that because I'm living the life I chose. (italics mine)
~~
Q: Are you basing your self-worth on a consensus of some kind? It could even be the consensus of one person.
A: (this is where you come in)
Q: Are you living the life you chose? Granted, some days life will choose for you, but for the most part, are you choosing your life?
A: (again, the ball's in your court)
One word of encouragement as you answer: try and keep it grounded. For example, if you answer the first question with something like well, John, I'm living for an audience of one (meaning God), then I believe you're taking the easy way out. It sounds incredibly spiritual; it also sounds like a bumper sticker. The same thing applies to the second question. If you answer with well, John, I'm living the life God chose for me, then again, I'd say you're not wrestling with the question.
These are not questions to answer quickly and then move on...
I Am Resolved
My first exposure to the word resolve came via a hymn sung in my father's church:
I am resolved no longer to linger/charmed by the world's delight/things that are higher, things that are nobler/these have allured my sight.
I liked this hymn primarily because of a rollicking bass line in the chorus, where the men who were not tenors would essentially walk down a flight of notes to the words hasten so glad and freeeeeeee. It's probably one of those "notes to self" how the song's emphasis was on things that are higher but it was the things going lower that allured me. In a very real sense, they still do.
So, here on Friday, the second day of 2009, I want to change those lyrics just a bit to suit my resolve: I want to linger/charmed by the world's delight. Please hasten a moment as I try to explain.
There's something knock-the-breath-out-of-you-lovely about the words in my rewritten first line. Just say them out loud, slowly, and let them sit on the air a moment: linger...charmed...delight. Aren't they just beautiful? I believe those three words point to a living that is higher and nobler than what most of us live, something to hope for in days to come. It'd be something if aliens touched down and took a survey of the population and came up with this evaluation: these earthlings are a charming lot.
There is a delight that the Grace that keeps this world is trying to offer us. But the charm only works if we linger.
Just last evening, the first evening of this new year, I sat delighted by my daughters' feet. The two of them had iPods stuck in their ears, dancing around the den wearing t-shirts, blue jeans, and no shoes. I set my Jim Harrison book down a moment, or lingered, and found myself, well, charmed. It wasn't some sugary, chicken-soup delight I was experiencing; it was actually quite bittersweet. I watched their feet move and realized, yet again, I don't have little girls anymore. I saw the feet of girls that will tan in the summer sun and fill flip-flops with painted red toes and turn the eyes of lingering boys. I don't know that I'm necessarily ready for all that, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
And just yesterday afternoon, the first afternoon of this new year, we packed up the truck and went to see The Tale of Despereaux. Before the coming attractions even began, my girlfriend and I got all sideways about something and I honestly wanted to just go sit in the lobby and eat one of those big pickles until the show was over. But I didn't. I lingered. And in the dark of that theater, there came a moment when she slipped her hand in this old fool's and I found myself, well, charmed. We, the two of us, gradually got all un-sideways and found ourselves delighted to sit next to one another while Kate Dicamillo's story unraveled before us; a story that reminded us of the great need for courage and the gentle-man and forgiveness.
And then just late last night, the first late night of this new year, I made my usual final walk through the house and started the dishwasher, turned off the kids' radios and nite-lights, made sure the Beagle was breathing, that kind of stuff. And before turning off that last light, I lingered a moment, as is my resolve, and said thank you for the day's delight; I'm not too charmed about that wart of the bottom of my foot right now because it hurts like hell, and we cooked those potatoes in the stew for hours and they were still crunchy, but it all goes together I guess, so thank you. That was probably not the most higher and nobler prayer voiced by an earthling on New Year's Day, but it's the notes that come from us rollicking bass singers, all allured and such.
I pray you a charming 2009...
I am resolved no longer to linger/charmed by the world's delight/things that are higher, things that are nobler/these have allured my sight.
I liked this hymn primarily because of a rollicking bass line in the chorus, where the men who were not tenors would essentially walk down a flight of notes to the words hasten so glad and freeeeeeee. It's probably one of those "notes to self" how the song's emphasis was on things that are higher but it was the things going lower that allured me. In a very real sense, they still do.
So, here on Friday, the second day of 2009, I want to change those lyrics just a bit to suit my resolve: I want to linger/charmed by the world's delight. Please hasten a moment as I try to explain.
There's something knock-the-breath-out-of-you-lovely about the words in my rewritten first line. Just say them out loud, slowly, and let them sit on the air a moment: linger...charmed...delight. Aren't they just beautiful? I believe those three words point to a living that is higher and nobler than what most of us live, something to hope for in days to come. It'd be something if aliens touched down and took a survey of the population and came up with this evaluation: these earthlings are a charming lot.
There is a delight that the Grace that keeps this world is trying to offer us. But the charm only works if we linger.
Just last evening, the first evening of this new year, I sat delighted by my daughters' feet. The two of them had iPods stuck in their ears, dancing around the den wearing t-shirts, blue jeans, and no shoes. I set my Jim Harrison book down a moment, or lingered, and found myself, well, charmed. It wasn't some sugary, chicken-soup delight I was experiencing; it was actually quite bittersweet. I watched their feet move and realized, yet again, I don't have little girls anymore. I saw the feet of girls that will tan in the summer sun and fill flip-flops with painted red toes and turn the eyes of lingering boys. I don't know that I'm necessarily ready for all that, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
And just yesterday afternoon, the first afternoon of this new year, we packed up the truck and went to see The Tale of Despereaux. Before the coming attractions even began, my girlfriend and I got all sideways about something and I honestly wanted to just go sit in the lobby and eat one of those big pickles until the show was over. But I didn't. I lingered. And in the dark of that theater, there came a moment when she slipped her hand in this old fool's and I found myself, well, charmed. We, the two of us, gradually got all un-sideways and found ourselves delighted to sit next to one another while Kate Dicamillo's story unraveled before us; a story that reminded us of the great need for courage and the gentle-man and forgiveness.
And then just late last night, the first late night of this new year, I made my usual final walk through the house and started the dishwasher, turned off the kids' radios and nite-lights, made sure the Beagle was breathing, that kind of stuff. And before turning off that last light, I lingered a moment, as is my resolve, and said thank you for the day's delight; I'm not too charmed about that wart of the bottom of my foot right now because it hurts like hell, and we cooked those potatoes in the stew for hours and they were still crunchy, but it all goes together I guess, so thank you. That was probably not the most higher and nobler prayer voiced by an earthling on New Year's Day, but it's the notes that come from us rollicking bass singers, all allured and such.
I pray you a charming 2009...
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