What a great song! A few weeks ago, my professor for an online course asked the class to take a look at its lyrics and respond to it. No one took him up on his request except me, so I'm not sure if my response is what he's looking for. Nevertheless, the English major in me took over when I finally got a chance to look at the lyrics. I have no idea if I'm close to the mark, but I just had a great time analyzing these lyrics! I got something like this out of it:
Verse #1:Hello darkness, my old friend / I've come to talk with you again / Because a vision softly creeping / Left its seeds while I was sleeping / And the vision that was planted in my brain / Still remains / Within the sound of silence.
In the first verse, the speaker talks of darkness, his old friend. This darkness is the result of a world saturated in empty, mindless "crap" that is produced today. Since Paul Simon is a musician, I assume he's talking about contemporary music (of the 1960s perhaps). The darkness isn't an absence of all light, so to speak; rather, it's an absence of the light that results from music of substance -- quality music. Darkness is his old friend because it's been around a while for him; he feels an association with it. The paradox of the sound of silence is similar to the darkness metaphor. A light that cannot be seen, a song that cannot be heard.
Verse #2:In restless dreams I walked alone / Narrow streets of cobblestone / 'Neath the halo of a street lamp / I turn my collar to the cold and damp / When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light / That split the night / And touched the sound of silence.
The next verse talks about the speaker walking alone in his dreams, the birthplace of so many creative ideas. There's a contrast between the halo of the street light (which guides the way on a journey) and the flash of a neon light (which guides someone into a terminus -- a bar, store, etc.). In the darkness, the flashing neon light gives comfort because one can assume shelter or safety lies within. A street light offers a way to go, but no terminus in sight. So, which is more important -- the journey or the destination? This metaphor takes the idea of light and further defines it as different types of light. The speaker sees an absence of a guiding light, yet there is probably a plethora of neon lights that lure people in and halts their journeys. The music that the speaker is talking about is more like the neon lights.
Verse #3:And in the naked light I saw / Ten thousand people maybe more / People talking without speaking / People hearing without listening / People writing songs that voices never shared / No one dared / Disturb the sound of silence.
The next verse brings in the image of the multitudes of people out there -- people who talk without speaking / listen without hearing and people who are too afraid to voice their songs. The first group puts forth a paradox that make sense in today's world -- look at some of the pop songs out there (*cough-*cough, Justin Bieber -- *cough). People pretending to take in the words of others, but there are two problems. One, the words of others are empty. Two, the people listening care only about themselves. The second group puts forth the idea of people being too afraid to say what they really feel. They're afraid for some reason or another. Whatever the case, these people are hesitant to disturb the peace and speak out.
Verse #4:"Fools," said I, "you do not know / Silence like a cancer grows / Hear my words that I might teach you / Take my arms that I might reach you" / But my words like silent raindrops fell / And echoed in the wells of silence.
Verse four establishes a crazy metaphor -- a powerful one. I can't figure it out, however. Is the speaker saying that the silence is like a cancer and it will kill humanity? Or, is he saying that the silence spreads quickly like a cancer and that's the extent of the analogy? But this verse is the first time the speaker directly addresses someone. His words, however, fall like silent raindrops. This is a recurrence of the silence metaphor, but also the addition of the rain metaphor. Rain is symbolic of healing, nourishment, and cleansing... which is just what the people need, but they cannot accept because they do not see that they need it.
Verse #5:And the people bowed and prayed / To the neon god they made / And the sign flashed out its warning / In the words that it was forming / And the sign said "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls / And tenement halls / And whispered in the sound of silence.
The final verse reflects the importance that people have put on the neon lights -- the terminus, the objective of happiness -- they're like neon gods. In its flashing light (which is how the neon light attracts attention) it is also being ironic. It says one thing to the masses: "Come on in, you'll be happy, it'll feel good," but to the other people who truly listen, it says another thing, a warning: "I'm just a simple, pretty flashing light, nothing more." It tells the listener, the one who would find happiness on the journey, that the true words of wisdom are where you least expect to see them: the graffiti on the walls of the subway station (another metaphor for the journey) and on the halls of the tenements (the passages that lead to the homes of the meek). How often do we listen to the poor and uneducated for wisdom? How often do we look for deep messages in the simplest of writings?
With the convergence of all of the different media (internet, television, radio, print, etc.), there's more and more "crap" (sorry for the lack of more intelligent-sounding word... but when it comes down to it, "crap" is the best word to describe crap) placed in front of us. Where do we look for quality messages? More importantly, where do we find it? People are afraid to put their ideas out there for lots of reasons. They don't want to offend anyone else. They don't want to be attacked. They don't want to be marginalized or categorized. They don't want to reveal themselves in a world full of diverse thoughts. They don't want to compromise their insecurities.
Whether this was Paul Simon's message or not, I don't care. It's a good song, I found some meaning behind it, and life goes on.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Day 5 -- One Day at a Time
We both woke up this morning feeling pretty good. This chair I'm sleeping on isn't the best, but I get a decent night's sleep. I woke up sleepy and with a stuffy nose, but all the little things I might complain about are so petty. I'm not going to waste my breath. I'm not the one on bed-rest 24-hours-a-day.
This is day five in the hospital, and our little girl is now 24 weeks and 2 days along. One more day in the womb is worth one week in NICU, they say.
I thought that I had things together pretty well until yesterday. Mom and dad sent flowers, which was such a kind gesture for them. They still haven't been here to visit, but that's only because I asked them not to come. If I had anything to say about it, I'd hold off on having visitors until she's off the monitors and able to sit up better. They want to come in, though. Also, Emily's work sent cupcakes and a card signed by lots of her co-workers. I saw a bunch of names on the card that I recognized. People she's talked about often the last few years. Both the flowers and the cupcakes made me tear up a little, but not until I was by myself. This is probably my big downfall, trying to keep my emotions in check, not letting on if I get upset.
We had a couple of visitors stop by yesterday, too. Emily's college friend Jessica brought in her two adorable kids. Jessica, who's visiting from the Chicago area, had a great conversation with Emily, distracting her and keeping her mind off of things. Em had received a blood transfusion yesterday morning and the doctor had put her back on the magnesium. She was so groggy and out of it, and when she was awake, she needed something to occupy her mind. Sandy Spector also came by the room around lunchtime, giving us another great conversation.
Emily made a comment earlier today that made me think about my own day-to-day habits. She said something along the lines of never taking a free moment for granted ever again. To me, it got me thinking about all the times when Brody has come up to me while I'm reading my school books, watching television, or doing something else at the moment. He wants me to play trains with him or put together his puzzles or read his books to him. I'm good about dropping everything and enjoying some quality time with my boy -- most of the time -- but it just makes me realize even more how little time we have before he grows beyond this phase. Emily may have been meaning something about getting up and cleaning house or doing some odd chores with her comment, but this is where my train of thought went. She's always been great about being a mother and doing what's best for Brody. The secret is that I think she does better at her parenting role than I do with mine.
It's unfortunate that it's this hospital stay that has made us realize this kind of stuff, but if there needs to be a positive, this is a good one. I need to keep note of what little things I realize each day -- take time to jot something down every day. If I compile a list, one day at a time, and make sure I revisit that list down the road, who knows how much better off I'll be, and who knows how much better life will be for my family.
This is day five in the hospital, and our little girl is now 24 weeks and 2 days along. One more day in the womb is worth one week in NICU, they say.
 |
| The flowers mom and dad sent us. |
We had a couple of visitors stop by yesterday, too. Emily's college friend Jessica brought in her two adorable kids. Jessica, who's visiting from the Chicago area, had a great conversation with Emily, distracting her and keeping her mind off of things. Em had received a blood transfusion yesterday morning and the doctor had put her back on the magnesium. She was so groggy and out of it, and when she was awake, she needed something to occupy her mind. Sandy Spector also came by the room around lunchtime, giving us another great conversation.
Emily made a comment earlier today that made me think about my own day-to-day habits. She said something along the lines of never taking a free moment for granted ever again. To me, it got me thinking about all the times when Brody has come up to me while I'm reading my school books, watching television, or doing something else at the moment. He wants me to play trains with him or put together his puzzles or read his books to him. I'm good about dropping everything and enjoying some quality time with my boy -- most of the time -- but it just makes me realize even more how little time we have before he grows beyond this phase. Emily may have been meaning something about getting up and cleaning house or doing some odd chores with her comment, but this is where my train of thought went. She's always been great about being a mother and doing what's best for Brody. The secret is that I think she does better at her parenting role than I do with mine.
It's unfortunate that it's this hospital stay that has made us realize this kind of stuff, but if there needs to be a positive, this is a good one. I need to keep note of what little things I realize each day -- take time to jot something down every day. If I compile a list, one day at a time, and make sure I revisit that list down the road, who knows how much better off I'll be, and who knows how much better life will be for my family.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Day 4 -- It Doesn't Make It Much Easier
Today is our 4th day at Overland Park Regional Medical Center. We've been here since late Friday night. It still doesn't feel real to me. There have been no real answers coming out from the specialists, and I don't want to leave Emily's side. I'm scared about what might happen while I'm gone. If I'm running an errand around town, no problem. I'm close, but what if I'm home in Louisburg?
All these petty questions keep dominating my mind. What about Brody? He needs his mommy and daddy, and he needs to be with us. He needs his home. Every night for as long as we can remember, we've gone to bed with Brody. We haven't done this since we came to the hospital. What about our home? We left it in disorder. I'd been home all week and still left the place in a mess. What about my school work, my projects for classes, and preparation for the new school year?
I'm doing whatever I can to keep mind off the news we've been getting. They say that no news is good news, but what about vague news? We've heard nothing concrete. Several doctors have been in and out of our room -- Emily's regular OB-GYN, the perinatologist, the doctor from NICU. All I know is that my wife and daughter are okay. There's nothing I know about when she'll have to deliver, or when our baby will decide to come. It's a horrible waiting game, knowing that both of them are okay, but there could still be a storm coming.
I've never been in this kind of situation before. When they told Emily that she'll have to be on bed-rest for the duration of the pregnancy -- at the hospital, no less -- I couldn't grasp what that meant. I just can't imagine what being on bed-rest will be like. She will be doing this for the next few days (worst case) or the next 10 weeks (best case).
With all the health issues and questions of everyone's safety, how could anyone think about the mundane things such as homework, housework, and professional work? For me, and I imagine or anyone, it's a way to distract us from the serious issues before us. I can't help but think about Emily and her job. She went home Friday afternoon, looking forward to hanging out with me and our son that evening. Tasks were left undone because they could wait until the weekend is over. Now someone else has to take care of it. She can't work from the hospital, and she can't get back in to prepare things for whomever will be covering her position.
Our little girl is 24 weeks and 1 day along. When she will decide to come, or when Emily's body decides to deliver, we don't know. Our baby will be so tiny, so weak, so exposed. How long will it be before she's strong enough for us to hold her?
This makes me think about an old friend and his infant son. At 1 month old, the baby developed a type of cancer that had hospitalized him for months. It was so long before my friend could hold his son or take him home. As long as my friend's son was in danger, I had felt guilty talking about my son and the funny things he would do. If I were in his shoes, I wondered if I would have been bitter, asking why this has to happen to us instead of someone else. I didn't want to add to the possibility of him having those feelings.
It's all I can do to keep from having those same feelings right now.
Emily's doctor thinks that this whole thing is a partial placental abruption. Only part of the placenta has detached from the uterine wall; the rest is still attached. It could either tear away more and lead to a very early delivery or it could grow further attached and hold on as long as it can. The doctor thinks that it could have been caused by a defective gene that causes a clotting disorder. Another doctor had mentioned that it could possibly be that the placenta had attached to her scar tissue from the septum surgery. I wish we knew for sure, but the experts can't figure it out.
All I know is that there was too much blood for me to ever forget. Friday night, I've never been that scared in my life. I mean truly scared -- there's the fear I've felt when I was young and afraid of the dark, when I was a teenager and about to get in a fist fight, and anytime when a tornado is in the area. This is different. This is fear for someone I love.
We've made it four days without having to deliver. The doctor said that making it through the first 24 hours was huge, and the same for the next 24 hours. Now it's one day at a time. Another doctor told us that of the people who are in this situation at this point in the pregnancy, 50% of them deliver and 50% go on one more week. Of those people going on one more week, 50% of them deliver and 50% of them go on one more week, and so on. Moving from one day to the next is a good thing. One day at a time, they say. They keep positive, but it doesn't make things easy for us.
We've been getting lots of prayers coming from friends and family. I feel like I haven't prayed enough. I've tried; I've bowed my head and tried to speak to God, but I don't know if my words are the right kind of words. I don't know if I deserve to have my words heard. Emily and our daughter deserve it, though. We have a loving God who will protect us, and I'll never give up on asking for His help.
All these petty questions keep dominating my mind. What about Brody? He needs his mommy and daddy, and he needs to be with us. He needs his home. Every night for as long as we can remember, we've gone to bed with Brody. We haven't done this since we came to the hospital. What about our home? We left it in disorder. I'd been home all week and still left the place in a mess. What about my school work, my projects for classes, and preparation for the new school year?
I'm doing whatever I can to keep mind off the news we've been getting. They say that no news is good news, but what about vague news? We've heard nothing concrete. Several doctors have been in and out of our room -- Emily's regular OB-GYN, the perinatologist, the doctor from NICU. All I know is that my wife and daughter are okay. There's nothing I know about when she'll have to deliver, or when our baby will decide to come. It's a horrible waiting game, knowing that both of them are okay, but there could still be a storm coming.
I've never been in this kind of situation before. When they told Emily that she'll have to be on bed-rest for the duration of the pregnancy -- at the hospital, no less -- I couldn't grasp what that meant. I just can't imagine what being on bed-rest will be like. She will be doing this for the next few days (worst case) or the next 10 weeks (best case).
With all the health issues and questions of everyone's safety, how could anyone think about the mundane things such as homework, housework, and professional work? For me, and I imagine or anyone, it's a way to distract us from the serious issues before us. I can't help but think about Emily and her job. She went home Friday afternoon, looking forward to hanging out with me and our son that evening. Tasks were left undone because they could wait until the weekend is over. Now someone else has to take care of it. She can't work from the hospital, and she can't get back in to prepare things for whomever will be covering her position.
Our little girl is 24 weeks and 1 day along. When she will decide to come, or when Emily's body decides to deliver, we don't know. Our baby will be so tiny, so weak, so exposed. How long will it be before she's strong enough for us to hold her?
This makes me think about an old friend and his infant son. At 1 month old, the baby developed a type of cancer that had hospitalized him for months. It was so long before my friend could hold his son or take him home. As long as my friend's son was in danger, I had felt guilty talking about my son and the funny things he would do. If I were in his shoes, I wondered if I would have been bitter, asking why this has to happen to us instead of someone else. I didn't want to add to the possibility of him having those feelings.
It's all I can do to keep from having those same feelings right now.
Emily's doctor thinks that this whole thing is a partial placental abruption. Only part of the placenta has detached from the uterine wall; the rest is still attached. It could either tear away more and lead to a very early delivery or it could grow further attached and hold on as long as it can. The doctor thinks that it could have been caused by a defective gene that causes a clotting disorder. Another doctor had mentioned that it could possibly be that the placenta had attached to her scar tissue from the septum surgery. I wish we knew for sure, but the experts can't figure it out.
All I know is that there was too much blood for me to ever forget. Friday night, I've never been that scared in my life. I mean truly scared -- there's the fear I've felt when I was young and afraid of the dark, when I was a teenager and about to get in a fist fight, and anytime when a tornado is in the area. This is different. This is fear for someone I love.
We've made it four days without having to deliver. The doctor said that making it through the first 24 hours was huge, and the same for the next 24 hours. Now it's one day at a time. Another doctor told us that of the people who are in this situation at this point in the pregnancy, 50% of them deliver and 50% go on one more week. Of those people going on one more week, 50% of them deliver and 50% of them go on one more week, and so on. Moving from one day to the next is a good thing. One day at a time, they say. They keep positive, but it doesn't make things easy for us.
We've been getting lots of prayers coming from friends and family. I feel like I haven't prayed enough. I've tried; I've bowed my head and tried to speak to God, but I don't know if my words are the right kind of words. I don't know if I deserve to have my words heard. Emily and our daughter deserve it, though. We have a loving God who will protect us, and I'll never give up on asking for His help.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Great Lines from Westerns
A work in progress -- this is just a list of some of my favorite quotes from westerns. I'm a Clint Eastwood buff, but unfortunately I don't have anything with the Duke, John Wayne. Still working on my repertoire of westerns to watch.
"How can you trust a man who wears both a belt and suspenders? The man can't even trust his own pants." (Frank in Once Upon a Time in the West)
"You know, Jill, you remind me of my mother. She was the biggest whore in Alameda and the finest woman that ever lived. Whoever my father was, for an hour or for a month - he must have been a happy man." (Cheyenne in Once Upon a Time in the West)
"Evidently Mr. Ringo's an educated man. Now I really hate him." (Doc Holliday in Tombstone)
"I'm your huckleberry." (Doc Holliday in Tombstone)
"You gonna do somethin'? Or are you just gonna stand there and bleed?" (Wyatt Earp in Tombstone)
"You see, in this world there's two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig." (Blondie in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly)
"I like big fat men like you. When they fall they make more noise. And sometimes they don't get up." (Tuco in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly)
"It ain't easy having pals." (Charley Bowdre in Young Guns)
"Reap the whirlwind, Brady. Reap it." (Billy the Kid in Young Guns)
BILLY: "Who are them?"
JOHN TUNSTALL: "'They,' William. 'Who are they?' Those are the boys of the dregs!" (Young Guns)
LITTLE BILL DAGGETT: "Well, sir, you are a cowardly son of a bitch! You just shot an unarmed man!"
WILL MUNNY: "Well, he should have armed himself if he's going to decorate his saloon with my friend." (The Unforgiven)
"Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?" (Josey Wales in The Outlaw Josey Wales)
JAMIE: "I wish we had time to bury them fellas."
JOSEY WALES: "To hell with them fellas. Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
SENATOR: "The war's over. Our side won the war. Now we must busy ourselves winning the peace. And Fletcher, there's an old saying: To the victors belong the spoils."
FLETCHER: "There's another old saying, Senator: Don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
BOUNTY HUNTER #1: "You're wanted, Wales."
JOSEY WALES: "Reckon I'm right popular. You a bounty hunter?"
BOUNTY HUNTER #1: "A man's got to do something for a living these days."
JOSEY WALES: "Dyin' ain't much of a living, boy." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
"Yeah, well, I always heard there were three kinds of suns in Kansas, sunshine, sunflowers, and sons-of-bitches." (Josey Wales in The Outlaw Josey Wales)
"How can you trust a man who wears both a belt and suspenders? The man can't even trust his own pants." (Frank in Once Upon a Time in the West)
"You know, Jill, you remind me of my mother. She was the biggest whore in Alameda and the finest woman that ever lived. Whoever my father was, for an hour or for a month - he must have been a happy man." (Cheyenne in Once Upon a Time in the West)
"Evidently Mr. Ringo's an educated man. Now I really hate him." (Doc Holliday in Tombstone)
"I'm your huckleberry." (Doc Holliday in Tombstone)
"You gonna do somethin'? Or are you just gonna stand there and bleed?" (Wyatt Earp in Tombstone)
"You see, in this world there's two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig." (Blondie in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly)
"I like big fat men like you. When they fall they make more noise. And sometimes they don't get up." (Tuco in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly)
"It ain't easy having pals." (Charley Bowdre in Young Guns)
"Reap the whirlwind, Brady. Reap it." (Billy the Kid in Young Guns)
BILLY: "Who are them?"
JOHN TUNSTALL: "'They,' William. 'Who are they?' Those are the boys of the dregs!" (Young Guns)
LITTLE BILL DAGGETT: "Well, sir, you are a cowardly son of a bitch! You just shot an unarmed man!"
WILL MUNNY: "Well, he should have armed himself if he's going to decorate his saloon with my friend." (The Unforgiven)
"Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?" (Josey Wales in The Outlaw Josey Wales)
JAMIE: "I wish we had time to bury them fellas."
JOSEY WALES: "To hell with them fellas. Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
SENATOR: "The war's over. Our side won the war. Now we must busy ourselves winning the peace. And Fletcher, there's an old saying: To the victors belong the spoils."
FLETCHER: "There's another old saying, Senator: Don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
BOUNTY HUNTER #1: "You're wanted, Wales."
JOSEY WALES: "Reckon I'm right popular. You a bounty hunter?"
BOUNTY HUNTER #1: "A man's got to do something for a living these days."
JOSEY WALES: "Dyin' ain't much of a living, boy." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
"Yeah, well, I always heard there were three kinds of suns in Kansas, sunshine, sunflowers, and sons-of-bitches." (Josey Wales in The Outlaw Josey Wales)
Thursday, April 21, 2011
My Own "Bucket List"
Anyone out there have a "bucket list"? I never knew what one was until I heard about the film of the same name that came out a few years ago -- the one with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. It got me thinking, and I've never really considered what I would want to do before I "kick the bucket." I realize now that there would a good many things, but it's difficult for me to imagine there being so little time.
In a recent issue of Field & Stream magazine, I read about their "Bucket List" of 75 thrills and moments a sportsman should most like to experience in the outdoors. Before I even read the first item, I was positive that I would be able to check off several items. Mid-way through the list, I really was feeling like an amateur or tourist... a weekend outdoors warrior. After reading the final items on the list, I then felt like I had just shown up to fish with Tom Skerritt and Norman Maclean, only I had brought a basic spinning outfit and a Maxwell Bros. can filled with earthworms. The grand total of items I could check off: 1.
I have planted a tree before. A maple we purchased for twenty bucks at the Maple Leaf Festival in Baldwin, KS. It didn't make it past the second year, but it survived long enough to count.
The list did contain a handful of items I knew I would never do. For instance, I don't ever want to noodle a catfish. There really isn't any appeal for me to want to stick my arm down the throat of a catfish. I don't really want to get within 100 yards of a grizzly bear, either. I think I may have gotten close to one when I was a kid and on vacation in Wyoming, but I was young enough to have forgotten the details. I have been close to a black bear, though, and that was enough for me.
The "grizzly bear" item reminds me of a funny story. Two years ago, I was in Jackson, Wyoming, for the American Wilderness Leadership School. The sponsors sent out a letter telling us what all we need to bring for our stay in the wilderness, and one item listed was "bear spray." I had no idea what it was.
Shortly after arriving at the AWLS Lodge, we learned from one of the instructors the proper use of the "bear spray" and we also heard about the silly people who that that if they sprayed themselves with it, then it would repel bears the same way that Off! repels mosquitoes. I wonder how many tourists had to die before they realized that "bear spray" is more like mace or pepper spray.
Anyway, back to the list, which enumerated a handful of things that I've almost done:
--Catch a trout on a fly you've tied. I've caught a catfish on an ugly pattern (a chartreuse woolly bugger). No idea why that dumb fish took the fly, but it was the first fish I'd ever caught on a fly rod, and it was the first I'd ever caught on a self-tied fly. Still working on that trout, however.
--Teach yourself how to navigate with a map and compass. I know how to read a terrain map, thanks to all those hiking trips with my dad, and a couple summers ago I learned how to use a compass the right way. Never any field application, though.
--Read every book that Ernest Hemingway ever wrote. not quite halfway, but I'm working on it. Some of my students have been keen to identify my "man-crush" on Hemingway.
--Watch every movie that Clint Eastwood ever starred in. Close, but not quite. Still a huge fan of the Sergio Leone “Man With No Name” trilogy.
--Backpack into the mountains alone and hunt. I haven't gone out into the wilderness to hunt, but I have done some good hiking trips. More on that later.
--Sneak up on a deer and touch it.
The item about sneaking up on a deer is probably the one that I've come closest to achieving. It's not that I've almost succeeded in sneaking up on a deer; rather, it's more like I've walked right up to one and, instead of me touching it, the crazy thing bit me!
My dad and I had been hiking across Virginia for a couple weeks and were taking a nice easy pace through the Shenandoah Mountains. There was no exaggeration to the rumors that summer about the deer being so domesticated that they would walk right up to any tourist and eat out of their hands. Dad and I had stopped and were trying to “yellow blazing.” No luck. As we waited, the deer began to quietly make their way into the clearing where we were standing by the road. Out of sheer boredom, I grabbed a handful of Cheerios and walked toward one of the various deer. I stopped about two yards from it and held out my hand. The very picture of timidity, the deer inched its way across the short distance between us. I couldn’t believe that hadn’t dashed away when I first moved toward it.
It greedily eyed the handful of cheerios, and a feeling of anxiety coursed through me as I stood there, so close to actually touching a deer. I ignored everything else around us; I simply stood as still as I possibly could and waited as the creature betrayed its instincts and came closer. Its dappled coat, coal black eyes, and the moisture around its nostrils were as real as can be. It reached forward, extending its neck and opening its mouth, and then I felt the odd sensation of it suckling at my fingertips!
The weird suction quickly changed to a feeling of shock as I realized it was nibbling on my fingers. Suddenly, it lost all coyness and all-out bit me! I jerked my hand back and the spell was broken as the deer dashed back into the woods. Its companions followed right behind it. I realized that it had surely been spooked by my sudden retrieval of my hand; soon it might feel the disappointment at not actually receiving anything readily edible. I shook my sore finger as my dad laughed, the deer having fled deep into the forest.
I’ve never met anyone else who has been bitten by a deer. The thought came to me that I’ve done so few of the things on the Field and Stream bucket list that I kind of look like a pansy to any seasoned outdoorsman. I’m stubborn as can be and I don’t like to feel inferior, so my solution is to add that experience (and a few others) to my own "bucket list." So, here are the things I've done, but most wouldn't think to add to their own bucket list:
--Spend twenty minutes playing "peek-a-boo" with a raccoon
--Climb a 30-foot tree with the sole purpose of falling out of it
--Go on a Spring Break hiking trip in the Appalachians in the middle of March (warm weather and shorts during the day, waking up to a foot of snow the next morning)
--Come as close to shooting off your own toe without actually shooting it off (doesn’t count if you do it on purpose)
--Make your way across a 100-yard stretch of a hedgerow without ever touching the ground (think Tarzan)
--Go on a midnight hike a mile uphill to watch the moon rise over a valley in Virginia
With the things I would never do (catfish noodling), the things I've almost done (read Hemingway’s novels), and the things on my own list (impressive, isn’t it?), that leaves one more category: the items that I hope to someday accomplish:
--Explore and live in a canoe for a week
--Hunt where I can see the Northern Lights
--Drink a beer that's been chilled in a trout stream
--Land a 10-pound bass
--Break in a fishing hat from scratch
--Float the Grand Canyon
--Build a bamboo fly rod
--Skip work and let my son skip school to go deer hunting
--Release a trophy fish
--Get published in Field & Stream
I'm not the epitome of the extreme sportsman, but I have to say that the outdoors is something I absolutely love. A few years down the road, I could grab that same bucket list and check off everything I've done, and I could work out a plan to complete as many as possible before I do kick the bucket, but when it comes down to it, that would defeat the purpose.
I used to like listening to a Walkman (remember those?) as I hiked, and then I started counting steps to keep my mind occupied. The music helped the time pass quickly and the counting helped me keep track of the distance traveled. At some point, my dad and I had a good chat about the nature of hiking and he recommended I just walk, letting my feet carry my body to wherever we may end up and allowing my mind to wander wherever it may go. The music and counting were limiting to me. He was right. Keeping tabs of my outdoors adventures using a bucket list would limit me in the same way. I just like to go with the flow, not like a man-made draining ditch, but the free streams winding down the mountainside.
In a recent issue of Field & Stream magazine, I read about their "Bucket List" of 75 thrills and moments a sportsman should most like to experience in the outdoors. Before I even read the first item, I was positive that I would be able to check off several items. Mid-way through the list, I really was feeling like an amateur or tourist... a weekend outdoors warrior. After reading the final items on the list, I then felt like I had just shown up to fish with Tom Skerritt and Norman Maclean, only I had brought a basic spinning outfit and a Maxwell Bros. can filled with earthworms. The grand total of items I could check off: 1.
I have planted a tree before. A maple we purchased for twenty bucks at the Maple Leaf Festival in Baldwin, KS. It didn't make it past the second year, but it survived long enough to count.
The list did contain a handful of items I knew I would never do. For instance, I don't ever want to noodle a catfish. There really isn't any appeal for me to want to stick my arm down the throat of a catfish. I don't really want to get within 100 yards of a grizzly bear, either. I think I may have gotten close to one when I was a kid and on vacation in Wyoming, but I was young enough to have forgotten the details. I have been close to a black bear, though, and that was enough for me.
The "grizzly bear" item reminds me of a funny story. Two years ago, I was in Jackson, Wyoming, for the American Wilderness Leadership School. The sponsors sent out a letter telling us what all we need to bring for our stay in the wilderness, and one item listed was "bear spray." I had no idea what it was.
Shortly after arriving at the AWLS Lodge, we learned from one of the instructors the proper use of the "bear spray" and we also heard about the silly people who that that if they sprayed themselves with it, then it would repel bears the same way that Off! repels mosquitoes. I wonder how many tourists had to die before they realized that "bear spray" is more like mace or pepper spray.
Anyway, back to the list, which enumerated a handful of things that I've almost done:
--Catch a trout on a fly you've tied. I've caught a catfish on an ugly pattern (a chartreuse woolly bugger). No idea why that dumb fish took the fly, but it was the first fish I'd ever caught on a fly rod, and it was the first I'd ever caught on a self-tied fly. Still working on that trout, however.
--Teach yourself how to navigate with a map and compass. I know how to read a terrain map, thanks to all those hiking trips with my dad, and a couple summers ago I learned how to use a compass the right way. Never any field application, though.
--Read every book that Ernest Hemingway ever wrote. not quite halfway, but I'm working on it. Some of my students have been keen to identify my "man-crush" on Hemingway.
--Watch every movie that Clint Eastwood ever starred in. Close, but not quite. Still a huge fan of the Sergio Leone “Man With No Name” trilogy.
--Backpack into the mountains alone and hunt. I haven't gone out into the wilderness to hunt, but I have done some good hiking trips. More on that later.
--Sneak up on a deer and touch it.
The item about sneaking up on a deer is probably the one that I've come closest to achieving. It's not that I've almost succeeded in sneaking up on a deer; rather, it's more like I've walked right up to one and, instead of me touching it, the crazy thing bit me!
My dad and I had been hiking across Virginia for a couple weeks and were taking a nice easy pace through the Shenandoah Mountains. There was no exaggeration to the rumors that summer about the deer being so domesticated that they would walk right up to any tourist and eat out of their hands. Dad and I had stopped and were trying to “yellow blazing.” No luck. As we waited, the deer began to quietly make their way into the clearing where we were standing by the road. Out of sheer boredom, I grabbed a handful of Cheerios and walked toward one of the various deer. I stopped about two yards from it and held out my hand. The very picture of timidity, the deer inched its way across the short distance between us. I couldn’t believe that hadn’t dashed away when I first moved toward it.
It greedily eyed the handful of cheerios, and a feeling of anxiety coursed through me as I stood there, so close to actually touching a deer. I ignored everything else around us; I simply stood as still as I possibly could and waited as the creature betrayed its instincts and came closer. Its dappled coat, coal black eyes, and the moisture around its nostrils were as real as can be. It reached forward, extending its neck and opening its mouth, and then I felt the odd sensation of it suckling at my fingertips!
The weird suction quickly changed to a feeling of shock as I realized it was nibbling on my fingers. Suddenly, it lost all coyness and all-out bit me! I jerked my hand back and the spell was broken as the deer dashed back into the woods. Its companions followed right behind it. I realized that it had surely been spooked by my sudden retrieval of my hand; soon it might feel the disappointment at not actually receiving anything readily edible. I shook my sore finger as my dad laughed, the deer having fled deep into the forest.
I’ve never met anyone else who has been bitten by a deer. The thought came to me that I’ve done so few of the things on the Field and Stream bucket list that I kind of look like a pansy to any seasoned outdoorsman. I’m stubborn as can be and I don’t like to feel inferior, so my solution is to add that experience (and a few others) to my own "bucket list." So, here are the things I've done, but most wouldn't think to add to their own bucket list:
--Spend twenty minutes playing "peek-a-boo" with a raccoon
--Climb a 30-foot tree with the sole purpose of falling out of it
--Go on a Spring Break hiking trip in the Appalachians in the middle of March (warm weather and shorts during the day, waking up to a foot of snow the next morning)
--Come as close to shooting off your own toe without actually shooting it off (doesn’t count if you do it on purpose)
--Make your way across a 100-yard stretch of a hedgerow without ever touching the ground (think Tarzan)
--Go on a midnight hike a mile uphill to watch the moon rise over a valley in Virginia
With the things I would never do (catfish noodling), the things I've almost done (read Hemingway’s novels), and the things on my own list (impressive, isn’t it?), that leaves one more category: the items that I hope to someday accomplish:
--Explore and live in a canoe for a week
--Hunt where I can see the Northern Lights
--Drink a beer that's been chilled in a trout stream
--Land a 10-pound bass
--Break in a fishing hat from scratch
--Float the Grand Canyon
--Build a bamboo fly rod
--Skip work and let my son skip school to go deer hunting
--Release a trophy fish
--Get published in Field & Stream
I'm not the epitome of the extreme sportsman, but I have to say that the outdoors is something I absolutely love. A few years down the road, I could grab that same bucket list and check off everything I've done, and I could work out a plan to complete as many as possible before I do kick the bucket, but when it comes down to it, that would defeat the purpose.
I used to like listening to a Walkman (remember those?) as I hiked, and then I started counting steps to keep my mind occupied. The music helped the time pass quickly and the counting helped me keep track of the distance traveled. At some point, my dad and I had a good chat about the nature of hiking and he recommended I just walk, letting my feet carry my body to wherever we may end up and allowing my mind to wander wherever it may go. The music and counting were limiting to me. He was right. Keeping tabs of my outdoors adventures using a bucket list would limit me in the same way. I just like to go with the flow, not like a man-made draining ditch, but the free streams winding down the mountainside.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
A Walk in the Woods
What ailment can bring down a writer worse than a case of writer’s block? It has been several years since I had last experienced any sort of productivity with my writing, and even though I have been exposed to countless exercises, motivational opportunities, and memorable experiences worth writing down, something had always kept me from “getting back into the swing of things.” I entered my writing project class one day and our group was greeted with a chance to escape the dreary room and to explore the campus, looking for inspiration and attention to detail. We were free to drive anywhere or walk anywhere we chose; we could even make a journey down the nature trails that wound throughout the campus. I jumped at this chance to experience an unexpected hike, although I chose to share my time with no one else.
Despite my inherent love for the natural world and almost anything outdoors, I viewed the morning’s activities with mixed emotions. If I had known beforehand that I would be having the pleasure of tramping through the woods, surely I would have thought twice about wearing flip-flops, a nice collared shirt, and a couple sprays of cologne. Although I was not dressed appropriately for a morning hike, it was an extraordinary surprise for me and it gave rise to myriad memories from my boyhood, so many that I could not possibly hope to address them all here. The trails, which were maintained by the Missouri Department of Conservation and wound through the 745-acre campus of Missouri Western State College, seemed to be a safe destination for me to have chosen on my own escape.
I first arrived at the Regional Department of Conservation office and was both impressed and astonished at what I saw. The brown building was surrounded by numerous flowers whose colors and bouquets tantalized my senses. However, my first steps along the way fell upon concrete slabs and I found myself wondering if those people who regularly maintained the trails had paved the entire way with concrete. The cement marked the exact path. It took the freedom out of the equation by telling whoever walked along it where they should go or toward which direction to wander. It took away from the sense of adventure and I absolutely despised its presence in my nature walk. I soon espied a break in the trees where a single post that bore a painted number one on it marked the beginning of a new path covered with bark and wood chippings. Now even though the bark-covered trail repulsed me less than the concrete did, I had to speculate as to how one could justly expect to find an adequate venture into the woods to absorb as much as the earth had to offer while all the while tramping upon man-made wood chips, an item suitable for a garden or other landscaping feats, but not for a journey through a wood. It was bad enough that the serenity was marred by the steady roar of traffic. Some intruding highway passed nearby and the sounds of cars whizzing by at top speeds nearly caused me to throw my notebook down and scream at the top of my lungs. This near-madness came even closer to fruition when I heard the thumping of bass notes and the rattle of some poorly installed car-speaker system. In my head I screamed, Turn down the bass, asshole! but in reality I simply continued my walk without giving in to my anger.
I was only able to resume my peaceful walk once I had consciously shut out the noise of the cars. Perhaps that was all that I could do, to simply ignore it like some playground bully that is constantly in your face, calling you names, making fun of your clothes, or threatening to beat you up. This disturbance must just be a fact of this life and one that we need to accept. The footpath’s coverings of wood chips did not last long, thankfully. I could scarcely imagine the expense of time, money, and resources that it would take to have properly and completely covered an entire system of trails like that. It would be an exercise in futility for one to do so and to think that rain would not wash it all away!
Although my mind focused too closely and cynically on the dreary artificiality of the trails, they quickly became quite beautiful as I furthered my walk into the forest. Robert Frost and his yellow wood came to mind when I approached a split in the road, one arm leading down toward lesser regions and one leading upward. I had a decision to make at this fork in the road that was marked by a post with the number two painted on it: which road should I take? Either one of them could have been seen as a well-traveled road, so I doubted that the logic of America’s poet would suit me much at that point. So, laying Frost aside and relying on simpler criteria, I decided to take the one that led straight downhill. Again, this way reminded me of past hikes with my father and the various ecological engineering feats failed to escape my observing eyes. I marveled at the sight of expertly placed logs along the lower sides of the trails; logs that seemed to belong there, and because they seemed so appropriately placed and useful, their presence hardly distracted me at all. They were covered with leaves and smaller twigs, and it was without question that they blended in with the nature as though they were any commonplace fallen limb or small tree trunk. Along the way, scattered railroad ties were imbedded across the trail and though they were so obviously man-made and placed, they served a purpose by preventing soil from washing out down the hill.
My mind, caught by surprise at this amazing series of trails in the middle of America’s heartland, a region notorious for its flatness, instinctively employed the memories of my youth and my underused imagination to craft a flurry of ideas. These ideas darted around like tiny hummingbirds; they were ideas on future writings and reminders of past attempts at getting notions down on paper, and my head swooned with the creative energy dashing back and forth and bouncing off of the walls of my mind. I was scarcely able to remember that I was hiking a trail in Missouri, and I felt myself transported to the gently and powerfully rolling mountains of the Shenandoahs or the easing lowlands of the Green Mountains. With all of these memories so readily popping back into the forefront of my consciousness, how could I ever have endured any sort of writer’s block? How could I have allowed myself to not break free of the entanglement of my mundane world?
I followed the trail ahead of me, a trail that wound back and forth and I hadn’t the utmost clue as to where it would lead. I could see a small rivulet making its way through the trees, yet it no longer bore any water along its way; the summer had already entered the driest times and the moss and the mud of the creek beds had withered into crumbly, hard soil. A small bridge, another mark of mankind, crossed over the empty rivulet and as I stepped onto the wooden planks, I knew that my footsteps’ echo would scare away whatever else crouched nearby.
I continued my walk beyond the bridge, an element of the trail that without water over which it should span now looked more ornamental than useful. Tap-tap-tap. I heard from somewhere in the distance. It sounded like the clatter of an unknown person hammering away at some project. Tap-tap-tap. The resounding noise was getting nearer and nearer, and all the while it was quickening. Tap-tap-tap. It was now too quick, the taps too close together to be someone hammering. It was too rhythmical and the taps now sounded more like clicks, perhaps of some bird or beetle. They progressed in a crescendo from a low peeling drum roll into a swift shaking of maracas, yet it abruptly tapered off and all became silent again.
All was silent, that is, save for the chirping of birds and the low roar of traffic and the intruding noise of my footsteps. The distinctive smell of a nearby pond wafted toward my nose; the stagnant water’s odor unmistakable. Some might call it pungent, like a whiff of scum and dead leaves and other bits of filth that one might find in a gutter. Yet, it doesn’t stink to me, nor does it turn me back toward the fragrant flowers and trees toward the top of the hill. The pond was just what I wanted to see, an ideal spot of placidity and ease. My pace quickened with the eagerness of a schoolboy going to recess, not allowed to run yet undeniably walking with ferocity in his gait. As I all but raced down the trail, the sudden flapping of great wings startled me. A deep cry pierced the calm morning air, and the rustling of tree limbs caught my attention. Looking skyward, I was able to see a hawk or a falcon or some other bird of prey soaring away. It was too far gone and too close to the sun for me to have been able to tell for sure what it was, but I knew that its surprise was greater than my own.
I paused for a moment, reflecting upon my first true encounter with wildlife that morning. What beauty it appeared to my eyes I doubt I could effectively describe here. All I can say is that just seeing the great bird escaping from the confines of the trees, the boundaries that keep us all mundane, was enough to make me forget about the petty worries that waited for me back in civilization. My eyes burned as I tried to follow the bird’s path, but the sun shone too brightly and the bird flew too cleverly. When I recovered, the bird was nowhere to be seen, and it had left me alone in the woods with the playful chirping of birds that, although they were lesser-bodied, were just as magnificent in beauty.
I resumed my trek down the unfamiliar path and could only think of the bird and of my disappointment at not getting a better glimpse of it. Yet, as I emerged upon the pond, my eyes must have gleamed with delight. All about the pond I glimpsed such simple elements of the natural world as spider webs, bits of poison ivy, ant hills, and lily pads. A wooden post with the number three painted upon its head rose out of the ground at the clearing where the path passed the pond at its closest point. A cicada’s shell remained attached to the post, its abandoned claws still dug into the wood, perhaps for eternity or at least as long as it could withstand the rain, the wind, or the threat of humanity. Also, there was something about the spider webs that I couldn’t help but to compare with all those other webs I had seen while hiking with my father in the Appalachian Mountains. I wished that the webs had glistened in the morning sun, covered with dew and gleaming as though they were made of silver, their sparkle serving not only as a warning to those weary travelers who might walk into them, but also as a symbol of how nature’s beauty can be found anywhere, especially on an unexpected morning hike. Yet the morning dew did not come that day and there was no warning for the weary traveler. Cobwebs, as dry as the soil beneath my feet, caught on my notebook, in my mouth, and in my hair.
As I swatted away the bits of web from my face and dusted them off my body, I could see the pond glistening in the morning sun and I could see how low the water level really was. Not only had the creek beds run dry, but the area surrounding the pond and the pond itself had also assumed an arid atmosphere. I could see to what heights the pond had formerly reached due to the plentiful rains of the springtime. Then, the level had been quite high, as I could discern from the sparse growth of plants at the pond’s edge. This was a pond that occupied a small crater there in the Missouri woods. All about its perimeter I could see dabbled rings of water ripples; not the ever-growing ones that come from the jumping of a fish or the disturbing impact of a thrown rock, but single rings. And as I noticed more and more rings appearing, rings that suggested a light sprinkle, I could also discern the myriad bugs that darted over the water’s surface, and more specifically, the water bugs that glided along as though they skated on ice.
This outer ring of the pond surrounded a massive growth of water lilies in the middle. All about this ring were little shoots and stalks of water flora. I had observed the outer parts first, yet as the lilies caught my eye, I sought a new angle from which I could view them. A frog cried out, a screech in alarm as I neared the shallows of the pond. He leapt back into the depths of the pond as though he was alerting other denizens of the pond to my presence. He truly was a worthy sentinel to the security of the pond. His scream sounded as shrill and alarming as a child’s harsh yell or squeal. I could see where he had sought security, the spot from which he could remain in the water and at the same time keep his eyes upon me. His head peeked out above the surface, his two great big eyes glancing at me. We sat there in absolute silence as he watched me and I watched him.
Once again, the peace, my beloved calmness and commune with nature, was interrupted by human presence. My attention diverted from my friend the frog-sentinel, and I noticed how the air gradually filled with the voice of some tour guide, some poor fool trying in vain to show a group of school children around the forest. He talked much too loudly for the forest. Perhaps he thought that his volume was necessary so that the kids could hear him over the roar of passing cars, the songs of birds, and the whispers of those other children uninterested in matters of natural beauty. Shut up, man—let them listen! Let the children suck it all in, absorb the very feeling of what the woods is supposed to provide. Let the flies buzz and land and bite and let them not swat at them. Let them hear it all, feel it all, see it all, and breathe it all. Feel for themselves what life is, for how can one learn that lesson by hearing a canned and rehearsed speech and not by mere experience?
The guide’s voice soon faded away as they took a path different from the one I had chosen, and I turned my attention back to the pond. Why do all the lily pads gather toward the middle, I asked myself. They did not favor one side or the other and I found myself wondering if they ever moved with the rising sun or the blowing wind. The great gathering of lily pads gave the impression of being alive, a great green city that thrived and prospered in the middle of the pond. The tallest pads lay more toward the center, although not exactly in the geographic center. Rather, they were spread out, much like today’s great cities, with great bunches sprouted up throughout. They reached skyward as the immense buildings of some futuristic metropolis. Do they always reach up toward the blue sky? No, as toward the perimeter, the outer cluster of pads lay flat, much different from the innermost ones that cupped upwards. Some of these outer ones lay partly submerged, while others were barely afloat. And all around these lilies flew a steady traffic that consisted of annoying mosquitoes, graceful and swift dragonflies, and other buzzing insects darting through the air and flitting from pad one to another.
With all that I am able to note with this remarkable city of green, something lacked. The vista set before me, despite all of the little flittings-about of the pond’s inhabitants, began to look more and more two-dimensional. The longer I sat by the pond, the more of a static image I had in my head. As I had often been instructed as a student, I remembered that a thing’s true beauty can never be appreciated from only a single perspective I stepped over the dried embankment, seeking that new angle from which I could view this city, I noticed how the dirt was covered by long slivers of yellow leaves. The ground abounded with these leaves, which fell even as I moved along the bank. From this new angle I was surprised to see a new aspect of the lily pads, the great pond city, one that I had not seen before. Great white lily blossoms flourished throughout the green and mossy dark water of the pond, white petals that bloomed and absorbed the morning sun’s rays the way the children on their nature walk should have been absorbing the life of the forest.
To invoke an old cliché, one that I truthfully cannot avoid here, I felt as though time had arrived at a standstill the whole while I was at that pond. My little walk through the trees and to the pond, which had begun as a classroom exercise, was nearly over. As I had entered the woods, I was a student seeking solace, a calm place in which I could find a rare muse, one who could take away the mundanity in my life. I had entered the woods in my sandals and nice collared shirt, while my cologne had attracted gnats, ants, and flies as I went. My feet tramped heavily as my hopes and demands impelled me further into the wood. I cursed the trail’s civilization with much disdain, wondering how I could ever be able to find any sort of commune on an adventure that began with concrete and wood chips.
I slowly came to a realization as I went. My pace quickened as the trail angled downhill, yet I was brought to a stop with the simple thrashing wings of a hawk. Even still, as I came to the pond, I still couldn’t begin to decide as to where I should begin with my musings. I had taken off my nice shirt and placed it on the dirt for me to sit on. I kicked off my sandals while I walked around that pond, and that is where everything finally came together.
Despite my inherent love for the natural world and almost anything outdoors, I viewed the morning’s activities with mixed emotions. If I had known beforehand that I would be having the pleasure of tramping through the woods, surely I would have thought twice about wearing flip-flops, a nice collared shirt, and a couple sprays of cologne. Although I was not dressed appropriately for a morning hike, it was an extraordinary surprise for me and it gave rise to myriad memories from my boyhood, so many that I could not possibly hope to address them all here. The trails, which were maintained by the Missouri Department of Conservation and wound through the 745-acre campus of Missouri Western State College, seemed to be a safe destination for me to have chosen on my own escape.
I first arrived at the Regional Department of Conservation office and was both impressed and astonished at what I saw. The brown building was surrounded by numerous flowers whose colors and bouquets tantalized my senses. However, my first steps along the way fell upon concrete slabs and I found myself wondering if those people who regularly maintained the trails had paved the entire way with concrete. The cement marked the exact path. It took the freedom out of the equation by telling whoever walked along it where they should go or toward which direction to wander. It took away from the sense of adventure and I absolutely despised its presence in my nature walk. I soon espied a break in the trees where a single post that bore a painted number one on it marked the beginning of a new path covered with bark and wood chippings. Now even though the bark-covered trail repulsed me less than the concrete did, I had to speculate as to how one could justly expect to find an adequate venture into the woods to absorb as much as the earth had to offer while all the while tramping upon man-made wood chips, an item suitable for a garden or other landscaping feats, but not for a journey through a wood. It was bad enough that the serenity was marred by the steady roar of traffic. Some intruding highway passed nearby and the sounds of cars whizzing by at top speeds nearly caused me to throw my notebook down and scream at the top of my lungs. This near-madness came even closer to fruition when I heard the thumping of bass notes and the rattle of some poorly installed car-speaker system. In my head I screamed, Turn down the bass, asshole! but in reality I simply continued my walk without giving in to my anger.
I was only able to resume my peaceful walk once I had consciously shut out the noise of the cars. Perhaps that was all that I could do, to simply ignore it like some playground bully that is constantly in your face, calling you names, making fun of your clothes, or threatening to beat you up. This disturbance must just be a fact of this life and one that we need to accept. The footpath’s coverings of wood chips did not last long, thankfully. I could scarcely imagine the expense of time, money, and resources that it would take to have properly and completely covered an entire system of trails like that. It would be an exercise in futility for one to do so and to think that rain would not wash it all away!
Although my mind focused too closely and cynically on the dreary artificiality of the trails, they quickly became quite beautiful as I furthered my walk into the forest. Robert Frost and his yellow wood came to mind when I approached a split in the road, one arm leading down toward lesser regions and one leading upward. I had a decision to make at this fork in the road that was marked by a post with the number two painted on it: which road should I take? Either one of them could have been seen as a well-traveled road, so I doubted that the logic of America’s poet would suit me much at that point. So, laying Frost aside and relying on simpler criteria, I decided to take the one that led straight downhill. Again, this way reminded me of past hikes with my father and the various ecological engineering feats failed to escape my observing eyes. I marveled at the sight of expertly placed logs along the lower sides of the trails; logs that seemed to belong there, and because they seemed so appropriately placed and useful, their presence hardly distracted me at all. They were covered with leaves and smaller twigs, and it was without question that they blended in with the nature as though they were any commonplace fallen limb or small tree trunk. Along the way, scattered railroad ties were imbedded across the trail and though they were so obviously man-made and placed, they served a purpose by preventing soil from washing out down the hill.
My mind, caught by surprise at this amazing series of trails in the middle of America’s heartland, a region notorious for its flatness, instinctively employed the memories of my youth and my underused imagination to craft a flurry of ideas. These ideas darted around like tiny hummingbirds; they were ideas on future writings and reminders of past attempts at getting notions down on paper, and my head swooned with the creative energy dashing back and forth and bouncing off of the walls of my mind. I was scarcely able to remember that I was hiking a trail in Missouri, and I felt myself transported to the gently and powerfully rolling mountains of the Shenandoahs or the easing lowlands of the Green Mountains. With all of these memories so readily popping back into the forefront of my consciousness, how could I ever have endured any sort of writer’s block? How could I have allowed myself to not break free of the entanglement of my mundane world?
I followed the trail ahead of me, a trail that wound back and forth and I hadn’t the utmost clue as to where it would lead. I could see a small rivulet making its way through the trees, yet it no longer bore any water along its way; the summer had already entered the driest times and the moss and the mud of the creek beds had withered into crumbly, hard soil. A small bridge, another mark of mankind, crossed over the empty rivulet and as I stepped onto the wooden planks, I knew that my footsteps’ echo would scare away whatever else crouched nearby.
I continued my walk beyond the bridge, an element of the trail that without water over which it should span now looked more ornamental than useful. Tap-tap-tap. I heard from somewhere in the distance. It sounded like the clatter of an unknown person hammering away at some project. Tap-tap-tap. The resounding noise was getting nearer and nearer, and all the while it was quickening. Tap-tap-tap. It was now too quick, the taps too close together to be someone hammering. It was too rhythmical and the taps now sounded more like clicks, perhaps of some bird or beetle. They progressed in a crescendo from a low peeling drum roll into a swift shaking of maracas, yet it abruptly tapered off and all became silent again.
All was silent, that is, save for the chirping of birds and the low roar of traffic and the intruding noise of my footsteps. The distinctive smell of a nearby pond wafted toward my nose; the stagnant water’s odor unmistakable. Some might call it pungent, like a whiff of scum and dead leaves and other bits of filth that one might find in a gutter. Yet, it doesn’t stink to me, nor does it turn me back toward the fragrant flowers and trees toward the top of the hill. The pond was just what I wanted to see, an ideal spot of placidity and ease. My pace quickened with the eagerness of a schoolboy going to recess, not allowed to run yet undeniably walking with ferocity in his gait. As I all but raced down the trail, the sudden flapping of great wings startled me. A deep cry pierced the calm morning air, and the rustling of tree limbs caught my attention. Looking skyward, I was able to see a hawk or a falcon or some other bird of prey soaring away. It was too far gone and too close to the sun for me to have been able to tell for sure what it was, but I knew that its surprise was greater than my own.
I paused for a moment, reflecting upon my first true encounter with wildlife that morning. What beauty it appeared to my eyes I doubt I could effectively describe here. All I can say is that just seeing the great bird escaping from the confines of the trees, the boundaries that keep us all mundane, was enough to make me forget about the petty worries that waited for me back in civilization. My eyes burned as I tried to follow the bird’s path, but the sun shone too brightly and the bird flew too cleverly. When I recovered, the bird was nowhere to be seen, and it had left me alone in the woods with the playful chirping of birds that, although they were lesser-bodied, were just as magnificent in beauty.
I resumed my trek down the unfamiliar path and could only think of the bird and of my disappointment at not getting a better glimpse of it. Yet, as I emerged upon the pond, my eyes must have gleamed with delight. All about the pond I glimpsed such simple elements of the natural world as spider webs, bits of poison ivy, ant hills, and lily pads. A wooden post with the number three painted upon its head rose out of the ground at the clearing where the path passed the pond at its closest point. A cicada’s shell remained attached to the post, its abandoned claws still dug into the wood, perhaps for eternity or at least as long as it could withstand the rain, the wind, or the threat of humanity. Also, there was something about the spider webs that I couldn’t help but to compare with all those other webs I had seen while hiking with my father in the Appalachian Mountains. I wished that the webs had glistened in the morning sun, covered with dew and gleaming as though they were made of silver, their sparkle serving not only as a warning to those weary travelers who might walk into them, but also as a symbol of how nature’s beauty can be found anywhere, especially on an unexpected morning hike. Yet the morning dew did not come that day and there was no warning for the weary traveler. Cobwebs, as dry as the soil beneath my feet, caught on my notebook, in my mouth, and in my hair.
As I swatted away the bits of web from my face and dusted them off my body, I could see the pond glistening in the morning sun and I could see how low the water level really was. Not only had the creek beds run dry, but the area surrounding the pond and the pond itself had also assumed an arid atmosphere. I could see to what heights the pond had formerly reached due to the plentiful rains of the springtime. Then, the level had been quite high, as I could discern from the sparse growth of plants at the pond’s edge. This was a pond that occupied a small crater there in the Missouri woods. All about its perimeter I could see dabbled rings of water ripples; not the ever-growing ones that come from the jumping of a fish or the disturbing impact of a thrown rock, but single rings. And as I noticed more and more rings appearing, rings that suggested a light sprinkle, I could also discern the myriad bugs that darted over the water’s surface, and more specifically, the water bugs that glided along as though they skated on ice.
This outer ring of the pond surrounded a massive growth of water lilies in the middle. All about this ring were little shoots and stalks of water flora. I had observed the outer parts first, yet as the lilies caught my eye, I sought a new angle from which I could view them. A frog cried out, a screech in alarm as I neared the shallows of the pond. He leapt back into the depths of the pond as though he was alerting other denizens of the pond to my presence. He truly was a worthy sentinel to the security of the pond. His scream sounded as shrill and alarming as a child’s harsh yell or squeal. I could see where he had sought security, the spot from which he could remain in the water and at the same time keep his eyes upon me. His head peeked out above the surface, his two great big eyes glancing at me. We sat there in absolute silence as he watched me and I watched him.
Once again, the peace, my beloved calmness and commune with nature, was interrupted by human presence. My attention diverted from my friend the frog-sentinel, and I noticed how the air gradually filled with the voice of some tour guide, some poor fool trying in vain to show a group of school children around the forest. He talked much too loudly for the forest. Perhaps he thought that his volume was necessary so that the kids could hear him over the roar of passing cars, the songs of birds, and the whispers of those other children uninterested in matters of natural beauty. Shut up, man—let them listen! Let the children suck it all in, absorb the very feeling of what the woods is supposed to provide. Let the flies buzz and land and bite and let them not swat at them. Let them hear it all, feel it all, see it all, and breathe it all. Feel for themselves what life is, for how can one learn that lesson by hearing a canned and rehearsed speech and not by mere experience?
The guide’s voice soon faded away as they took a path different from the one I had chosen, and I turned my attention back to the pond. Why do all the lily pads gather toward the middle, I asked myself. They did not favor one side or the other and I found myself wondering if they ever moved with the rising sun or the blowing wind. The great gathering of lily pads gave the impression of being alive, a great green city that thrived and prospered in the middle of the pond. The tallest pads lay more toward the center, although not exactly in the geographic center. Rather, they were spread out, much like today’s great cities, with great bunches sprouted up throughout. They reached skyward as the immense buildings of some futuristic metropolis. Do they always reach up toward the blue sky? No, as toward the perimeter, the outer cluster of pads lay flat, much different from the innermost ones that cupped upwards. Some of these outer ones lay partly submerged, while others were barely afloat. And all around these lilies flew a steady traffic that consisted of annoying mosquitoes, graceful and swift dragonflies, and other buzzing insects darting through the air and flitting from pad one to another.
With all that I am able to note with this remarkable city of green, something lacked. The vista set before me, despite all of the little flittings-about of the pond’s inhabitants, began to look more and more two-dimensional. The longer I sat by the pond, the more of a static image I had in my head. As I had often been instructed as a student, I remembered that a thing’s true beauty can never be appreciated from only a single perspective I stepped over the dried embankment, seeking that new angle from which I could view this city, I noticed how the dirt was covered by long slivers of yellow leaves. The ground abounded with these leaves, which fell even as I moved along the bank. From this new angle I was surprised to see a new aspect of the lily pads, the great pond city, one that I had not seen before. Great white lily blossoms flourished throughout the green and mossy dark water of the pond, white petals that bloomed and absorbed the morning sun’s rays the way the children on their nature walk should have been absorbing the life of the forest.
To invoke an old cliché, one that I truthfully cannot avoid here, I felt as though time had arrived at a standstill the whole while I was at that pond. My little walk through the trees and to the pond, which had begun as a classroom exercise, was nearly over. As I had entered the woods, I was a student seeking solace, a calm place in which I could find a rare muse, one who could take away the mundanity in my life. I had entered the woods in my sandals and nice collared shirt, while my cologne had attracted gnats, ants, and flies as I went. My feet tramped heavily as my hopes and demands impelled me further into the wood. I cursed the trail’s civilization with much disdain, wondering how I could ever be able to find any sort of commune on an adventure that began with concrete and wood chips.
I slowly came to a realization as I went. My pace quickened as the trail angled downhill, yet I was brought to a stop with the simple thrashing wings of a hawk. Even still, as I came to the pond, I still couldn’t begin to decide as to where I should begin with my musings. I had taken off my nice shirt and placed it on the dirt for me to sit on. I kicked off my sandals while I walked around that pond, and that is where everything finally came together.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Top-5 Favorite Films
1--Vanilla Sky: The premise of this film is just fascinating to me. Always found it intriguing. The ambiguity of the end of the film makes me want to watch it more and more, just to analyze it some more.
2--Dead Poets Society: "O Captain, My Captain," "Carpe Diem," "If we shadows have offended..." No other film has influenced me as a teacher as this one has!
3--American Beauty: Great flick with lots of wry humor. It's got a modernist twist to it, kind of reminiscent of Arthur Miller mixed with some F. Scott Fitzgerald.
4--Big Fish: Not sure why, but this is another fantastic teaser for the brain. It's full of symbolism and motifs, and the father-son theme is definitely a draw for me.
5--The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: The epitome of the epic western. The soundtrack, the themes, the characterization... all pure genius.
Runners-Up:
--Tombstone
--With Honors
--Almost Famous
--A River Runs Through It
--Once Upon a Time in the West
--Godfather Trilogy (even Part III)
--Matrix (only the first one)
2--Dead Poets Society: "O Captain, My Captain," "Carpe Diem," "If we shadows have offended..." No other film has influenced me as a teacher as this one has!
3--American Beauty: Great flick with lots of wry humor. It's got a modernist twist to it, kind of reminiscent of Arthur Miller mixed with some F. Scott Fitzgerald.
4--Big Fish: Not sure why, but this is another fantastic teaser for the brain. It's full of symbolism and motifs, and the father-son theme is definitely a draw for me.
5--The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: The epitome of the epic western. The soundtrack, the themes, the characterization... all pure genius.
Runners-Up:
--Tombstone
--With Honors
--Almost Famous
--A River Runs Through It
--Once Upon a Time in the West
--Godfather Trilogy (even Part III)
--Matrix (only the first one)
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Writing for the Sake of Writing
You know, I really have no clue who will be reading this blog, or if anyone will really be reading it.
It's been months since I've had anything posted here. Sometimes I feel like I'm letting someone down by not writing as much. When I think about it, I guess the one who should be disappointed in my lack of writing should be me. I doubt if anyone else has noticed. Writing never was something I used to like sharing.
So I've been busy. I'm just coming off a long wrestling season full of late nights, early mornings, and little free time. On top of that, I've have a bear of a year dealing with grading issues. When I do have free time, the only thing I want to do is have fun with my family -- definitely not isolate myself so I can write. I've got a wife who is absolutely amazing with how much she supports me and a son who is developing faster than I can keep up with him. My wife and son have so many other qualities that I can't even come close to describing them here, but that's a blog entry for another day.
All in all, I guess that this blog is not for anyone else other than myself. If I knew that I had a solid following, I'm sure I would have made time to write. If I had that pressure, I would follow through with my obligation to post regularly.
I like to write, but most of the things running through my mind these days aren't things I should be writing and posting online. Things that might offend others (politics), get me in trouble at work (professional frustrations), or reveal a little too much about how sensitive I may or may not be (getting ready for a major change).
I tried looking up some ideas for blogs on the web, but nothing really sounded that interesting. So I thought, "Why not write about not writing?"
When I write, I feel like I try too hard to sound like "a writer," which gives my notes a forced, artificial sound. I can't stand reading high school or college journalists try to sound like Dave Barry or some other witty and talented pro writer. Hell, so many of the newspaper columnists sound just like that, too. I get started on a piece and then I get sidetracked, asking myself, "What would this idea sound like to so-and-so?"
I've got 40-some notes saved on my Blackberry, but none of them are really worth posting now. Maybe some day I'll post them, but most of them have either passed their time (reactions to current events) or have completely derailed. They're good to keep around, though. Sometime down the road, maybe I'll be able to salvage some ideas for new writings. I have a half-dozen notebooks at home that are full of writings from my college years up to today. It's pretty cool to look back at them and just read the random things I wrote then.
So what will I think when I look back on this entry? Was it just a filler? Was it a rambling batch of nonsense? Does it have anything worth salvaging? We shall see, down the road.
It's been months since I've had anything posted here. Sometimes I feel like I'm letting someone down by not writing as much. When I think about it, I guess the one who should be disappointed in my lack of writing should be me. I doubt if anyone else has noticed. Writing never was something I used to like sharing.
So I've been busy. I'm just coming off a long wrestling season full of late nights, early mornings, and little free time. On top of that, I've have a bear of a year dealing with grading issues. When I do have free time, the only thing I want to do is have fun with my family -- definitely not isolate myself so I can write. I've got a wife who is absolutely amazing with how much she supports me and a son who is developing faster than I can keep up with him. My wife and son have so many other qualities that I can't even come close to describing them here, but that's a blog entry for another day.
All in all, I guess that this blog is not for anyone else other than myself. If I knew that I had a solid following, I'm sure I would have made time to write. If I had that pressure, I would follow through with my obligation to post regularly.
I like to write, but most of the things running through my mind these days aren't things I should be writing and posting online. Things that might offend others (politics), get me in trouble at work (professional frustrations), or reveal a little too much about how sensitive I may or may not be (getting ready for a major change).
I tried looking up some ideas for blogs on the web, but nothing really sounded that interesting. So I thought, "Why not write about not writing?"
When I write, I feel like I try too hard to sound like "a writer," which gives my notes a forced, artificial sound. I can't stand reading high school or college journalists try to sound like Dave Barry or some other witty and talented pro writer. Hell, so many of the newspaper columnists sound just like that, too. I get started on a piece and then I get sidetracked, asking myself, "What would this idea sound like to so-and-so?"
I've got 40-some notes saved on my Blackberry, but none of them are really worth posting now. Maybe some day I'll post them, but most of them have either passed their time (reactions to current events) or have completely derailed. They're good to keep around, though. Sometime down the road, maybe I'll be able to salvage some ideas for new writings. I have a half-dozen notebooks at home that are full of writings from my college years up to today. It's pretty cool to look back at them and just read the random things I wrote then.
So what will I think when I look back on this entry? Was it just a filler? Was it a rambling batch of nonsense? Does it have anything worth salvaging? We shall see, down the road.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
A Writing Drought
Some random thoughts as of late:
...Haven't been able to finish a blog in about a month, even though I have started 9-10 new ones
...Been fostering some serious doubts about my coaching and teaching abilities lately -- students and athletes don't seem to listen to instructions these days
...A broken nose is a real pain, especially when I have a cold and a toddler who loves to flail around when I hold him
...Speaking of Brody, he must be in training to be a soccer hooligan -- he's getting down the head-butts and screeches pretty well
...Spending nearly 3 hours driving every day takes a toll on my niceness
...I can never watch enough Kung-Fu Panda, Shrek, or Toy Story!
...Waking up at 5:00am on my day off is a-o-k with me, just as long as Brody is alternating between his ultra-snuggly and hyper-goofball modes
...I can't wait for some snow! I wouldn't even complain if it happens during the break and I don't get a snow day for it
...Christmas decorations really can make the season feel like Christmas -- I just love pines covered with lights, holly wreaths on the front door, red bows and golden strands of garland!
...Some time away from my wife and son really puts things in perspective and helps me remember how much I love them
...All this hype about Josh Selby / KU and Jacob Pullen / KSU basketball gets kind of annoying, and I don't think it's just because I'm a wrestling guy
...Some people's political posts on Facebook are glaringly ignorant and really annoying... even some of the "conservative" ones (I'm not just hating on the libs)
...I really need to get to the theaters to watch Tron Legacy, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
...I've got a John Irving book that I really need to read... just haven't had the time or means
...Listen to books on CD has been awesome in making my daily commute fly by quickly
...I could use a weekend fishing trip soon
...Better yet, I could use a week of sitting around with Brody and Emily, just lazing about and enjoying each other's company
...Emily has been a blessing, especially this past semester. I don't know how I'd ever get through things without her
Well, that's it for now! Maybe I'll get another entry finished soon!
...Haven't been able to finish a blog in about a month, even though I have started 9-10 new ones
...Been fostering some serious doubts about my coaching and teaching abilities lately -- students and athletes don't seem to listen to instructions these days
...A broken nose is a real pain, especially when I have a cold and a toddler who loves to flail around when I hold him
...Speaking of Brody, he must be in training to be a soccer hooligan -- he's getting down the head-butts and screeches pretty well
...Spending nearly 3 hours driving every day takes a toll on my niceness
...I can never watch enough Kung-Fu Panda, Shrek, or Toy Story!
...Waking up at 5:00am on my day off is a-o-k with me, just as long as Brody is alternating between his ultra-snuggly and hyper-goofball modes
...I can't wait for some snow! I wouldn't even complain if it happens during the break and I don't get a snow day for it
...Christmas decorations really can make the season feel like Christmas -- I just love pines covered with lights, holly wreaths on the front door, red bows and golden strands of garland!
...Some time away from my wife and son really puts things in perspective and helps me remember how much I love them
...All this hype about Josh Selby / KU and Jacob Pullen / KSU basketball gets kind of annoying, and I don't think it's just because I'm a wrestling guy
...Some people's political posts on Facebook are glaringly ignorant and really annoying... even some of the "conservative" ones (I'm not just hating on the libs)
...I really need to get to the theaters to watch Tron Legacy, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
...I've got a John Irving book that I really need to read... just haven't had the time or means
...Listen to books on CD has been awesome in making my daily commute fly by quickly
...I could use a weekend fishing trip soon
...Better yet, I could use a week of sitting around with Brody and Emily, just lazing about and enjoying each other's company
...Emily has been a blessing, especially this past semester. I don't know how I'd ever get through things without her
Well, that's it for now! Maybe I'll get another entry finished soon!
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Shoes
The other day, my wife asked me to read a moving article about a young man named Nathan Stiles, a Spring Hill football player who collapsed while walking off the field and later died as a result of previous head injuries.
It was an article from ESPN; its primary topic was not the injury and its circumstances, but rather the legacy of this 17-year-old young man and his family's experiences and the direction in which they are now moving after his death.
Nathan's parents started "Nathan Project" to spread the word of God. According to the ESPN article, his father, Ron Stiles, wears his son's size-12 Nike high-tops to every Nathan Project event. Ron has size 10 feet. He told the journalist writing the article, "I'm never going to fill those shoes, [...] But I'm going to do everything I can to walk in them."
I really don't know how I made it through that article without my eyes watering and releasing a torrent of tears. Maybe I was just too tired to experience a fully cathartic moment.
Almost immediately the article got me thinking about Brody. I don't know how I could ever cope with any tragedy happening to him, and I have so much admiration for Nathan's parents because of their extraordinary strength. Would I be able to muster the fortitude to stand so strong in such an incredibly difficult situation? Before I can come close to being able to imagine what I'd do, I have to consider who I am as a father right now.
Just a month ago, we dressed Brody in a wrestling singlet for his 18-month pictures. One shot had him standing in my wrestling shoes, the tops of them almost coming up to his knees. An adorable picture!
Ron Stiles had talked about trying to walk in his son's shoes. In a proud moment, I had just had my son try to walk in my shoes.
What will Brody end up doing in his life? Will he be a strong Christian? Will he be a wrestler or soccer player? A musician or scholar? A gentleman who'll champion the happiness of others by standing up for the little guy?
I wonder what kind of relationship I'll end up having with him. Some of my most personal conversations -- the ones where I'd revealed my deepest emotions -- have been with my own father. It took a while for me to open up to him, but it finally happened when I was in my early twenties.
I think my problem was that I never understood his life or what it had been like walking in his shoes. The only shoes I remember seeing him in are penny loafers, cowboy boots, or hiking boots. His feet have carried him so many places, both good and bad. He's been to places so dark that I hope I -- or Brody -- never have to follow. He's been to places so bright and magnificent that I hope I do get such a chance.
He's stumbled and fallen, he's splashed in life's puddles. He's followed the map, and sometimes he blazed his own trail.
I haven't always picked the best shoes myself, so there are definitely times I hope Brody doesn't try to walk in my shoes.
If he does, however, I hope he tries on the flip flops so that he can relax and enjoy life, the cowboy boots so that he can step lively and proud with each resounding step, the wrestling shoes so he can experience competition and success as a product of hard work, and the loafers so he can walk with an air of a professional.
And there will be times that I hope he goes barefoot so that he can feel the earth and grass on his toes as he makes his own path.
He'll buy new pairs of shoes he won't wear often, and some for special occasions only. Some he'll wear daily and get his money's worth right away. I hope he finds a comfortable pair or two without having to search too hard.
I can't always tell him which pair to go with, but I can be there to advise him. He may want to try a pair just like mine, and I may have to tell him early on that he has no choice in the matter and that he has to wear certain shoes.
For right now, he's switching off and on between a nice pair of Stride-Right shoes and his boots with the flashing lights on the side. I hope that he listens when I try to give advice and that he's able to imagine what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes without having to directly experience it for himself. I pray that God gives him the opportunity to enjoy every step in life, and I pray that God gives him the strength to endure when the path becomes rough. Most of all, I pray that, like the old "Footprints" poem says, Brody allows God to carry him through the dark times on his journey through life.
It was an article from ESPN; its primary topic was not the injury and its circumstances, but rather the legacy of this 17-year-old young man and his family's experiences and the direction in which they are now moving after his death.
Nathan's parents started "Nathan Project" to spread the word of God. According to the ESPN article, his father, Ron Stiles, wears his son's size-12 Nike high-tops to every Nathan Project event. Ron has size 10 feet. He told the journalist writing the article, "I'm never going to fill those shoes, [...] But I'm going to do everything I can to walk in them."
I really don't know how I made it through that article without my eyes watering and releasing a torrent of tears. Maybe I was just too tired to experience a fully cathartic moment.
Almost immediately the article got me thinking about Brody. I don't know how I could ever cope with any tragedy happening to him, and I have so much admiration for Nathan's parents because of their extraordinary strength. Would I be able to muster the fortitude to stand so strong in such an incredibly difficult situation? Before I can come close to being able to imagine what I'd do, I have to consider who I am as a father right now.
Just a month ago, we dressed Brody in a wrestling singlet for his 18-month pictures. One shot had him standing in my wrestling shoes, the tops of them almost coming up to his knees. An adorable picture!
Ron Stiles had talked about trying to walk in his son's shoes. In a proud moment, I had just had my son try to walk in my shoes.
What will Brody end up doing in his life? Will he be a strong Christian? Will he be a wrestler or soccer player? A musician or scholar? A gentleman who'll champion the happiness of others by standing up for the little guy?
I wonder what kind of relationship I'll end up having with him. Some of my most personal conversations -- the ones where I'd revealed my deepest emotions -- have been with my own father. It took a while for me to open up to him, but it finally happened when I was in my early twenties.
I think my problem was that I never understood his life or what it had been like walking in his shoes. The only shoes I remember seeing him in are penny loafers, cowboy boots, or hiking boots. His feet have carried him so many places, both good and bad. He's been to places so dark that I hope I -- or Brody -- never have to follow. He's been to places so bright and magnificent that I hope I do get such a chance.
He's stumbled and fallen, he's splashed in life's puddles. He's followed the map, and sometimes he blazed his own trail.
I haven't always picked the best shoes myself, so there are definitely times I hope Brody doesn't try to walk in my shoes.
If he does, however, I hope he tries on the flip flops so that he can relax and enjoy life, the cowboy boots so that he can step lively and proud with each resounding step, the wrestling shoes so he can experience competition and success as a product of hard work, and the loafers so he can walk with an air of a professional.
And there will be times that I hope he goes barefoot so that he can feel the earth and grass on his toes as he makes his own path.
He'll buy new pairs of shoes he won't wear often, and some for special occasions only. Some he'll wear daily and get his money's worth right away. I hope he finds a comfortable pair or two without having to search too hard.
I can't always tell him which pair to go with, but I can be there to advise him. He may want to try a pair just like mine, and I may have to tell him early on that he has no choice in the matter and that he has to wear certain shoes.
For right now, he's switching off and on between a nice pair of Stride-Right shoes and his boots with the flashing lights on the side. I hope that he listens when I try to give advice and that he's able to imagine what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes without having to directly experience it for himself. I pray that God gives him the opportunity to enjoy every step in life, and I pray that God gives him the strength to endure when the path becomes rough. Most of all, I pray that, like the old "Footprints" poem says, Brody allows God to carry him through the dark times on his journey through life.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving!
You should know what you're thankful for, especially when celebrating a particular day of the year that has been set aside specifically for giving thanks. This morning at church, Pastor Seth asked for some volunteers to share their favorite Thanksgiving memories. The first thing to pop into my head (which is logical because wrestling season has just started) was several years of going without mass quantities of food on this holiday.
It was a self-imposed, single-serving, no gravy, not-even-dreaming-of-pie kind of sacrifice. I was simply moderating my intake -- and by "moderating," I mean nearly Spartan. I'd burned plenty of calories at practice that morning and then the day after I'd be able to burn off however many calories I'd picked up from the night before. I just wanted to make sure that I didn't have to start the season very far above my targeted weight class.
I had to shoot straight with myself, especially after hearing the stories told by members of the congregation. One gentleman talked about traveling great distances to see relatives he hadn't seen in years, and one woman talked about driving from California to Oklahoma with her father, who had just returned home from serving in WWII, to see her grandfather, who had feared he wouldn't live to see his son and granddaughter come home to their Oklahoma.
I then remembered the Thanksgiving my freshman year in college when I helped serve dinner at the Lawrence Homeless Shelter. It had been a requirement for a class that I perform some community service, but I had no idea how much this experience would strike me. I'm going to keep this short of becoming a sermon about philanthropy and obligation to serve, and I'll keep that topic for another day.
The question of my own true sacrifice and the things for which I was truly thankful hadn't been a pressing issue until the last few years. It took some maturing, but I began to see things much more clearly. What about those who have no choice in going without? What about those who had lost their closest loved ones or those whose husbands, sons, and brothers were overseas?
I think the purpose of Thanksgiving is to remind us all not to take everything in our lives for granted. For a holiday like this one, certain preparations need to be made in order for it to go well. It seems as though all the emphasis is placed on the location of the meal, the quality of the menu, and the relatives who make (and don't make) the guest list. There are all sorts of "priorities," such as making it to the airport on time, watching whichever football game, spending x-number of hours with such-and-such relative, and so on. The sad thing is that words of thanks and prayer are few and far between with some families.
I've come to notice that frustration becomes a dominant emotion around Thanksgiving. People begin to ask themselves pointless questions such as, "Why did I put forth so much effort?" "Why do I have to do all the work?" "Why does my family have to be the ones to travel so far?" Well, to put it simply, you don't have to do anything on these days. Host the dinner, make the food, travel the great distance because of love and the true reason for this holiday: to remind you of what's important and of the things in your life for which you should truly be thankful.
These thoughts were bouncing around in my head when Pastor Seth brought our attention to the story of Martha and Mary from book of Luke. These two women hosted Jesus for supper; Martha slaved over the preparations as a good hostess and Mary sat attentively and listened to every word from Jesus' mouth. In this scripture, He indicates that Mary had made the right choice and that Martha should not be upset at her sister. He's only a guest and will not be there very long, and she's hearing His word while she still can. Time is finite and life goes on. Hospitality is important, but one mustn't let it impede the truly important things.
Similarly, I realized, time with family is limited. We should make do with what time we do have together. We will never know for sure when will be the next time we all sit down together as a family. We would be missing the point of the holiday if we were to let trivial matters distract us.
In our lives, do we end up tending to take the road of Martha when we should be taking the road of Mary? In the little picture, Mary is in the wrong and Martha is doing the right thing in prepping for dinner. One is shirking her obligations and taking the Tom Sawyer route while the other is toiling and remaining true to her duties.
In the bigger picture, however, Mary is right.
I'm not trying to say that Martha had it all wrong; on the contrary, she does have the rare gift of hospitality, which is often neglected, uncultivated, and under-appreciated. She put all her efforts into the preparations for their guest, which was to be expected. After all, the ancient Greeks believed firmly in the law of hospitality as being one of Zeus's chief concerns. The tale of Baucis and Philemon tells us of the potential for extreme punishment should one be negligent of hospitality, and who would want to risk their homeland being flooded by two vengeful gods?
The myth from the Greeks exists as an intriguing antithesis to the moral of the story of these two women. What is it that makes the memory of a special visit from important guests? What is it that makes a holiday like Thanksgiving so meaningful to us? It isn't always the turkey or pumpkin pie, but oftentimes it is the people with whom we share the meal(s). It's the variety of loved ones, and not just the variety of delicious dishes. There are so many wonderful things that make up this holiday, and we all could do well by making room in our hearts for all of the diversity.
When I really think about my own memories of Thanksgiving, particularly those from my high school days, I don't remember how much actually I went without. Sure, at the time it was as though I were eating as little as an impoverished person, but I've long since made up for it. I now have seven years of eating two Thanksgiving dinners instead of one.
That's two families to enjoy, and two families with the same incredible kind of diversity presented by the holiday menus. Two families' worth of brothers and fathers who are always willing to impart their wisdom; sisters and mothers who thrive at organizing and executing great family dinners; and plenty of children who are the metaphorical whipped cream atop the slice of pumpkin pie.
It's a funny thing: in the rush to get something written and posted up on my blog, I went and committed the very faux pas I was trying to warn against. Forgetting to mention the two most important things in my life, I went and wrote something that omitted direct mention of my wife and son.
I guess it just goes to show that we're all guilty of taking things for granted. We want the small things to be so perfect -- a meal for some, an article for me -- that we don't see the bigger picture. I'm never going to be one who claims to have achieved perfection, whether it's in my writing, my daily "goodness," or my teaching or coaching. But I do recognize and I am truly thankful for the perfect feeling of happiness I get from my wife Emily and son Brody.
There's so much for which I am thankful, but the important things that mean the most aren't material possessions, trivial matters pertaining to work, or abstract memories of the good ol' days. They are my family. Emily and Brody, I love you with all my heart!
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
It was a self-imposed, single-serving, no gravy, not-even-dreaming-of-pie kind of sacrifice. I was simply moderating my intake -- and by "moderating," I mean nearly Spartan. I'd burned plenty of calories at practice that morning and then the day after I'd be able to burn off however many calories I'd picked up from the night before. I just wanted to make sure that I didn't have to start the season very far above my targeted weight class.
I had to shoot straight with myself, especially after hearing the stories told by members of the congregation. One gentleman talked about traveling great distances to see relatives he hadn't seen in years, and one woman talked about driving from California to Oklahoma with her father, who had just returned home from serving in WWII, to see her grandfather, who had feared he wouldn't live to see his son and granddaughter come home to their Oklahoma.
I then remembered the Thanksgiving my freshman year in college when I helped serve dinner at the Lawrence Homeless Shelter. It had been a requirement for a class that I perform some community service, but I had no idea how much this experience would strike me. I'm going to keep this short of becoming a sermon about philanthropy and obligation to serve, and I'll keep that topic for another day.
The question of my own true sacrifice and the things for which I was truly thankful hadn't been a pressing issue until the last few years. It took some maturing, but I began to see things much more clearly. What about those who have no choice in going without? What about those who had lost their closest loved ones or those whose husbands, sons, and brothers were overseas?
I think the purpose of Thanksgiving is to remind us all not to take everything in our lives for granted. For a holiday like this one, certain preparations need to be made in order for it to go well. It seems as though all the emphasis is placed on the location of the meal, the quality of the menu, and the relatives who make (and don't make) the guest list. There are all sorts of "priorities," such as making it to the airport on time, watching whichever football game, spending x-number of hours with such-and-such relative, and so on. The sad thing is that words of thanks and prayer are few and far between with some families.
I've come to notice that frustration becomes a dominant emotion around Thanksgiving. People begin to ask themselves pointless questions such as, "Why did I put forth so much effort?" "Why do I have to do all the work?" "Why does my family have to be the ones to travel so far?" Well, to put it simply, you don't have to do anything on these days. Host the dinner, make the food, travel the great distance because of love and the true reason for this holiday: to remind you of what's important and of the things in your life for which you should truly be thankful.
These thoughts were bouncing around in my head when Pastor Seth brought our attention to the story of Martha and Mary from book of Luke. These two women hosted Jesus for supper; Martha slaved over the preparations as a good hostess and Mary sat attentively and listened to every word from Jesus' mouth. In this scripture, He indicates that Mary had made the right choice and that Martha should not be upset at her sister. He's only a guest and will not be there very long, and she's hearing His word while she still can. Time is finite and life goes on. Hospitality is important, but one mustn't let it impede the truly important things.
Similarly, I realized, time with family is limited. We should make do with what time we do have together. We will never know for sure when will be the next time we all sit down together as a family. We would be missing the point of the holiday if we were to let trivial matters distract us.
In our lives, do we end up tending to take the road of Martha when we should be taking the road of Mary? In the little picture, Mary is in the wrong and Martha is doing the right thing in prepping for dinner. One is shirking her obligations and taking the Tom Sawyer route while the other is toiling and remaining true to her duties.
In the bigger picture, however, Mary is right.
I'm not trying to say that Martha had it all wrong; on the contrary, she does have the rare gift of hospitality, which is often neglected, uncultivated, and under-appreciated. She put all her efforts into the preparations for their guest, which was to be expected. After all, the ancient Greeks believed firmly in the law of hospitality as being one of Zeus's chief concerns. The tale of Baucis and Philemon tells us of the potential for extreme punishment should one be negligent of hospitality, and who would want to risk their homeland being flooded by two vengeful gods?
The myth from the Greeks exists as an intriguing antithesis to the moral of the story of these two women. What is it that makes the memory of a special visit from important guests? What is it that makes a holiday like Thanksgiving so meaningful to us? It isn't always the turkey or pumpkin pie, but oftentimes it is the people with whom we share the meal(s). It's the variety of loved ones, and not just the variety of delicious dishes. There are so many wonderful things that make up this holiday, and we all could do well by making room in our hearts for all of the diversity.
When I really think about my own memories of Thanksgiving, particularly those from my high school days, I don't remember how much actually I went without. Sure, at the time it was as though I were eating as little as an impoverished person, but I've long since made up for it. I now have seven years of eating two Thanksgiving dinners instead of one.
That's two families to enjoy, and two families with the same incredible kind of diversity presented by the holiday menus. Two families' worth of brothers and fathers who are always willing to impart their wisdom; sisters and mothers who thrive at organizing and executing great family dinners; and plenty of children who are the metaphorical whipped cream atop the slice of pumpkin pie.
It's a funny thing: in the rush to get something written and posted up on my blog, I went and committed the very faux pas I was trying to warn against. Forgetting to mention the two most important things in my life, I went and wrote something that omitted direct mention of my wife and son.
I guess it just goes to show that we're all guilty of taking things for granted. We want the small things to be so perfect -- a meal for some, an article for me -- that we don't see the bigger picture. I'm never going to be one who claims to have achieved perfection, whether it's in my writing, my daily "goodness," or my teaching or coaching. But I do recognize and I am truly thankful for the perfect feeling of happiness I get from my wife Emily and son Brody.
There's so much for which I am thankful, but the important things that mean the most aren't material possessions, trivial matters pertaining to work, or abstract memories of the good ol' days. They are my family. Emily and Brody, I love you with all my heart!
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Escaping from the Crib
This past weekend, the last thing I expected to see at 1:00 in the morning was Brody walking toward me, crying, and holding his arms out for me to pick him up, yet when I was dragged from a deep sleep by the sound of distant crying, that's exactly what I saw. It turns out that the distant sound of his cry was due only to the depth of my sleep state, and not the actual distance between his room and mine.
I picked him up and set him down on the bed. Emily, who'd been sleeping just as deeply, had this look of confusion on her face. It was the look that clearly said, "I have no idea what's going on!" I didn't have any clue, either. I stumbled downstairs to see what I could find out. I must have still been asleep, because one of the first thoughts I had was that I was slightly annoyed because someone had let my toddler out of his "kennel" (honestly, we do have him sleeping in a crib, not a kennel). Then, when my consciousness began to surface and I realized that it was son, not a dog, I went to make sure that there hadn't been a malfunction with the side of the crib or that he hadn't broken it with his massive toddler strength.
I found nothing. He simply stretched one leg up over the edge, slid over, and fell to his feet below. Climbing out of his crib last night must have taken some serious goal-setting and determination. I'm proud of the little fella; his daring escape from his crib was much like the escape of the Count of Monte Cristo or the escape of Andy Dufresne, except without the unjust imprisonment.
The next morning, after trying to figure out whether or not it had been a dream to wake up and find that Brody had climbed out of his crib and up the stairs to our bedroom, I found myself sitting in church hearing a sermon about goals. It seemed to be a fine coincidence. Our pastor addressed the idea of goals and how everyone should have them. Goals are the things that provide motivation for us in our daily lives. Life is truly made of dreams, for without dreams or goals, what is the point of it all?
Our pastor based his sermon on Paul's epistle to the Phillipians (3:12-14). In this letter, Paul writes of how he is always pressing forward in his pursuit of "perfection." As Christians, we are all constantly pursuing the same goal of a relationship with Christ. Each of us may get closer and closer at various points in our lives, but none can truly achieve our goals. The question isn't so much of can we, but should we ever be able to reach our goal of a relationship with Christ? What would we then do, once that ultimate goal of all goals had been attained?
Being a coach sitting in church listen to a sports-minded pastor, I has an easy job understanding the exact metaphor he was giving us. Pastor used baseball as the basis of his comparison, but with baseball being a sport with which I'm not all that familiar, I find myself able to discuss it in terms of wrestling. I can't take credit for the originality of this metaphor; it's just my personal take on an incredibly pertinent sermon.
Essentially, there are three types of wrestlers: those that make it happen, those that watch it happen, and those that wonder what the heck just happened. The first group are those who set goals and pursue them passionately. The second group are those who may have some talent and may have seen some success, but mostly, they have seen a lot of luck. The third group are those who are simply utterly clueless; perhaps they don't care about their participation that much.
All three groups co-exist in any sport, but the common thread between them is not necessarily just their respective sport, but more importantly the presence of a coach.
In the same way athletes make errors in matches, we make errors in life, but it is Christ who allows us to recover. It doesn't matter if we're the type of person who makes things happen, watch things happen, or wonder what just happened; Christ loves us all and acts as the coach to whom we all should listen.
To further adapt the Pastor's metaphor, life is like a wrestling dual -- one team against another. Most people think of wrestling as being an individual sport, but once a person becomes involved in wrestling, it is clear how strong the team element really is. In this metaphor, there are three things to remember:
1) We're all on a team, so each of us needs to be a team player. Whereas life isn't an individual effort, we all do our individual parts to win the competition. Each move in each period of each match contributes to the overall team score.
2) We have a coach, so we need to listen to him. The Pastor asked a great rhetorical question: "Why call him 'coach' if we're not going to listen?" It's when my wrestlers stop listening to me and they begin doing their own thing that things typically fall apart -- technique wanes, frustrations soar, and strategy goes right out the window, along with the probability of winning the match.
3) We may get hurt in the match, but we need to get over it. The idea is to hop up and shake it off, and we must know the difference between an "injury" and an "ouchie," to quote Coach Kit Harris. Pain is as much a necessary element to the sport as is the mat, the shoes, the singlets, and the headgear. The same goes with life.
These comparisons between life as a Christian and being an athlete serve to remind us of our humanity, as well as our intended purpose in life. Sure, there will be errors along the way; we won't always be team players, at times we'll fail to listen to our Coach, and we will frequently feel the sting of injury.
The Apostle Paul discusses the pursuit of perfection. In setting this goal, he steps forward on a journey of growth and shows us all how one should seek atonement with Christ.
It's easy for me, as a coach, to understand this message from the Bible, especially with how clearly the pastor has conveyed it. However, it's not always going to be that clear to me, and it's not always going to make sense to my son Brody, especially in his early years. The other night, he achieved his previously-set goal of escaping from his crib. He had no team to consider or to cheer him on, he had no one coaching him along the way, and surely he must have felt something painful when he landed, yet he met his goal (and put his parents in a panic to find him a suitable toddler bed).
Goal-setting is as much a part of life as is breathing, eating, and sleeping. We have been programmed to do this from the very beginning. Christ enables us to start off enjoying the game on our own, but sooner or later, we all have to discover the rules of the game. We can go through life wondering what happened -- that is, why we achieve some goals and why we fall short of others. We can also set our goals at a minimum level, hoping that our low bar is easily overcome. Or we could set our goals high and do what it takes to achieve them.
In order to fully achieve our earthly goals, and to then be able to set focus on our goal of perfect relationships with Christ, we must work together, heed our coaches, and bounce back from whatever adversity tries to keep us from our dreams, whether it's escaping from the crib or finding true happiness in life.
I picked him up and set him down on the bed. Emily, who'd been sleeping just as deeply, had this look of confusion on her face. It was the look that clearly said, "I have no idea what's going on!" I didn't have any clue, either. I stumbled downstairs to see what I could find out. I must have still been asleep, because one of the first thoughts I had was that I was slightly annoyed because someone had let my toddler out of his "kennel" (honestly, we do have him sleeping in a crib, not a kennel). Then, when my consciousness began to surface and I realized that it was son, not a dog, I went to make sure that there hadn't been a malfunction with the side of the crib or that he hadn't broken it with his massive toddler strength.
I found nothing. He simply stretched one leg up over the edge, slid over, and fell to his feet below. Climbing out of his crib last night must have taken some serious goal-setting and determination. I'm proud of the little fella; his daring escape from his crib was much like the escape of the Count of Monte Cristo or the escape of Andy Dufresne, except without the unjust imprisonment.
The next morning, after trying to figure out whether or not it had been a dream to wake up and find that Brody had climbed out of his crib and up the stairs to our bedroom, I found myself sitting in church hearing a sermon about goals. It seemed to be a fine coincidence. Our pastor addressed the idea of goals and how everyone should have them. Goals are the things that provide motivation for us in our daily lives. Life is truly made of dreams, for without dreams or goals, what is the point of it all?
Our pastor based his sermon on Paul's epistle to the Phillipians (3:12-14). In this letter, Paul writes of how he is always pressing forward in his pursuit of "perfection." As Christians, we are all constantly pursuing the same goal of a relationship with Christ. Each of us may get closer and closer at various points in our lives, but none can truly achieve our goals. The question isn't so much of can we, but should we ever be able to reach our goal of a relationship with Christ? What would we then do, once that ultimate goal of all goals had been attained?
Being a coach sitting in church listen to a sports-minded pastor, I has an easy job understanding the exact metaphor he was giving us. Pastor used baseball as the basis of his comparison, but with baseball being a sport with which I'm not all that familiar, I find myself able to discuss it in terms of wrestling. I can't take credit for the originality of this metaphor; it's just my personal take on an incredibly pertinent sermon.
Essentially, there are three types of wrestlers: those that make it happen, those that watch it happen, and those that wonder what the heck just happened. The first group are those who set goals and pursue them passionately. The second group are those who may have some talent and may have seen some success, but mostly, they have seen a lot of luck. The third group are those who are simply utterly clueless; perhaps they don't care about their participation that much.
All three groups co-exist in any sport, but the common thread between them is not necessarily just their respective sport, but more importantly the presence of a coach.
In the same way athletes make errors in matches, we make errors in life, but it is Christ who allows us to recover. It doesn't matter if we're the type of person who makes things happen, watch things happen, or wonder what just happened; Christ loves us all and acts as the coach to whom we all should listen.
To further adapt the Pastor's metaphor, life is like a wrestling dual -- one team against another. Most people think of wrestling as being an individual sport, but once a person becomes involved in wrestling, it is clear how strong the team element really is. In this metaphor, there are three things to remember:
1) We're all on a team, so each of us needs to be a team player. Whereas life isn't an individual effort, we all do our individual parts to win the competition. Each move in each period of each match contributes to the overall team score.
2) We have a coach, so we need to listen to him. The Pastor asked a great rhetorical question: "Why call him 'coach' if we're not going to listen?" It's when my wrestlers stop listening to me and they begin doing their own thing that things typically fall apart -- technique wanes, frustrations soar, and strategy goes right out the window, along with the probability of winning the match.
3) We may get hurt in the match, but we need to get over it. The idea is to hop up and shake it off, and we must know the difference between an "injury" and an "ouchie," to quote Coach Kit Harris. Pain is as much a necessary element to the sport as is the mat, the shoes, the singlets, and the headgear. The same goes with life.
These comparisons between life as a Christian and being an athlete serve to remind us of our humanity, as well as our intended purpose in life. Sure, there will be errors along the way; we won't always be team players, at times we'll fail to listen to our Coach, and we will frequently feel the sting of injury.
The Apostle Paul discusses the pursuit of perfection. In setting this goal, he steps forward on a journey of growth and shows us all how one should seek atonement with Christ.
It's easy for me, as a coach, to understand this message from the Bible, especially with how clearly the pastor has conveyed it. However, it's not always going to be that clear to me, and it's not always going to make sense to my son Brody, especially in his early years. The other night, he achieved his previously-set goal of escaping from his crib. He had no team to consider or to cheer him on, he had no one coaching him along the way, and surely he must have felt something painful when he landed, yet he met his goal (and put his parents in a panic to find him a suitable toddler bed).
Goal-setting is as much a part of life as is breathing, eating, and sleeping. We have been programmed to do this from the very beginning. Christ enables us to start off enjoying the game on our own, but sooner or later, we all have to discover the rules of the game. We can go through life wondering what happened -- that is, why we achieve some goals and why we fall short of others. We can also set our goals at a minimum level, hoping that our low bar is easily overcome. Or we could set our goals high and do what it takes to achieve them.
In order to fully achieve our earthly goals, and to then be able to set focus on our goal of perfect relationships with Christ, we must work together, heed our coaches, and bounce back from whatever adversity tries to keep us from our dreams, whether it's escaping from the crib or finding true happiness in life.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Guys Night
This is a topic that I'm sure every father either thinks or writes about: the evolution of the time-honored "guys night."
Once upon a time, it was all about spending the night at a buddy's house as we played video games, munched on Doritos, and drowned ourselves in Mountain Dew (because it was cool and it allowed us the normally taboo caffeine high, which exceeded that of normal caffeinated drinks). Later, "guys night" became a gathering at some's apartment as we played darts or pool, noshed on cheese fries, and guzzled beer. Now, "guys night" has become one of my favorite things to do with a pretty cool little dude: we spend the evening playing with mulch or flowers or plant stalks in the flower bed, chowing down on fish sticks, and drinking Diet Mountain Dew (me) and milk (Brody).
My, how things have changed!
"Guys night" has gone from involving good buddies, "bestest" friends, drinking buddies, and "bros" to my best little buddy, Brody.
Tonight, Emily is enjoying a much-deserved evening out with a good friend, and I'm pretty well entertained just watching as Brody stomps around making myriad odd noises. Every note from his mouth is full of glee, but from time to time these noises have a trace of frustration, most likely due to his inability to grasp the concepts of nature at this point. When he sees Billy the dog pressing his nose against the window, he barks back at him; he doesn't go up to the window and interact, he just goes about his business and utters, "woof-woof-woof." Some of his other noises are nonsense syllables, but my heart melts every time I hear him say "Daddy" or "Dada" and he gives me that adorable toddler's toothy smile -- his mommy's smile.
He busies himself by making scattered piles of mulch, all the while looking back at me, as if he's making sure that I'm as proud of his work as he is. At one point he sets down a large piece of mulch at the top of a pile and looks up to me, squeals from a huge smile and claps his hands. He trots back and forth around the landscaping bricks, playing some new game that only he understands -- and it's only important that he understands it, not that I do. He then starts climbing up the front step only to turn around again and step off because he now knows how to do it without falling down and he wants to show off.
Brody now goes about picking more and more of the stalks from the flowers... Only the green stalks, though, and not the dead ones. I wish he knew the difference so that he could help with the gardening. He casts the stalks down into a new green pile -- he won't mix the green stalks with the brown mulch -- and then stops to stare at it. Maybe he's unhappy with his creation, or maybe he's just having fun being random and chaotic, but he then sweeps his pile with his hands and scatters green and brown all over the gray concrete sidewalk.
He's so full of smiles and giggles that it breaks my heart to take him inside, but it's getting cold and he's refusing to put on his sweatshirt. I ask Brody if he wants to go inside. Nope! What do you want for dinner? Nope! (It wasn't even a question that warranted a "yes" or "no" answer.) Just the same, he only wants to play around outside. He cries and whimpers as I carry him in, but at my mention of Mickey Mouse, he forgets all about his woes. Our biggest concern now is which Mickey Mouse cartoon we'll watch tonight.
Soon, we'll go up to the kitchen to get something "yummy" to eat and then we'll chill in the basement. I'm just amazed at how things have changed so quickly -- how "guys night" has evolved over the years. It certainly wasn't an overnight change, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Once upon a time, it was all about spending the night at a buddy's house as we played video games, munched on Doritos, and drowned ourselves in Mountain Dew (because it was cool and it allowed us the normally taboo caffeine high, which exceeded that of normal caffeinated drinks). Later, "guys night" became a gathering at some's apartment as we played darts or pool, noshed on cheese fries, and guzzled beer. Now, "guys night" has become one of my favorite things to do with a pretty cool little dude: we spend the evening playing with mulch or flowers or plant stalks in the flower bed, chowing down on fish sticks, and drinking Diet Mountain Dew (me) and milk (Brody).
My, how things have changed!
"Guys night" has gone from involving good buddies, "bestest" friends, drinking buddies, and "bros" to my best little buddy, Brody.
Tonight, Emily is enjoying a much-deserved evening out with a good friend, and I'm pretty well entertained just watching as Brody stomps around making myriad odd noises. Every note from his mouth is full of glee, but from time to time these noises have a trace of frustration, most likely due to his inability to grasp the concepts of nature at this point. When he sees Billy the dog pressing his nose against the window, he barks back at him; he doesn't go up to the window and interact, he just goes about his business and utters, "woof-woof-woof." Some of his other noises are nonsense syllables, but my heart melts every time I hear him say "Daddy" or "Dada" and he gives me that adorable toddler's toothy smile -- his mommy's smile.
He busies himself by making scattered piles of mulch, all the while looking back at me, as if he's making sure that I'm as proud of his work as he is. At one point he sets down a large piece of mulch at the top of a pile and looks up to me, squeals from a huge smile and claps his hands. He trots back and forth around the landscaping bricks, playing some new game that only he understands -- and it's only important that he understands it, not that I do. He then starts climbing up the front step only to turn around again and step off because he now knows how to do it without falling down and he wants to show off.
Brody now goes about picking more and more of the stalks from the flowers... Only the green stalks, though, and not the dead ones. I wish he knew the difference so that he could help with the gardening. He casts the stalks down into a new green pile -- he won't mix the green stalks with the brown mulch -- and then stops to stare at it. Maybe he's unhappy with his creation, or maybe he's just having fun being random and chaotic, but he then sweeps his pile with his hands and scatters green and brown all over the gray concrete sidewalk.
He's so full of smiles and giggles that it breaks my heart to take him inside, but it's getting cold and he's refusing to put on his sweatshirt. I ask Brody if he wants to go inside. Nope! What do you want for dinner? Nope! (It wasn't even a question that warranted a "yes" or "no" answer.) Just the same, he only wants to play around outside. He cries and whimpers as I carry him in, but at my mention of Mickey Mouse, he forgets all about his woes. Our biggest concern now is which Mickey Mouse cartoon we'll watch tonight.
Soon, we'll go up to the kitchen to get something "yummy" to eat and then we'll chill in the basement. I'm just amazed at how things have changed so quickly -- how "guys night" has evolved over the years. It certainly wasn't an overnight change, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Standing in Cold Branson Water
I close my eyes and listen to everything happening around me. The water rushes past and its roar can be heard above all else as it cascades down into the main channel. Because of the higher elevation of Branson, Missouri, my ears are still clogged and popping periodically, so it really is all I can hear. I open my eyes to see that down in the water below, the rainbow trout are swimming all around me no browns are visible, just rainbows. An older man wades into the water a dozen feet from me, but I can't hear his splashing; I only catch the movement out of the corner of my eye. Out here, there's an aroma of purity in the air. There's no stagnation from standing pools, nor is there any trace of dead fish, fish food, or stink bait. Little beads of mist are all around me as I take in great breaths of that fresh air.
The setting seems to be just right. Even though there's a little bit of a crowd and it looks like more will be joining us as the day goes on, I feel great about the upcoming fishing. The atmosphere is perfect, but for some reason I start back up with my fishing doubts.
I think that I have all the necessary gear. I have the waders, the vest, the forceps, the clippers, the fly boxes, the angler's bag, the reel case, the Ketchum release tool, the polarized sun glasses, the net, dry flies, wet flies, terrestrials, etc. Pretty much the only thing I still "need" is a boat of my own. The waders do just fine for now. I'm decked out in all my gear; anything I need is in one of the myriad vest pockets and the rest is stowed in my bag. I look like a pro, like I belong out there, yet I feel slightly off kilter.
Then it dawns on me that I have no clue what I'm doing out there on the water. I feel like it's my first time fly fishing again, waiting for Dr. Gene Decker to walk by and make some recycled joke about my technique. "I've never seen someone catch a fish with their fly in the air like that!" "Are you trying to whip the trout to death?" "There you go, catch some brush on the bank, take it home and eat it while the rest of us catch some fish."
As I glance up and down the channel, I see what looks like scores of veterans, young and old, who appear to know what they're doing. Teenagers and twenty somethings, guys my dad's age and fellows who must have been fly fishing since before my dad was born.
I've got a gray scud tied on, just like Darryl, a family friend, had instructed me. Having just switched from a buckskin worm that had done me no good, I'm feeling even more doubt. I wade out a little bit, creating a new eddy around me the trout are supposed to flock to the new structure in the water wait for a moment, and then back out. I'd been told to dip my line, let it float, keep my sights on the strike indicator, and then set the hook at the slightest disturbance. The only disturbance I feel, however, is my presence in this cluster of easy fishing.
It's such a beautiful scene. Fog covers the river, and mist rises up from the water. In the background all I can hear is the rushing of water as it cascades down into the river.
All it seems I can do is just sit there, pretending to know what the heck is going on and pretending to know what I'm doing. I stop to look out of the corner of my eye and observe the others. There's a little outlet coming from the hatchery into the bigger river, and scores of trout have gathered around the structure. Lots of anglers have gathered there, too. They each have no more than twelve feet of line out, including their leaders, dipping their flies in the water right where outlet meets river. Every once in a while, someone snags a trout, but usually it's nothing worth keeping, though. It looks so easy, like shooting fish in a barrel.
This type of fishing just doesn't seem right to me. It's not that the others are doing anything wrong; it's just not what I think of when I imagine fly fishing! Where is that artful strategy and technique of fly fishing that I've been reading about in books and watching in videos? I'd been hoping to see artists at work with their perfect casts set to tempos in the metronomes of their minds. What I see is too much emphasis on catching. It seems that the day's worth will be measured by how many fish have been duped into taking easy flies, and not on casting, understanding the fish, and careful observation. It's easy pickings for the anglers. They strap on their waders in the parking lot, tromp down to the riverbank, carefully walk in, and go to work. The first few people have scads of luck, but the rest are just standing by, waiting for someone to move on so they can take their shots.
Across the channel, however, I see something that gives me hope, something that redeems the fly fishermen in my mind. It looks like a real fly fisherman out in the waters off an island. I wondered how he got out there on that island with the units running from the dam and the water flowing rapidly. He casts, back casts, shooting the line forward. The current catches his fly as he makes a quick mend. Down the channel it goes. He picks up his line and casts it back up the water. No one is around him no one sight fishing or looking for the easy catch. I watch for five minutes and he's caught nothing. It doesn't matter. He's in the open, he's casting. It's so peaceful that it makes me want to stomp on across the channel and to go out there, too. Forget the current and the depth of the channel I want to be away from the rest of this fishing and to join a true artist.
You have to understand something about me. I've got this natural tendency to glamorize and romanticize things in my life. I wouldn't say it's a problem, but sometimes I build up these prejudices in my mind; prejudices created from reading books and magazines, watching movies, and plain old daydreaming. Because of a lack of exposure to what fly fishing really is, I have all of these fancies flittering about in my head and they are much different from the reality I'm watching in front of me.
So, what is there to do about it? Hopefully I will be able to go back and fish these waters. Someday soon, I hope to make a trip to the wilderness, having to hike miles to a naturally stocked stream, like Ernest Hemingway does in "The Big Two Hearted River" or in The Sun Also Rises.
Maybe someday in the future I'll be able to get out to the Appalachian Trail, to hike it through, like my father has done. I'd carry a box of flies, a rod and reel, and some minor tools on my pack. Each state I entered, I'd be sure to buy a fishing license and whatever tags were required by law. My "trail name" (moniker used while thru hiking to identify who you are) would have something to do with fishing.
I've found that fly fishing brings me peace, isolation, concentration, and repetition many of the same things I love about the sport wrestling. However, it seems that I can gain these things from fishing without the bloodshed, pain, and need for a partner. It's the therapy I sometimes need to help me exorcise ghosts. Could regular fishing provide these things, too? Who knows?
I've been looking forward to this vacation for months now, allowing myself to build up great expectations for lots of good fishing while down in Branson. It dawns upon me later in the trip that it's not the catching of fish that I've been looking forward to; it's the taste of life, the refreshing slice of life that I'll be getting out there.
The setting seems to be just right. Even though there's a little bit of a crowd and it looks like more will be joining us as the day goes on, I feel great about the upcoming fishing. The atmosphere is perfect, but for some reason I start back up with my fishing doubts.
I think that I have all the necessary gear. I have the waders, the vest, the forceps, the clippers, the fly boxes, the angler's bag, the reel case, the Ketchum release tool, the polarized sun glasses, the net, dry flies, wet flies, terrestrials, etc. Pretty much the only thing I still "need" is a boat of my own. The waders do just fine for now. I'm decked out in all my gear; anything I need is in one of the myriad vest pockets and the rest is stowed in my bag. I look like a pro, like I belong out there, yet I feel slightly off kilter.
Then it dawns on me that I have no clue what I'm doing out there on the water. I feel like it's my first time fly fishing again, waiting for Dr. Gene Decker to walk by and make some recycled joke about my technique. "I've never seen someone catch a fish with their fly in the air like that!" "Are you trying to whip the trout to death?" "There you go, catch some brush on the bank, take it home and eat it while the rest of us catch some fish."
As I glance up and down the channel, I see what looks like scores of veterans, young and old, who appear to know what they're doing. Teenagers and twenty somethings, guys my dad's age and fellows who must have been fly fishing since before my dad was born.
I've got a gray scud tied on, just like Darryl, a family friend, had instructed me. Having just switched from a buckskin worm that had done me no good, I'm feeling even more doubt. I wade out a little bit, creating a new eddy around me the trout are supposed to flock to the new structure in the water wait for a moment, and then back out. I'd been told to dip my line, let it float, keep my sights on the strike indicator, and then set the hook at the slightest disturbance. The only disturbance I feel, however, is my presence in this cluster of easy fishing.
It's such a beautiful scene. Fog covers the river, and mist rises up from the water. In the background all I can hear is the rushing of water as it cascades down into the river.
All it seems I can do is just sit there, pretending to know what the heck is going on and pretending to know what I'm doing. I stop to look out of the corner of my eye and observe the others. There's a little outlet coming from the hatchery into the bigger river, and scores of trout have gathered around the structure. Lots of anglers have gathered there, too. They each have no more than twelve feet of line out, including their leaders, dipping their flies in the water right where outlet meets river. Every once in a while, someone snags a trout, but usually it's nothing worth keeping, though. It looks so easy, like shooting fish in a barrel.
This type of fishing just doesn't seem right to me. It's not that the others are doing anything wrong; it's just not what I think of when I imagine fly fishing! Where is that artful strategy and technique of fly fishing that I've been reading about in books and watching in videos? I'd been hoping to see artists at work with their perfect casts set to tempos in the metronomes of their minds. What I see is too much emphasis on catching. It seems that the day's worth will be measured by how many fish have been duped into taking easy flies, and not on casting, understanding the fish, and careful observation. It's easy pickings for the anglers. They strap on their waders in the parking lot, tromp down to the riverbank, carefully walk in, and go to work. The first few people have scads of luck, but the rest are just standing by, waiting for someone to move on so they can take their shots.
Across the channel, however, I see something that gives me hope, something that redeems the fly fishermen in my mind. It looks like a real fly fisherman out in the waters off an island. I wondered how he got out there on that island with the units running from the dam and the water flowing rapidly. He casts, back casts, shooting the line forward. The current catches his fly as he makes a quick mend. Down the channel it goes. He picks up his line and casts it back up the water. No one is around him no one sight fishing or looking for the easy catch. I watch for five minutes and he's caught nothing. It doesn't matter. He's in the open, he's casting. It's so peaceful that it makes me want to stomp on across the channel and to go out there, too. Forget the current and the depth of the channel I want to be away from the rest of this fishing and to join a true artist.
You have to understand something about me. I've got this natural tendency to glamorize and romanticize things in my life. I wouldn't say it's a problem, but sometimes I build up these prejudices in my mind; prejudices created from reading books and magazines, watching movies, and plain old daydreaming. Because of a lack of exposure to what fly fishing really is, I have all of these fancies flittering about in my head and they are much different from the reality I'm watching in front of me.
So, what is there to do about it? Hopefully I will be able to go back and fish these waters. Someday soon, I hope to make a trip to the wilderness, having to hike miles to a naturally stocked stream, like Ernest Hemingway does in "The Big Two Hearted River" or in The Sun Also Rises.
Maybe someday in the future I'll be able to get out to the Appalachian Trail, to hike it through, like my father has done. I'd carry a box of flies, a rod and reel, and some minor tools on my pack. Each state I entered, I'd be sure to buy a fishing license and whatever tags were required by law. My "trail name" (moniker used while thru hiking to identify who you are) would have something to do with fishing.
I've found that fly fishing brings me peace, isolation, concentration, and repetition many of the same things I love about the sport wrestling. However, it seems that I can gain these things from fishing without the bloodshed, pain, and need for a partner. It's the therapy I sometimes need to help me exorcise ghosts. Could regular fishing provide these things, too? Who knows?
I've been looking forward to this vacation for months now, allowing myself to build up great expectations for lots of good fishing while down in Branson. It dawns upon me later in the trip that it's not the catching of fish that I've been looking forward to; it's the taste of life, the refreshing slice of life that I'll be getting out there.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Caves, Brothers, and Brick Walls
The story never ends when the curtain falls, when the credits roll, or when the final page is turned. This is something I often think about with my favorite stories, whether it's a film that especially moved me or a book that kept me entranced from cover to cover. Whatever happens after that final scene or page, however, we can only trust to our imaginations.
A few weeks ago in church, our pastor asked us to consider the story of the Prodigal Son from the book of Luke. It ends with the father rebuking his elder son for being upset at the celebration for the younger son's return. The father urges him to embrace his brother because he was once dead to them but now is alive. The question I have is, did the older brother ultimately accept his father's decision? Whatever jealousies or grudges remained after that point, we don't know; we can only wonder. Pastor asked us, what if the prodigal son had met his older brother on the road home?
The older brother erred in that he was being judgmental; the younger brother had sloughed off responsibility, loyalty, and sacrifice in order to live a hedonistic lifestyle. When the money ran out, and along with it the fickle friends that come with money, he had nowhere to go but home. He truly had been lost and now is found, but the older brother judges him for his choices. The father asks him not to question his warm welcome of the prodigal son, but to accept that his younger brother has returned and is safe. Too many Christians act like the older brother in this parable. They judge. Some people make their mistakes and lead lives that are apart from Christ. Who are we to question them when they finally do find Christ? The important thing is that they have found Christ.
Many people get their only exposure to Christ when they spend a small part of their Sundays in church. What good does it do for them to enter hostile territory? If they want into the sanctuary to face a crowd of people who feel superior to them, it truly becomes hostile territory. I know how I feel when I’ve missed church for a few weeks; I feel nervous, guilty that I hadn’t been there. I know that I won’t be judged by my church family -- because they are my family and they know me. We wouldn’t want to scare away new members, new brothers and sisters, by judging them on their attendance.
As a church, it should be our goal to help these people find Christ outside of church. Pastor talked about various people with their spiritual gifts. He quoted the famous Southern Baptist leader Adrian Rogers: "Spiritual gifts are not toys but tools, not for your enjoyment but for your employment." This is a comment that brought me to a point where I was sitting in church remembering a certain piece of literature from my college days.
When I think about the story of the Prodigal Son and about the idea of spiritual gifts, my mind immediately darts to the beginning of Book VII of Plato's The Republic ‑‑ the famous "Allegory of the Cave." I remember reading about the men and women who live in the cave, the few who escape and see the true forms of reality, and the idea of the philosopher king. Something has to occur in order for the prisoners to escape the cave, yet we rarely know what that thing actually is. Once Plato’s philosopher king does escape the cave, where does the story go from there? Plato tells us how he is obligated to return, but one could easily understand him remaining outside to bask in the sunlight. In Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Guy Montag says, "Maybe books can get us half out of the cave." It is books in Bradbury’s fictional world and it is the love of Christ in our world that bring us into the light of salvation. There’s now the question of who chooses to answer the calling of Christ and then there’s the question of when they should answer it. Some people have embraced Christ from an early age, while others have do so in their later years, and even still others have found Him, rejected Him, and then rediscovered him. People leave the cave at a young age, and they leave at an old age. They leave the cave, return half-way, leave again, and engage in a yo-yo cave experience.
What if one person spends his whole life making sacrifices so that he may lead a Christian life while another person leads a life of sin only to find Christ much later than the first one found Him? Would it not be fair? Well, as my old Pappy used to say, “Life’s not fair.” I don’t think that Christ was ever about fairness. All too often, fairness involves blanket considerations for a mass of people. Fairness negates the worth of the individual. When love is involved, rarely should fairness come into play. It's not up to us to make judgment on those who have chosen to follow Him. The important thing is that they have found Christ in their lives.
The strength of prayer and the dedication to Christ contains a certain parallel to things I’ve seen during wrestling practice. A regular drill I employ at practice is having the wrestlers do push‑ups to failure. I don’t count for them, it’s not on my call that they go up or down, and I don’t walk around making them re-do poorly executed push-ups. Some kids do ten push‑ups over the span of a minute while others do push‑ups for ten minutes straight. Some yell and grunt loudly, while others can only be heard making the slightest noises as they exhale or inhale sharply. As a coach, could I possibly compare little Johnny with little Jimmy? No, I cannot, but things do balance out in the long run. One boy may be strong enough to do push‑ups galore while another may be swift and well-conditioned and thereby excel at running sprints. The dedicated athlete will recognize where he is strong and capitalize on it. He will also work to improve on his weaknesses. The dedicated Christian will do likewise. He will recognize his weaknesses and seek to improve them while at the same time he will seek to make use of his strengths.
James 3:6 reads, "The tongue is also a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body." A snarky or judgmental comment can breed a host of hateful or hurt feelings. For a coach to compare two athletes, he would only be setting the boys up for failure. He wouldn’t be looking at the bigger picture, nor would he be respecting the athletes as individuals with merit. For a Christian to judge a fellow Christian is to start a fire with his tongue. It begets a fire that consumes and chars and melts away the hope and love that Christ has given us. The older brother could have drastically changed things had he encountered his younger brother on the road home. Had he been able to speak freely, and without censure from the father, who knows what would have happened with the Prodigal Son. The philosopher king of Plato's allegory could have failed miserably by remaining out in the sun, basking in all of the reality he had previously been denied, but it was his moral duty to re-enter the cave and “partake of [the prisoners’] labors and honors, whether they are worth having or not”. Essentially, he needs to re‑enter the cave to employ, rather than enjoy, his spiritual gifts.
Pastor illustrated his point by talking about Christians being like bricks. A brick by itself can be kicked around; a stack of bricks can be knocked over; a wall of bricks sealed with mortar is strong. But what provides this mortar? It could be the father’s joy at seeing his once-lost son returned, or it could be the moral obligation of the philosopher king to return to his brethren, or it could simply be the love and trust we put into one another.
A few weeks ago in church, our pastor asked us to consider the story of the Prodigal Son from the book of Luke. It ends with the father rebuking his elder son for being upset at the celebration for the younger son's return. The father urges him to embrace his brother because he was once dead to them but now is alive. The question I have is, did the older brother ultimately accept his father's decision? Whatever jealousies or grudges remained after that point, we don't know; we can only wonder. Pastor asked us, what if the prodigal son had met his older brother on the road home?
The older brother erred in that he was being judgmental; the younger brother had sloughed off responsibility, loyalty, and sacrifice in order to live a hedonistic lifestyle. When the money ran out, and along with it the fickle friends that come with money, he had nowhere to go but home. He truly had been lost and now is found, but the older brother judges him for his choices. The father asks him not to question his warm welcome of the prodigal son, but to accept that his younger brother has returned and is safe. Too many Christians act like the older brother in this parable. They judge. Some people make their mistakes and lead lives that are apart from Christ. Who are we to question them when they finally do find Christ? The important thing is that they have found Christ.
Many people get their only exposure to Christ when they spend a small part of their Sundays in church. What good does it do for them to enter hostile territory? If they want into the sanctuary to face a crowd of people who feel superior to them, it truly becomes hostile territory. I know how I feel when I’ve missed church for a few weeks; I feel nervous, guilty that I hadn’t been there. I know that I won’t be judged by my church family -- because they are my family and they know me. We wouldn’t want to scare away new members, new brothers and sisters, by judging them on their attendance.
As a church, it should be our goal to help these people find Christ outside of church. Pastor talked about various people with their spiritual gifts. He quoted the famous Southern Baptist leader Adrian Rogers: "Spiritual gifts are not toys but tools, not for your enjoyment but for your employment." This is a comment that brought me to a point where I was sitting in church remembering a certain piece of literature from my college days.
When I think about the story of the Prodigal Son and about the idea of spiritual gifts, my mind immediately darts to the beginning of Book VII of Plato's The Republic ‑‑ the famous "Allegory of the Cave." I remember reading about the men and women who live in the cave, the few who escape and see the true forms of reality, and the idea of the philosopher king. Something has to occur in order for the prisoners to escape the cave, yet we rarely know what that thing actually is. Once Plato’s philosopher king does escape the cave, where does the story go from there? Plato tells us how he is obligated to return, but one could easily understand him remaining outside to bask in the sunlight. In Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Guy Montag says, "Maybe books can get us half out of the cave." It is books in Bradbury’s fictional world and it is the love of Christ in our world that bring us into the light of salvation. There’s now the question of who chooses to answer the calling of Christ and then there’s the question of when they should answer it. Some people have embraced Christ from an early age, while others have do so in their later years, and even still others have found Him, rejected Him, and then rediscovered him. People leave the cave at a young age, and they leave at an old age. They leave the cave, return half-way, leave again, and engage in a yo-yo cave experience.
What if one person spends his whole life making sacrifices so that he may lead a Christian life while another person leads a life of sin only to find Christ much later than the first one found Him? Would it not be fair? Well, as my old Pappy used to say, “Life’s not fair.” I don’t think that Christ was ever about fairness. All too often, fairness involves blanket considerations for a mass of people. Fairness negates the worth of the individual. When love is involved, rarely should fairness come into play. It's not up to us to make judgment on those who have chosen to follow Him. The important thing is that they have found Christ in their lives.
The strength of prayer and the dedication to Christ contains a certain parallel to things I’ve seen during wrestling practice. A regular drill I employ at practice is having the wrestlers do push‑ups to failure. I don’t count for them, it’s not on my call that they go up or down, and I don’t walk around making them re-do poorly executed push-ups. Some kids do ten push‑ups over the span of a minute while others do push‑ups for ten minutes straight. Some yell and grunt loudly, while others can only be heard making the slightest noises as they exhale or inhale sharply. As a coach, could I possibly compare little Johnny with little Jimmy? No, I cannot, but things do balance out in the long run. One boy may be strong enough to do push‑ups galore while another may be swift and well-conditioned and thereby excel at running sprints. The dedicated athlete will recognize where he is strong and capitalize on it. He will also work to improve on his weaknesses. The dedicated Christian will do likewise. He will recognize his weaknesses and seek to improve them while at the same time he will seek to make use of his strengths.
James 3:6 reads, "The tongue is also a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body." A snarky or judgmental comment can breed a host of hateful or hurt feelings. For a coach to compare two athletes, he would only be setting the boys up for failure. He wouldn’t be looking at the bigger picture, nor would he be respecting the athletes as individuals with merit. For a Christian to judge a fellow Christian is to start a fire with his tongue. It begets a fire that consumes and chars and melts away the hope and love that Christ has given us. The older brother could have drastically changed things had he encountered his younger brother on the road home. Had he been able to speak freely, and without censure from the father, who knows what would have happened with the Prodigal Son. The philosopher king of Plato's allegory could have failed miserably by remaining out in the sun, basking in all of the reality he had previously been denied, but it was his moral duty to re-enter the cave and “partake of [the prisoners’] labors and honors, whether they are worth having or not”. Essentially, he needs to re‑enter the cave to employ, rather than enjoy, his spiritual gifts.
Pastor illustrated his point by talking about Christians being like bricks. A brick by itself can be kicked around; a stack of bricks can be knocked over; a wall of bricks sealed with mortar is strong. But what provides this mortar? It could be the father’s joy at seeing his once-lost son returned, or it could be the moral obligation of the philosopher king to return to his brethren, or it could simply be the love and trust we put into one another.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Driving Wisdom
Last week, Brody learned a new dance at day care the "car dance." From what I can tell through observing an 18 month old trying to do any specific kind of dance, the moves consist mainly of him holding his hands out in front as if he were gripping a steering wheel and then turning the wheel back and forth. It is pretty cute when he busts out the car dance at random moments rarely on request, however. In fact, he'll pretend to drive almost everything; any inanimate object that can fit in his hands becomes a steering wheel. Although his mom and I are hoping more for a career in an applied science, this kid may have a future in one form or another of driving.
Unfortunately, watching Brody do his car dance forces me think about the distant future when he'll actually be driving a car. I can't imagine the changes that a span of 14 years will bring, but I do know that I'm both looking forward to and dreading the chance to teach him how to drive. It'll be a great father son moment, but then again, how qualified would I be to give him lessons on how to be a good driver?
I still vividly remember the primary source of most of my driving wisdom: my own father. Whereas there were distinct times that his driving scared the daylights out of me (two in particular stand out in my mind: cruising swiftly down steep hills around Lake Shawnee and getting lost in downtown Philadelphia; both instances resulting from geography and terrain, not necessarily his skills), he is perhaps the best driver I know. He had lots of good advice; wisdom that goes far beyond what I'd learned in Driver Ed in high school. Keep yourself from having tunnel vision and have your head on a swivel. Don't drive in the grooves of the road; keep your wheels where there's the best traction. Use your turn signals, even when you don't think there's anyone around.
I had a decent Driver Ed teacher in school, but he couldn't match the effectiveness of my dad's lessons. So now I wonder: what would make me a qualified teacher for Brody whenever his car dance evolves to the advanced stage of actually driving an automobile?
Well, I do drive a lot. Almost 3 hours a day to and from school. I drive when my family goes somewhere. I drive my friends when we go out. I drive when it's a school vehicle other than a bus.
I haven't had the extensive training or experience that my dad has had, so I'm not an expert on what a good driver is. But I have had the opportunity to think about what makes a poor driver. Here are some random thoughts about driving that have entered my head while driving the last week and a half. Don't worry, I did not write them down while I was driving, nor did I type them in my phone as text messages. These are some of the points that I will be sure not to make with Brody:
* Oversleeping and / or running late entitles you to forego any traffic laws that prevent you from arriving at your destination
* Seeing that someone is about to enter the roundabout ahead of you means that you should speed up and tailgate that person to punish them for daring to get in your way
* It's smarter to speed when passing through small towns, where there are always speed traps, than it is to speed on the highway out in the country, where there are significantly fewer speed traps.\
* Even if you cannot multi task very well, it is all right for you to talk on your cell phone while driving. It is clearly evident which of the two tasks is more important to you and which will get less concentration from you, but these phone calls surely must be very important
* Although flicking a cigarette out the window is littering, if you're driving a hybrid and/or have a "go green" bumper sticker, it definitely makes up for your pollution (both the cigarette butt and the exhaled smoke)
* Contrary to the popular belief that the only people who have a right to park wherever they want are firemen, police officers, ambulance drivers, and whoever is dropping a woman in labor off at the hospital, it is also permissible for you to park half in the handicap stall and half in the loading area whenever you're in a hurry, simply because you're special
* If the car in front of you arrives at a stop sign and is waiting for a gap in traffic so that they can turn left, and you pull up right behind them and want to turn right, it's perfectly fine for you to pull forward next to the car, block their view of oncoming traffic, and make your turn (especially if the car is a little coupe and you're driving a big pickup truck)
* Turn signals must be for the weak, submissive, and or anal-retentive. If you don't feel like you need to use them, then don't worry about it
* If you're driving a company car and/or you're on the clock, drive as slowly as you want to drive. Your time is much more valuable than ours
* The inside lane on the highway isn't just for passing, just as the outside lane isn't just for slower traffic. Drive in whichever lane you want; anyone who wants to pass you can pick the other lane
* Stop signs tend to be more recommendation than requirement, especially if someone is coming down the road and you don't want to take a risk that you might get stuck behind them
* High beams really aren't that bright for the cars in oncoming traffic. If cars flash their lights to let you know that your highs are still on, ignore their signal
* The middle finger is an appropriate reaction gesture to anyone who angers you while they are sharing the road with you. Obscene language is acceptable, too, even when children are present
* When you see a police officer or sheriff's deputy, you should slam on your brakes, even if you're already going under the speed limit. You may be violating one of the obscure traffic laws that only the keenest eye of the law can see
* Slippery roads, thick fog, or precipitation of any kind means that you should a) drive as carelessly as you normally do or b) drive as though it's your first time facing adverse conditions (a steady speed of well under what is truly safe)
I'm not a perfect driver, and while my wife does point this out (sometimes she makes a good point...), she also trusts me to drive whenever we're going somewhere together. My track record isn't that bad, with no serious traffic violations or accidents under my belt, so maybe I do have what it takes to give Brody some good tips on driving. With my two left feet and no sense of rhythm, it would definitely be better for the boy for me to save the dancing tips and focus more of the driving aspects. I think I could handle helping him with the car dance, but I also think I'll limit myself to an area where I've got some talent.
Unfortunately, watching Brody do his car dance forces me think about the distant future when he'll actually be driving a car. I can't imagine the changes that a span of 14 years will bring, but I do know that I'm both looking forward to and dreading the chance to teach him how to drive. It'll be a great father son moment, but then again, how qualified would I be to give him lessons on how to be a good driver?
I still vividly remember the primary source of most of my driving wisdom: my own father. Whereas there were distinct times that his driving scared the daylights out of me (two in particular stand out in my mind: cruising swiftly down steep hills around Lake Shawnee and getting lost in downtown Philadelphia; both instances resulting from geography and terrain, not necessarily his skills), he is perhaps the best driver I know. He had lots of good advice; wisdom that goes far beyond what I'd learned in Driver Ed in high school. Keep yourself from having tunnel vision and have your head on a swivel. Don't drive in the grooves of the road; keep your wheels where there's the best traction. Use your turn signals, even when you don't think there's anyone around.
I had a decent Driver Ed teacher in school, but he couldn't match the effectiveness of my dad's lessons. So now I wonder: what would make me a qualified teacher for Brody whenever his car dance evolves to the advanced stage of actually driving an automobile?
Well, I do drive a lot. Almost 3 hours a day to and from school. I drive when my family goes somewhere. I drive my friends when we go out. I drive when it's a school vehicle other than a bus.
I haven't had the extensive training or experience that my dad has had, so I'm not an expert on what a good driver is. But I have had the opportunity to think about what makes a poor driver. Here are some random thoughts about driving that have entered my head while driving the last week and a half. Don't worry, I did not write them down while I was driving, nor did I type them in my phone as text messages. These are some of the points that I will be sure not to make with Brody:
* Oversleeping and / or running late entitles you to forego any traffic laws that prevent you from arriving at your destination
* Seeing that someone is about to enter the roundabout ahead of you means that you should speed up and tailgate that person to punish them for daring to get in your way
* It's smarter to speed when passing through small towns, where there are always speed traps, than it is to speed on the highway out in the country, where there are significantly fewer speed traps.\
* Even if you cannot multi task very well, it is all right for you to talk on your cell phone while driving. It is clearly evident which of the two tasks is more important to you and which will get less concentration from you, but these phone calls surely must be very important
* Although flicking a cigarette out the window is littering, if you're driving a hybrid and/or have a "go green" bumper sticker, it definitely makes up for your pollution (both the cigarette butt and the exhaled smoke)
* Contrary to the popular belief that the only people who have a right to park wherever they want are firemen, police officers, ambulance drivers, and whoever is dropping a woman in labor off at the hospital, it is also permissible for you to park half in the handicap stall and half in the loading area whenever you're in a hurry, simply because you're special
* If the car in front of you arrives at a stop sign and is waiting for a gap in traffic so that they can turn left, and you pull up right behind them and want to turn right, it's perfectly fine for you to pull forward next to the car, block their view of oncoming traffic, and make your turn (especially if the car is a little coupe and you're driving a big pickup truck)
* Turn signals must be for the weak, submissive, and or anal-retentive. If you don't feel like you need to use them, then don't worry about it
* If you're driving a company car and/or you're on the clock, drive as slowly as you want to drive. Your time is much more valuable than ours
* The inside lane on the highway isn't just for passing, just as the outside lane isn't just for slower traffic. Drive in whichever lane you want; anyone who wants to pass you can pick the other lane
* Stop signs tend to be more recommendation than requirement, especially if someone is coming down the road and you don't want to take a risk that you might get stuck behind them
* High beams really aren't that bright for the cars in oncoming traffic. If cars flash their lights to let you know that your highs are still on, ignore their signal
* The middle finger is an appropriate reaction gesture to anyone who angers you while they are sharing the road with you. Obscene language is acceptable, too, even when children are present
* When you see a police officer or sheriff's deputy, you should slam on your brakes, even if you're already going under the speed limit. You may be violating one of the obscure traffic laws that only the keenest eye of the law can see
* Slippery roads, thick fog, or precipitation of any kind means that you should a) drive as carelessly as you normally do or b) drive as though it's your first time facing adverse conditions (a steady speed of well under what is truly safe)
I'm not a perfect driver, and while my wife does point this out (sometimes she makes a good point...), she also trusts me to drive whenever we're going somewhere together. My track record isn't that bad, with no serious traffic violations or accidents under my belt, so maybe I do have what it takes to give Brody some good tips on driving. With my two left feet and no sense of rhythm, it would definitely be better for the boy for me to save the dancing tips and focus more of the driving aspects. I think I could handle helping him with the car dance, but I also think I'll limit myself to an area where I've got some talent.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Whatever Happened to the Underdog?
When you think of Captain America, do you imagine the muscular hero in blue tights, carrying a red-and-white shield, or do you think about the Captain America who rode his motorcycle to New Orleans, accompanied by his friend Billy as they were looking for freedom and “the answers”? Is it the comic book superhero who was born of our country’s need to unite against common enemies, or is it the rebellious counter-culture anti-hero born of a generation of resentment and disillusionment? The baby boomers most likely rooted for the man with the shield. The Generation X-ers possibly rooted for the drug runner on the bike. Much of my generation and the ones to follow probably find themselves shaking their heads, not knowing either one of them, assuming that “Captain America” must be some melodramatically patriotic, militaristic, über-masculine fanatic who serves as propaganda promoting the agendas of the government and special interests. They don’t want to hear about him, nor do they want to watch a film about him or read a book about him.
We once rooted for the Rudy Ruettigers of the world, but now it's the sort of characters that resemble the putz in the stands wearing a barrel, gaudy face-paint, and a rainbow colored wig. Maybe it’s a dog mask he wears. Whatever the case, our attention strays from the players on the field toward the sensational spectacles in the stands. We’d rather watch fights erupt beyond the confines of pitch or field or court than watch a miraculous come-from-behind victory.
The classic idea of the underdog has given way to the motif of the big bad dog with the spiked collar, one menacing fang hanging out of the side of its mouth. The look of this big bad dog tells you that it’s likely to bite the hand that feeds him, that it runs around the neighborhood killing people's cats and knocking up the bitches. The underdog is a cliché anymore. It surely is a cliché that doesn’t seem to be possible, and films and books that present the underdog achieving something are branded as being optimistic propaganda, trite works of manure that bear no deeper or worthwhile meaning. The big bad dog is cool and alluring, while the underdog is despicable and repulsive.
When did we begin to resent the men and women who actually achieve success in our world? When someone wins, society refuses to allow them the right to bask in their well-earned glory. Everyone starts asking for a piece of the champion’s pie, or at least the government goes ahead and takes its fair share. We envy the riches, fame, and honor of these success stories; it’s not that we look at them with awe and a feeling of inspiration. We outright stare them down, green with envy and angry that God hasn’t blessed us with such fortune.
Whereas green used to be the color of hope and of promise, now it's just the color of envy. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Jay Gatsby once looked across the bay at a mysterious green light. My take on this scene was that he was infused with hope and motivation by this light. It was a true inspiration, not a deceptive ruse. Gatsby pursued his dream and fell short because his chosen form of the dream was virtually impossible. The students who read The Great Gatsby now come away with the modernist cynicism that the dream itself is impossible, that the green light is illusory and can never be reached by anyone. In the end, Gatsby is dead and Daisy is gone and it rings true that you can't repeat the past.
What about our past? What about the history of America, which is full of underdogs and heroes who overcame the odds to win? There has to be some merit to the allure of the United States that has given faith and hope to the millions who migrated here in pursuit of their dreams. Kingdoms of all kinds of industry have been built upon the blood, sweat, and tears of countless great men and women. Surely we can rediscover -- not necessarily repeat -- the glorious accomplishments of our forefathers. Yet, it seems that the popular viewpoint is that all of these success stories are either fake or criminal. The kingdoms are built around blood stained castles that have been erected on mountains of the bodies of the oppressed.
Here's the fallacious mindset that I've seen clearly conveyed through the attitudes of my generation: Let the rich suffer a greater tax burden. I deserve more, so with the blessing of the anointed one and his congress and their promises of change, I'll expect my share to come from the pockets of others. I want my satellite television, my wireless internet, my smart phone, my premium beer, my Abercrombie jeans, and my Starbucks, but don't expect me to be able to afford to go to the doctor when I'm sick. I've got to put gas in my SUV and get a $25 haircut every two weeks. The rich are just lazy anyway. They're only rich because someone handed it them. It's nepotism that they’re in their present positions, or at least they got their starts from old family money. They don't deserve it, and they owe a larger share to our society simply because they can afford it.
Enough with the sarcasm. There's no validity to the claim that the rich just got their money because of family inheritance or nepotism, or that they're lazy, or that they owe a larger chunk than us all just because they're rich.
I want to ask a favor keep the facts and statistics and articles to yourself. I'm no economist; I'm talking culture. One doesn't need to have a PhD to talk about his or her own culture. One only needs to be observant and give in to rationality, and not emotions. All over the place you can find articles that have been written to support whatever position you may have adopted. These articles preach to the choir; they’re overwrought with manipulated numbers, biased surveys, slanted language, and all sorts of logical fallacies. They sell papers and magazines or they bring traffic to websites. We forget that our news and information sources are not always as objective as we'd like them to be.
Does anyone remember that the risk is incredibly high for one to find success? For every success story for every Rudy there are a hundred tales of heartache, suffering, and loss. The pursuit of the American dream is guaranteed. No one ever said that we'd get fair officials, good sports as opponents, adequate training and preparation time, and optimal field conditions. We don't always have good coaches along the way, either. And sometimes the officials are fair, our opponents respectable, prep time adequate, conditions optimal, and our coaches more than adequate and we still fall short. We become statistics, one of the hundred tales of woe instead of the heroic saga we all want.
As a culture, we seem to want personal glory, and we quite plainly demand pleasure. We stand up and fight for "justice." To fight for justice so that the underdog may see a ray of light and hope is a noble act in itself. However, the very tenet of justice crumbles when one man is expected to sacrifice more just because he can, just because some arbitrary consensus believes that his success stands in the way of the underdog's hope, even when that success is far removed from the underdog's plight.
We once rooted for the Rudy Ruettigers of the world, but now it's the sort of characters that resemble the putz in the stands wearing a barrel, gaudy face-paint, and a rainbow colored wig. Maybe it’s a dog mask he wears. Whatever the case, our attention strays from the players on the field toward the sensational spectacles in the stands. We’d rather watch fights erupt beyond the confines of pitch or field or court than watch a miraculous come-from-behind victory.
The classic idea of the underdog has given way to the motif of the big bad dog with the spiked collar, one menacing fang hanging out of the side of its mouth. The look of this big bad dog tells you that it’s likely to bite the hand that feeds him, that it runs around the neighborhood killing people's cats and knocking up the bitches. The underdog is a cliché anymore. It surely is a cliché that doesn’t seem to be possible, and films and books that present the underdog achieving something are branded as being optimistic propaganda, trite works of manure that bear no deeper or worthwhile meaning. The big bad dog is cool and alluring, while the underdog is despicable and repulsive.
When did we begin to resent the men and women who actually achieve success in our world? When someone wins, society refuses to allow them the right to bask in their well-earned glory. Everyone starts asking for a piece of the champion’s pie, or at least the government goes ahead and takes its fair share. We envy the riches, fame, and honor of these success stories; it’s not that we look at them with awe and a feeling of inspiration. We outright stare them down, green with envy and angry that God hasn’t blessed us with such fortune.
Whereas green used to be the color of hope and of promise, now it's just the color of envy. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Jay Gatsby once looked across the bay at a mysterious green light. My take on this scene was that he was infused with hope and motivation by this light. It was a true inspiration, not a deceptive ruse. Gatsby pursued his dream and fell short because his chosen form of the dream was virtually impossible. The students who read The Great Gatsby now come away with the modernist cynicism that the dream itself is impossible, that the green light is illusory and can never be reached by anyone. In the end, Gatsby is dead and Daisy is gone and it rings true that you can't repeat the past.
What about our past? What about the history of America, which is full of underdogs and heroes who overcame the odds to win? There has to be some merit to the allure of the United States that has given faith and hope to the millions who migrated here in pursuit of their dreams. Kingdoms of all kinds of industry have been built upon the blood, sweat, and tears of countless great men and women. Surely we can rediscover -- not necessarily repeat -- the glorious accomplishments of our forefathers. Yet, it seems that the popular viewpoint is that all of these success stories are either fake or criminal. The kingdoms are built around blood stained castles that have been erected on mountains of the bodies of the oppressed.
Here's the fallacious mindset that I've seen clearly conveyed through the attitudes of my generation: Let the rich suffer a greater tax burden. I deserve more, so with the blessing of the anointed one and his congress and their promises of change, I'll expect my share to come from the pockets of others. I want my satellite television, my wireless internet, my smart phone, my premium beer, my Abercrombie jeans, and my Starbucks, but don't expect me to be able to afford to go to the doctor when I'm sick. I've got to put gas in my SUV and get a $25 haircut every two weeks. The rich are just lazy anyway. They're only rich because someone handed it them. It's nepotism that they’re in their present positions, or at least they got their starts from old family money. They don't deserve it, and they owe a larger share to our society simply because they can afford it.
Enough with the sarcasm. There's no validity to the claim that the rich just got their money because of family inheritance or nepotism, or that they're lazy, or that they owe a larger chunk than us all just because they're rich.
I want to ask a favor keep the facts and statistics and articles to yourself. I'm no economist; I'm talking culture. One doesn't need to have a PhD to talk about his or her own culture. One only needs to be observant and give in to rationality, and not emotions. All over the place you can find articles that have been written to support whatever position you may have adopted. These articles preach to the choir; they’re overwrought with manipulated numbers, biased surveys, slanted language, and all sorts of logical fallacies. They sell papers and magazines or they bring traffic to websites. We forget that our news and information sources are not always as objective as we'd like them to be.
Does anyone remember that the risk is incredibly high for one to find success? For every success story for every Rudy there are a hundred tales of heartache, suffering, and loss. The pursuit of the American dream is guaranteed. No one ever said that we'd get fair officials, good sports as opponents, adequate training and preparation time, and optimal field conditions. We don't always have good coaches along the way, either. And sometimes the officials are fair, our opponents respectable, prep time adequate, conditions optimal, and our coaches more than adequate and we still fall short. We become statistics, one of the hundred tales of woe instead of the heroic saga we all want.
As a culture, we seem to want personal glory, and we quite plainly demand pleasure. We stand up and fight for "justice." To fight for justice so that the underdog may see a ray of light and hope is a noble act in itself. However, the very tenet of justice crumbles when one man is expected to sacrifice more just because he can, just because some arbitrary consensus believes that his success stands in the way of the underdog's hope, even when that success is far removed from the underdog's plight.
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