Now that's a Sabbath

I think I was 11, or maybe 14, when I first wanted to ride a unicycle. A couple years ago, Suvia called my bluff and got me one for Christmas. Sure enough, I still haven't yet learned to ride it -- I'm no longer 11 so I'm impatient, needing to see progress every few minutes; and there always seem to be more pressing duties (toddlers falling off chairs and the like). Occasionally, I'd dust the thing off, teeter on it for a few minutes, then waste a half hour reading unicycling tips or watching Kris Holm videos on YouTube.

But on a couple of recent Sunday afternoons, as the family napped, I tiptoed out back to try and teach an old dog new tricks. Of several pictures, this one least betrays how heavily I was leaning onto that wooden post, at first. After 45 minutes or so, I found that very gradually I was leaning less onto the post. There's still a long ways to go; but I'm hopeful that the following "unmethod" will bear fruit:

It will take about 15 hours to learn to ride a unicycle.

1. Get on the unicycle while leaning on a handrail or post.
2. Rock back and forth to get a feel for the thing.
3. Do 1. and 2. for about 3 hours, going farther bit by bit.

Congratulations! Only 10 more hours to go.

I have thought of some truly stirring analogies here, but this post is too small to contain them.

Mind those units!

We've never had this much garlic on hand. While shopping at safeway.com, Someone entered "1" next to Garlic, apparently missing that the units were "lbs.", not "heads". (Of all the perils of online grocery shopping, this is one I'd never thought of.) So over the next few weeks we'll need to consume garlic at several times our usual rate -- which will apparently present all kinds of benefits. Chicken cacciatore, Greek lentil soup, maybe hummus ... other ideas? One recipe calls for a whole chicken and 40 cloves of garlic; that would be the easy way out but I'm skeptical.

I once had a physics teacher who just couldn't stand it when we didn't pay attention to the proper units. Getting the wrong answer for mass or speed or charge was one thing, but writing that "the cyclist is moving at 60 km/sec" or "the water temperature drops to -23 K" would guarantee an exasperated little lecture in class. I wish he could see this.

Serendipity

It's Black Pepper Week at the Perk; I just finished a Black Pepper & Mango Sorbet -- tart, bright saffron-colored globes served on fresh mint leaves in a square sushi plate. (Quite a contrast to the whimsical, rough-hewn decor of this dusty coffee/tea/alehouse; odd juxtapositions seem to be the norm here.) Tonight's Open Mic has an unexpected treat: two subsets of local acoustic-speedmetal supergroup ilyAIMY.

I was last here for a midnight performance of the beautiful, uncategorizable music of Might Could. With three acoustic guitars and one part-time bass, musical roots in Segovia, Fripp, and Blue Oyster Cult, intricate play so intertwined that it seems leaderless, and imaginative titles like "Synecdoche", what's not to like? I bought their outstanding CD Wood Knot from them (soon available in stores); there's something heady about seeing truly original music, with an obviously promising future, performed in a cramped, dusty place by a band whose website still ends in ".edu". Someday I hope to point to some household-name on TV and say "I remember when..."

Sitting here, I recall that for several years I lived within a short walk of the (now defunct) Nightstage music club, where I saw mind-bending shows by Bill Bruford's Earthworks, Fred Frith, Bill Frisell, and others. A slightly longer walk away, I (twice) caught Pat Metheny at Ryles, in unannounced, word-of-mouth appearances; a short T ride away I saw Husker Du, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Adrian Belew, the Minutemen, Birdsongs of the Mesozoic; Brooks Williams would breeze through town several times a year; Harrod & Funck played in the subways. Life-changing experiences we would just stumble across! Those were the days... And yet, tonight I sense that maybe serendipity is making a comeback near here. I'll keep an eye out.

Our favorite hydrocarbon

A few weeks ago, in a bold leap of faith, we agreed in advance to buy a batch of prints of Diesel's school picture. Our expectations were low; you know how school pictures go, especially among the young and restless. On Picture Day (protecting our investment as best we could) we made sure he wore a clean shirt; washed his hair just before breakfast (to try and tamp down his chronic conic bedhead); and hoped for the best.

Well, last week the pictures came back and wow! Hats off to the photographer (ASAP Worldwide Productions, Lanham, MD, whose copyright goons are no doubt headed this way right now) and a hearty high-five to Diesel. The final portrait crops out the best part -- those carefully folded hands -- but it's quite a shot even without them.

As he hurtles towards his third birthday, Diesel's in a very entertaining linguistic stage, in which his Ls, Rs, and Ws all sound very similar to our untrained ears. So once or twice a day he worries that he's lost his "Boing-Boing McQueen." And shifting his celestial affinities, he declared today that "Pwuto is not my favwite pwanet; it's not a pwanet. I wike Saturn."

Calling -- or not

Man, three weeks! -- how've you been? ... There were a whole list of things I meant to write about; some are probably still worth posting, we'll see. "When no-one's listening I've got so much to say..." But OK, here are some pix you might enjoy. For a Sunday School class on Vocation and Calling, it was my turn last week to trace the path of my so-called career. I figured expectations were for a nice, tidy "testimony" so I chose not to pretty it up with a happy ending, a clear theme, or any confirmation of divine providence. (So there!) Instead, I introduced my story with the two pictures you see here [click for a closer look]. (*) Then, inspired by a great xkcd cartoon, I traced a graph of my "Sense Of Calling" over time (a.k.a. Eagerness to Answer The Question, "So What Do You Do?"). This parameter (green line below) peaked at about age 18; plummeted in graduate school; stayed low through several dark "all but dissertation" years; swung wildly in the year before I finally finished my thesis; rose gradually after school, and has declined steadily throughout my current job. (I know -- what a narrow, one-dimensional way to depict life's complexity... But I'd never told the whole gory tale before, so I needed a simple, robust structure to lean on.) In red dots, I also traced my degree of "ministry engagement" over the years (pardon my dualism): this ebbed and flowed through various roles in student and small group ministry; laid low for several years after school; and saw a recent resurgence in a biweekly "worship laboratory" that led me to breathe deep of "emerging church" oxygen.

Are any of the above "my calling"? Um... Check back in another decade; maybe I'll know then. In conclusion, I showed a (surprisingly lifelike) portrait of me by Dylan (now 6!). I love the facial stubble, the dark circles around the eyes, the clumsiness of those hands -- but also its overall inquisitive tone. I'd like to think that's a fair summary of where I am right now -- equal parts ham-handed, off-balance, and hopeful.

(*) I was pleased to see the inimitable Ken Brown back in publishing, after a lo-ong hiatus. I need to preorder "My Parachute is Beige."

Paying attention to autumn

The trees around here have put on quite a show this fall.
I haven't seen colors like this
south of New Hampshire or Vermont
or perhaps anywhere:
rich eggplant, rosy pomegranate, carrot, cantaloupe,
apricot, lemon, and honeydew. The lowliest median strip
glows fuschia or coral. The usual eye-catchers --
4-way stops, detour signs, crossing guards, school buses --
stripped of their usual impact, blend into the insane palette
of a limitless Van Gogh canvas.

I've been photographing our front yard every couple of days.
I'm trying to make a "poor man's time-lapse movie".
This is how it looked one morning last week.

Traveling in the vernacular

As the temperature drops into the low 30s, it's again perfect for bicycle commuting. I'm finally getting back on the bike after several weeks of mostly driving to work. (Once we got a second car last year, the reasons why it "made more sense" to drive on any given day seemed to multiply: running late, overtired, rain in the forecast, lunchtime errands, groceries on the way home..... Enough!) If I can keep this up, I'll once again be able to say I'm a bicycle commuter -- as I'd done for many years. I consider it a rare privilege, in these Washington suburbs, to be able to ride to work; and besides, it's no coincidence: when we moved to the area, I pulled out a map and used a piece of string to draw a 7-mile-radius circle around my workplace: "Here's where we'll live." So far, we've been able to stay well inside that circle... so I am without excuse.

This week's NYT article and video on bicycle-friendly culture, and David Byrne's recent Manhattan helmet-cam ride video (*), have been inspirations. (This post's title is from Portland frame builder Natalie Ramsland's nearly poetic coda to the NYT video, at 3:53.)

In that general vein, I've always thought it'd be fun to list the various spills and accidents (FDGBs) I've had in 30-odd years of cycling. But I don't want to sully this post (or Natalie's or David's good name) with that, so ... another day.

(*) I would embed that video here but it seems LiveJournal's RSS aggregator truncates posts with embedded content.

In my head and now in yours

In thinking about that last post while preparing the next one, the Talking Heads' song "Heaven" has taken up residence in my mind: "The name of the bar: the bar is called Heaven..." I suppose this was inevitable. So, for your enjoyment and (hopefully) my relief, here it is, from the "Stop Making Sense" film.

I saw that film 6 or 7 times at the Brattle Theater in Cambridge, MA, back in the day; bought the DVD on eBay a couple years ago and it's quickly become a family favorite. Awfully hard to stay gloomy after pressing Play on that disc. It seems to trigger whatever innate dance reflex humans have: even little Timo (1-1/2) moves in time to the beat; his brothers run laps around the room.*

The initial "Thank You" you see here is for the brilliant bit of performance art (video) that opens the concert (Mr. Byrne flails all over the stage each time the beat skips a groove). That, the famous Big Suit (video), and the elusive self-interview (video) still feel so otherworldly and unique that we squirm a little. Or maybe it's just me. But "Heaven" underscores the whimsical longing underneath it all.

I've been finding YouTube and its ilk to be a treasure trove of music new and old -- fodder for a future post perhaps. It gets pretty captivating sometimes. "Its hard to imagine that nothing at all / could be so exciting, could be so much fun..."

* 'Course they also do this for Black Flag -- our music of choice when the day is especially dreary (and mommy's far, far away).

My epic night out

I am in teh coffeehouse: dusty brocade sofas, leftover Christmas lights on the walls, free wifi, weekly open mic, outstanding (Original Sin) hard cider, and a sign over the bar: "No Pissy Attitudes". Welcome to the College Perk. Tonight's entertainment: The Glad Version. Last week I knew I'd found some signs of life here when a dreadlocked 50-something played strange beats on a portable keyboard, mumblsinging what I eventually recognized as "yo ho ho and a bottle of rum." Then someone plugged in a projector and showed a strange short film he'd made. I hope heaven is a little bit like this. Meanwhile, I think I'll make this a regular hangout on my weekly Epic Night Out.

ENO is a new tradition chez nous, instituted by my lovely wife: she's taken a night out each week for a few months now; me I'm just starting out. The "E" is reminiscent of my first week, which was anything but epic: I crisscrossed the county looking for something to do; finally settling for an overpriced latte at Borders Books near closing time. But I'm getting better at this. We'll see how it evolves; I've been trying to find time away to read, write, pray, reflect, meet with folks, and take in some culchah ... and this may be part of the answer.

Justice in the burbs

Just finished Will & Lisa Samson's book, "Justice in the Burbs: being the hands of Jesus wherever you live." It's the most enjoyable book I've read in quite a while; not just thought provoking, but quite pleasant to read: it interweaves a fictional plot with a consistently generous, conversational tone. It even ends with a benediction to the reader -- as though the authors were laying a hand on my head and praying for me. (It sounds odd but they pull it off somehow.) By Ch. 2, I'd been gently drawn into the book's story and argument, and didn't want to put it down. Time and again I felt like it had me pegged -- the Mon.-Fri. paper pusher, Sat. lawn cultivator, Sun. pew warmer; who robs Peter to pay Paul and wonders at night, "is that all there is?" -- until I realized how many others 'round here would squirm just as much. Especially memorable was a chapter on mountaintop removal mining, which showed how going with the flow of American convenience and comfort underwrites grievous insults to God's creation and surprising degrees of greed and human misery. Other chapters discussed less dramatic, but also important concerns, such as alienation and loneliness -- also part of what "living justly" is concerned with. I'll be recommending this book to many; it's a persuasive explanation of how anyone can (and why Christians need to) be involved in tangible efforts to "love your neighbor"... both "over there" in places of obvious injustice or poverty, and "right here" with our literal neighbors, and through the everyday choices we make. Several stars.

My only quibble: in guest author Tony Jones' short "meditation" after Ch. 3, he refers to the Holy Spirit as "she" -- seemingly for no other purpose than to get a rise out of more traditional thinkers than himself. As a result (people being what they are) I have to think twice about whom to recommend this to. I wonder what Tony's like at parties.
[UPDATE Nov. 6: I misread Tony's intent. See his clarification in the comments.]

Rumors of my demise / Halloween splendor

I'm back -- It's been three weeks but no towels have yet been thrown in; I just need to stop setting the bar so high that nothing seems worth writing about. Of course, it's a sickly, cyclical thing: as the hiatus grows, so does the feeling that the "comeback post" has to be something really worthwhile... Lather, rinse, repeat. I'm not sure how others break the cycle; but I suppose one way is to write about something really inane. So:

Here are our 3 Amigos attired for our church's Harvest Festival last weekend. Suvia pulled off another great pair of homemade costumes this year: Dylan as Junior Asparagus and Diesel as Bob the Tomato. She even dyed Dylan's sweatpants green for the occasion. They came out rather pale so we discussed redoing them but agreed it ain't much of a living. To our surprise and delight, Dylan's costume won first prize at the end of the evening: he proudly carried home his trophy, a Spirograph set (remember those?). As for Timo: at the last minute we rustled up a hand-me-down costume many sizes too big, so he was a ... Shar-Pei tree frog. He earned numerous "awwwwww"s as he wandered around, babbling inquiringly.

Those who hate gardening need a theory...

Our yard has been an eyesore for several years now; new grass is long overdue. September's the month for this: temperatures are mild(er!) and leaves are still on trees. But, September slipped by and now it's a race before the trees start shedding their massive foliage. Last Saturday I got hoppin' mad at seeing (already!) a growing carpet of sycamore leaves on the lawn: those will all have to be raked before the reseeding process can even begin. But it's a big yard, and in fact the most barren area was only lightly covered with leaves; so I dragged out the boombox, started up some c.1973 Deep Purple and ZZ Top (hard to stay gloomy listening to those) and undertook the dusty, sweaty work of preparing the soil for the seeding itself (the easy part) -- which I finally did on Monday.

Now I've just got to work out how to water the area regularly over the next few weeks. But not overwater it. And, hope that the soil was properly prepared, and that I used the right amount of fertilizer. And, remember to fertilize it again before winter. Mess up on any of those, and it could all be for nought! (Ask me how I know...) This is why I get a bit anxious pushing around the seed spreader: in 10 minutes, I can easily blow through $100 worth of seed -- it's like world-class champagne. So inevitably, I cringe as my mind's eye sees dollar bills shooting out of the seeder. It doesn't help that the seed variety I'm using is exactly the color of money. Sometimes I think I should just confront the pretense, cut out the middleman, and spread shredded money directly on the lawn.

"Those who hate gardening need a theory..." I found that piece of Internet flotsam some 10 or 15 years ago, attributed to (renowned Polish philosopher) Leszek Kolakowski. I thought it meant that forming and testing theories could make anything enjoyable; I found the idea intriguing, and tucked it away for future reference. But more recently (thanks to Google's searchable books) I found the context for that quip: Modernity on Endless Trial, Ch. 21. Turns out the intended meaning was completely different ... and quite a bit funnier:

The General Theory of Not-Gardening: A Major Contribution to Social Anthropology, Ontology, Moral Philosophy, Psychology, Sociology, Political Theory, and Many Other Fields of Scientific Investigation ---
Those who hate gardening need a theory. Not to garden without a theory is a shallow, unworthy way of life. The alternative to not-gardening without a theory is to garden. However, it is much easier to have a theory than actually to garden.

Kolakowski then provides Marxist, Psychoanalytical, Existentialist, Structuralist, and -ah- Semiotic arguments for not gardening. For example:

People garden in order to make nature human, to "civilize" it. This, however, is a desperate and futile attempt to transform being-in-itself into being-for-itself. This is not only ontologically impossible; it is a deceptive, morally inadmissible escape from reality, as the distinction between being-in-itself and being-for-itself cannot be abolished. To garden, or to imagine that one can "humanize" Nature, is to try to efface this distinction and hopelessly to deny one's own irreducibly human ontological status. To garden is to live in bad faith. Gardening is wrong. Q.E.D.

The whole 2-page chapter is similarly clever nonsense -- well worth a read. On days where none of those five schools of thought afford a sufficient basis for not gardening, at least I'll have something to smirk about as I work.

19 mercies

I've finally reached the end of Brennan Manning's Ragamuffin Gospel. Anne-Marie loaned it to me in February; I read a chunk of it in July; carried it with me hither and yon; but it wasn't until September that I gave it the final push. Lots of people have gushed about it online and I basically agree with them so I won't add to the hubbub -- except to highlight the "19 mercies" appended to more recent editions. Each of these is a short reading (1-2 pages), written to foster personal or group reflection, and concluding with a Bible passage or a fragment of poetry. The 19 headings nicely encapsulate the book's main themes:

• Come: Be here, now. Don't wait. Jesus wants to enter into a deep friendship with you. Cry out for the Spirit.
• Encounter: The person of Jesus. The call from the cross. Through Jesus we know Abba. The God who is love. God loves you unconditionally. We cry, "Abba!" The prayer of simple regard.
• Serve: The freedom of serving. Healing through meal sharing. Washing feet. Freedom from your own contempt. Christ in the person next to you.
• Trust: Trust in your Father's delight. Worry is an insult to your Father. The grace of reckless love.

I've begun walking back through these, one a day, to see what might happen.
OK, I wasn't really going to review the book; but here's an excerpt I scribbled down as I was reading:

(p. 203) The first step towards rejuvenation begins with accepting where you are and accepting your poverty, frailty, and emptiness to the love that is everything. Don't try to feel anything, think anything, or do anything. With all the good will in the world you cannot make anything happen. Don't force prayer. Simple relax in the presence of the God you half believe in and ask for a touch of folly.

Kinda hits the spot right about now... One final nugget: someone has posted Chapter 7 in its entirety. Entitled Paste jewelry and sawdust hotdogs, I found this to be the harshest (and maybe the best) chapter in the book: "... The temptation of the age is to look good without being good. If 'white lies' were criminal offenses, we would all be in jail by nightfall..."

That's no moon...

Current position of the ISS

Finally got a chance to see the International Space Station orbit overhead tonight. Dylan and I watched it from the backyard. The ISS was impossible to miss as it raced across the night sky, passing almost directly overhead, brighter than any star. Watching it, one gets an inkling of what people must have felt when they saw Sputnik in orbit -- exactly 50 years ago today.

ISS overpasses like this one only happen a few times a year. The friendly algorithms at Heavens-Above predict them for any given location; but many are obscured by clouds, or stick too near the horizon, or occur in the wee hours. This one was at a few minutes before 8pm, had a brightness of -2.3, and rose to 81 degrees. And Saturday's overpass (in the DC area: SW-NE, 7:06-7:12pm) looks to be even better. That's even before Diesel goes to sleep: perhaps we'll make it a full family affair.

A most entertaining visitor

We were minding our own business, enjoying a peaceful fall afternoon with some good friends. I went to shush the dog; noticed he was barking at something on the deck right in front of him. When I slid open the glass door, I could hear what sounded like the spray of a garden-hose spigot, but intermittent. In the several seconds it took me to identify the source of the sound, ... it slithered across the threshhold and behind a piece of furniture. Um -- sorry to interrupt the afternoon guys, but we have a yellow and black, hissing snake in the house. We all knew the snake was probably harmless, but none of us knew for sure; and this one had an impressive custom of rising up like a cobra and hissing loudly at us. We got a broom and tried to chase him out; he just hissed more, coiled up, struck at the broom, waved his black forked tongue around, and crawled further under the stereo. Finally we decided to open the door again, and leave him alone. This eventually did the trick; once outside, he sped off in a beautiful seamless wave of yellow curves; obviously relieved to be free of us.

I took several pictures of him; I didn't dare get close but thanks to a lovely zoom lens, one or two turned out quite good. (They look their best at full resolution.)

Later I determined that he was probably a juvenile Eastern Hognose; harmless but known as a major bluffer. Apparently the above "show of force" isn't all he can do; as a last resort he plays dead -- turns upside down, lets off a foul stench, and drools. But he's not very smart about it: if you turn him back right-side up, he'll immediately turn himself on his back and insist on playing dead. I'm so sad we missed that! Maybe next time.

Home again

The last couple of days in Boulder delivered about everything one could ask for. Saturday morning, as Suvia slept off her late-night flight, I rode that strange bike partway up infamous Flagstaff Road until my puny sea-level lungs were gasping for air (though apparently the actual "steep" part is further up). Later we visited the Boulder Farmer's Market; toured the Celestial Seasonings plant (favorite part: the Mint Room -- made my eyes sting); dined at the historic Chautauqua Dining Hall, and had dessert at the authentically Tajik Dushanbe Teahouse.

Sunday was a lousy day to visit Rocky Mountain Nat'l Park -- fog, rain, icy winds -- but we drove to Fall River Pass anyway, and climbed Alpine Ridge. We hadn't thought to bring cold-weather gear; but we had all our luggage with us so we layered dress shirts, pajamas, etc. The howling wind gave us both earaches, but those eventually subsided... On the way down from the pass, we caught some elk herds grazing well within range of our zoom lens, and got some surprisingly good pictures. (I'm loving the "image stabilization" on the new camera.)

Made it back into town in time to catch North, where Jeff Davenport spoke about manna (lit. "What IS that?") and flung Wheat Thins around evoking how one might feel when hoping for the Promised Land but seeing only manna. We talked about it all the way to Denver, where we spent the night and caught a Monday morning flight home... to three little boys and their two exhausted grandmothers who greeted us with delight and relief.

We're still trying to get off Mountain Time.

Seven o'clock colors

This close to the equinox, 7 am and 7 pm in Boulder are both luminous. Morning sunlight wraps the foothills to the west in a saffron glow; in the gentle crystal chill you might briefly consider a jacket. Evening sun tints the sky in pastels; then glowing sorbet swirls; then a fiery gauze of clouds punctured by the first stars; as the day's warmth lingers into night and the mountains settle into a deep taupe repose.

Wait, this IS rocket science

Well, that was interesting... A trio of us took a short drive north of Boulder to join DigitalGlobe for the launch of their new "most agile" earth imaging satellite. They fed us lunch, gave us commemorative T-shirts and hats, and we watched the live video feed coming from Vandenberg AFB in California. The footage is now online(*): it's long but the good stuff takes place between about 20:00 (liftoff) and 24:30 (main engine cutoff). The rocket reached 12,000 mph 6 minutes after launch, and orbit 5 minutes later. Given the firm's terrible luck with launches in 1997 and 2001, a good bit of nervous laughter broke out at T minus 2 minutes when someone across the viewing room asked, "So regardless of the outcome here, do we get to keep the T-shirts?" But, everything went according to plan ... so far anyway.

(* Update Oct. 4 -- DigitalGlobe has now posted the good parts of the video in Flash format -- much more useful than the original Windows-only version. I'd embed that here but without its "home" Javascript environment, it starts up automatically -- lame.)

Recumbent in Boulder

(Oops, missed a day! Trying to find a new rhythm here...) I'm traveling again this week (like some sort of snake-oil salesman); in Boulder, Colorado for a meeting of my de facto professional community. Suvia will join me on the weekend for a Rocky Mountain Front Range mini-vacation: our first time away together since... let's see, Dylan's almost 6. Can't wait.

To get into the Boulder spirit, I canceled my car rental and rented a recumbent bicycle for the week instead. (I'd always wondered what those things were like.) I brought my own pedals and SPD shoes from home, like the serious rider I'm not; and this morning I felt very "with it" setting out for the one-mile walk to the Boulder BikeSmith to pick up my 'bent... until I stepped outside. Into dripping rain. Hadn't even considered that possibility! Talk about overlooking the basics. Once the rain tapered off, I felt even less clever when I actually tried to ride the thing: who knew a recumbent was such a wobbly, scary ride? (OK, well, the angle on that front fork speaks volumes...)

So I'm bobbing and weaving all over the lane; I feel like a kid learning to ride all over again. Loads of fun! By tomorrow I might even feel confident enough to click those shoes into those pedals. Meanwhile, I can't wipe the grin off my face; it feels like I'm riding a deafening chopper to the Monster Truck show, with my arms outstretched, my little front wheel 'way out past my feet, and my 8-inch Hulk Hogan mustache blowing in the breeze.

Something borrowed, something blue

It's nine o'clock and the house is finally quiet. It was a tough day: disappointments, fatigue, irritation, screaming, whining, spilled milk, ... and the kids weren't much better! As the day winds down, I'm at a loss to draw any particular insights from it -- but Mark Heard's liner notes for Second Hand fit pretty well:

I am always telling my wife that a day doesn't seem to have a full twenty-four hours anymore. I always wish they were longer, or I had a much faster metabolism, say, like a shrew or a hummingbird, because two or three o'clock in the morning always comes too soon and I'm still trying to figure out where the day went.

There are days when you suddenly glance around as if awakened from a stupor and are struck by the great magnitude of life, the realities of mortality, the ironies of our time. ... You cringe at your stupidity. You cower under the future. You fear for the world of your children.

There are other days when the intuitive awareness of the great and wonderful depth of life you felt and harbored as a child, that feeling brought gushing by a certain, sound or smell or time of day or season, will come flooding back in again. You relish the past, you pity the present, you play to the imagination of your children, you try vicariously to re-experience your own fresh youth. I must admit these days seem to become rarer, and worth the effort it takes to remember them somehow.

Most usual are the days you wish you could feel anything. You wish that you could care more than you seem to be able to, or could focus on something beyond the mundane little dance steps involved in the busywork of subsistence. At least there is the impulse to ask yourself, "Why?" There are reasons to be thankful just having something to keep you busy. Songs written by those so inclined to busy themselves in these days tend to become a simple documentation of feelings in the waxing and waning of our awareness of events on the planet, both near and far. But the clock seems only to remind you that there's more to do and you're behind in whatever it is you're already supposed to have done. Your children are loud. Things could be better. Things could be worse. Luckily a few things never change.

I have a T-shirt with those last two paragraphs printed on the back. No-one ever bothers to read them. That's OK.

Now that's a Sabbath

My first piece of car art is complete -- it came out pretty nice! (and doesn't Dylan do a great Vanna?)

Paul Klee's "Fish Magic" was the obvious inspiration here; we'll keep improvising our way 'round the car until it's all or mostly covered with strange and wonderful stuff: the minivan as a plus-size canvas for self-expression. (True confession however: we're not actually painting the car, but magnetic sheeting that sticks to the car. We bought a 50-foot roll of the stuff on eBay; it weighed about 40 lbs.)

When we first bought the minivan, over a year ago, it was on the condition that we would do this. I thought it might take 3-4 Sunday afternoons; but I spent one Sunday after another holding a baby, sleeping off late nights, browsing the Web, or fixing and cleaning things. Sometimes I'd start to tackle the art car project, but then (daunted) I'd fritter away the time measuring or planning the work (mere engineering) instead of actually creating SOMETHING.

But a couple of weeks ago something clicked; I grabbed a paintbrush, mixed up a goopy orange blend, and quickly covered a couple of panels, knowing they might turn out awful but trying it anyway. Once that dried, another layer of bluish paint went on, and while it was still wet, the real fun began, using a knife, fork, and comb. And viola!

I suppose one reason for the "click" was a recent conversation with some new friends: is Sabbath rest perhaps defined by intentional non-productivity? I'm no artist, so painting is well outside my usual "sector of production." By foregoing any attention to sensible, necessary things for a bit, I found a creative "discovery zone" (as Makoto Fujimura describes Eden) more restful and invigorating than a nap or a mowed lawn; Mako might say it "fed my soul." Not a bad view of the Sabbath... The Westminster Confession limits the Sabbath to "worship and ... duties of mercy or necessity"; to this I would add "or works of beauty." (Of course good Presbyterians would never tamper with, disable, or destroy their Confession like that.:-)

Traveling mercies

This week I took a grueling 2-day trip to Tucson, Arizona: 6am out of Baltimore, then a redeye back the next day; I'm still recovering. On the way out, I finally read Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies. I'm a bit late to the Lamott party, but glad to be here. It's quite a book: a bit slow going at first, but on p.50 it all becomes worthwhile as she recalls her surrender to Jesus ("Fuck it. I quit. ...you can come in.") and the writing abruptly shifts to vibrant, poignant, and very funny essays for the rest of the book. I almost brought Grace (Eventually) with me as well (her latest); I could've read it on the way home. But they were both hardbound, and I was packing light; I thought I should limit my in-flight reading to half my total luggage weight.

With three young'uns at home, reading is becoming the best part of travel. It's nice to know that under the right circumstances (no network, no to-do list, no interruptions) I really can tear through a book at a McKnightly pace (books per week, instead of the other way around). When I'm not traveling, it's hard to follow the story arc of "Tuxedo Park" or the overall logic of "Velvet Elvis" when I'm only reading two pages per sit-down bathroom visit.

More broadly, I guess, living entirely by the dictates of duty or happenstance is a habit that's hard to break. It's convenient to blame it on my kids (and yes, they're part of the challenge); but if I'm honest I have to admit that intentional living is a skill I'm still trying to acquire.

They're baaaack

Suvia and the 3 Amigos returned from their month away with Wild Tales from (down)East and a camera-card full of photos. Here, I think, is my favorite.

What kind of cold-hearted mother calmly snaps this picture instead of rushing to her young son's aid? But wait, she protests:

• Just before the camera came out, Diesel had been happily playing in the mud, and was standing there muddy and smiling;
• he doesn't ride a bike yet; Dylan's bike had been lying there all morning, and just happened to be in the frame;
• The holes in those jeans weren't new;
• he was upset that Nana had gone to the Post Office without him (and who can blame her, with all that mud?).

So the picture is eloquently misleading. Nice work, Suvia. A future with National Geographic awaits.

There were some other great pictures as well, summarizing new stages in young lives. Timo turned 1 and learned to walk right on schedule. Much like a novice ice skater, he often catches an outside edge and lands on his (amply padded) derriere. Fortunately, since this video was taken, he has managed to kick his dependence on saliva-soaked socks.

And last but not least, Dylan's reading has really taken off; he spent much of the month making mincemeat of Volumes 1-30(!) of the Magic Treehouse series.

There goes the neighborhood

So I joined Facebook this week. (Kester made me do it.) Before I fully grasped what was happening, it had harvested my Gmail address book and was knocking on a few dozen virtual doors asking to be "friends." Afterwards I marveled at all the people who'd preceded me (and were now welcoming me) to this lively terra nova, without having ever mentioned it.
So far my "sphere" is mostly fairly young (18-22 or so ... must be that film series I'm doing with my church's "college/20s/30s" crowd); so I'm trying not to creep anyone out. Still, I think some may already have mixed feelings about my presence there: I inadvertently learned a few "secrets" meant for -- well, probably not me. Oops. Sorry to intrude; I guess if "no man is an island" [& this is a SOCIAL NETWORK after all] then my efforts to be unobtrusive, and other people's efforts to keep secrets, are a bit limited. On balance, I think that's a good thing... Shades of Life together... Let's just be careful out there.

El Viaje Misterioso de Nuestro Jomer

No, we're not blogging in tongues (how cool would that be?). That's just the title of the Simpsons episode I watched the other night (thanks Ryan): Homer eats a Jallucinogenic Jabanero and embarks on a Mysterious Voyage as reality warps before his eyes. Cartooning at its finest. (If I weren't on a Web-fast this week, there'd be a picture right about here. Posting via email has its limitations.)

I'm on a bit of viaje misterioso myself this month: with Suvia and the 3 amigos away in Maine all month beating the heat, I've got the house and schedule to myself. In the whitespace, I'm discovering all kinds of things. The first week was fun; I dropped into the nearby up-and-coming pub, twice, and finally got to hear acoustic-speed-rockers ilyAIMY perform. I'd forgotten how much I like good live, local music. That first week also established what a distracted, self-absorbed slob I can be when no-one's around to see it. Plants died; I ran out of underwear; stayed up till 2am; the dog escaped; I kept forgetting to call the family; ugh.

In the second week, I've been watching and reflecting on the film "About a Boy," a clever story that runs as deep as you want to go on the themes of isolation, community, charity, and friendship. I'm confronted with my poverty of relationships: for who knows how long I've used my family as a handy excuse for not seeking out meaningful friendships; and I've seen my family mostly as constraints and duties, rather than people to share life deeply with. So, both at home and elsewhere, it's been a lot of pointless, painless, joyless, isolated "island living" -- I've been pretending "I'm bloody Ibiza!" (from the film).

... At this rate, weeks 3 and 4 should be interesting.

A hirsute tale

Sometime in April, one misstep led to another and after nearly 42 clean-shaven years, I decided to find out what nature had blessed (or cursed) me with in the facial-hair department.

Within a week I'd blown past The George Michael (greasy kids' stuff) and with shaggy grays coming in, I was hurtling towards The Dr. K.

(Whereupon, let us pause for the
[famous] 1996 haiku:
Open your present
No, you open your present
Kaczynski Christmas)

By the 6- or 7-week mark, I started getting the occasional compliment. (It was all polite silence before.) I took a couple of self-portraits. Still, I continued to hear a little involuntary shriek every time I passed one colleague's office.

One comment I received: "You're looking more and more like your Savior!" High praise indeed. I'd been leading a class using the "Gospel of John" film of 2003, ... so I know I could never approach THAT hunky look (or so Suvia tells me). But on rereading the prophet Isaiah, I perceived the commenter's devious intent:

He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.

At about the 60-day mark, I began to worry that -ummm- The Charles Darwin was looming. And beyond that, what -- The Billy Gibbons? It was time for a trim. But wait; I'd started the beard in hopes of avoiding that kind of maintenance.

...so I chickened out. Beard's gone. I sort of miss it already: I never realized I had such a weak chin! Here, then, is the conclusion of the matter: some are genetically gifted; beards are for the rest of us. I think I'm growing a new one already.

Sheep Chutes / Earth As Art

[clearing the backlog...] On my recent trip I can't say I experienced Sioux Falls in any meaningful way -- too short a trip. I did, however, bring a camera with me; and on the way to my meeting I skidded to a stop to take the photo at left. Not something you see everyday in the Washington suburbs.

My destination there was the NASA/USGS data center and satellite receiving station, where I learned over lunch that the Landsat "Earth as Art" collections are now online at full resolution: dozens of beautifully rendered views of the planet, each 8,000x8,000 pixels (give or take), freely available for any use you care to dream up. Thought you'd like to know.

On Bullshit

On a recent business trip (to Sioux Falls, SD), I read (and reread (it's that short)) H.G. Frankfurt's "On Bullshit." I'd been curious about this book ever since I saw it on a "church planter's reading list" somewhere. Given my long-time involvement in federal bureaucracy and information technology consulting, the book rang very true in several places:

Someone who lies and someone who tells the truth are playing on opposite sides, so to speak, in the same game. Each responds to the facts as he understands them, although the response of the one is guided by the authority of the truth, while the response of the other defies that authority and refuses to meet its demands. The bullshitter ignores these demands altogether. He does not reject the authority of the truth, as the liar does, and oppose himself to it. He pays no attention to it at all. By virtue of this, bullshit is a greater enemy of the truth than lies are.

... Been there; done that; it's amazing what one can get away with on PowerPoint slides. I've seen plenty of speech that "ignores the demands of the truth" in the workplace, and even in church leadership; and I've produced my share of it and then some. It's so prevalent that we hardly even notice it creep into our talking and writing. I try to cut through it to verifiable facts and clear, precise, neutral language; but it's often a challenge. The damage has already been done -- as Frankfurt describes:

Telling lies does not unfit a person for telling the truth in the same way that bullshitting tends to. Through excessive indulgence in the latter activity, which involves making assertions without paying attention to anything except what it suits one to say, a person's normal habit of attending to the way things are may become attenuated or lost.

Yup. Been there. I can remember 'way back to my senior thesis presentation (20 years ago this month!) when I mixed lab-bench results with values that would have been nice to have. What looked like "proof" was just my playing "what-if" with a pocket calculator. My thesis advisor just nodded approvingly; but he wasn't too pleased when he found out the truth as he was giving me my grade. The mix-up wasn't intentional -- just careless on my part. (Oops, bullshit alarm going off again...)

i bought a crap detector, it emptied all my savings
it's got a hair trigger feel for the slightest provocation
not there to spill blood or judge out of line
it's just a modern convenience to save you some time
- Bill Mallonee, Earth Has No Sorrow

Drained! at last

Our new septic system is finally in place! Sure is nice to have proper wastewater management again. It was in late March, I think, that I finally faced my denial: the stinky, wet spot in the middle of the back lawn wasn't going to fix itself. We hoped it was just a cracked pipe: a team of plumbers dug around for a morning and said, "Uuhh, you've got bigger problems. Call your county health inspector... and don't flush or shower -- much -- or do any laundry, until it's fixed. Good luck."

Thus began a 6-week lesson in suburban infrastructure, (waste)water conservation, contract negotiation, humility, and patience, as we jumped through all sorts of hoops we never knew existed: soil testing (with a backhoe, 18 ft. down); surveying the project area; having blueprints drawn up and faxing them to a dozen contractors; waiting for callbacks; choosing a bidder; watching the back yard get torn up; and of course paying for it all (last part still in progress :-). The project turned out much larger than I'd imagined: the crew dug two 100-foot trenches, 6 feet deep; filled them with three (four? five?) dumptruck loads of gravel; buried a 10'x5'x5' concrete tank; and felled about 10 trees. The final stage will be to replant some 7,000 sq.ft. of grass in place of the resulting dustbowl; I hope to start that this week if the weather cooperates.

Now that it's all over, flushing and showering still seem like exquisite luxuries; I'll never again take them for granted! To watch water gurgle down a drain and know it's going to a safe & healthy place -- what a comforting thought. :-) And we have a renewed appreciation for all the friends who welcomed us into their laundry rooms -- especially for cousin Silvia whose pick-up / drop-off laundry service was above & beyond.

Batterson hangs ten

The Leadnow/Fusion conference blew through town; not really my thing but I went to hear Don Miller (author of Blue Like Jazz and others) and Dan Kimball (author of Emerging Church and others). My impressions:

• It was my first time in a suburban megachurch. I expected it to be like other (merely) large churches I've known; but no-o-o. Not only was everything supersized; everything was super-perfect -- surround sound, stage lighting, HD video, theater seating, overall architecture, etc. I guess someone's got to be at the upper end of the size and polish range. Still, I had to chuckle at the incongruity of speakers dressed in deliberately casual clothing (to appeal to 20/30-somethings) but bathed in crisp pink-white lighting on a gleaming hardwood stage.
  
• I was impressed that the conference only charged $25 for an evening and a morning, including a working lunch and self-serve snack carts. (Somebody, somewhere, must've stood up to the suits.)
• I heard a few too many very polished talks for my tastes -- delivered mostly without notes, with just the right levels of enthusiasm, humor, and pathos. One of these is delightful; two are lavish; but I found three, four, five to be like too much maple syrup. (Somebody, please lose your train of thought or fumble a joke!)
  
• I realized with a shudder [so long, innocent idealism] that some are approaching "20/30-somethings" not (primarily) as a disaffected, skeptical, or unique group, requiring new emphases, metaphors, etc... but (mostly) as a market for fairly familiar forms of Christian media and ministry, just with slightly different wrappings.
  
• Miller and Kimball were exceptions to that; I felt they reached into a whole new set of metaphors and messages. Dan Kimball drew on his "They like Jesus - not Christians" theme to get people out of the "Christian Bubble". In describing the "bubble" he fearlessly waded right into several aspects of the conference itself (e.g., worship concerts; favoring int'l over local mission). Impressive.
• Don Miller wove some great stories, and vignettes from Robert McKee's Story Seminar, into a call to "write" worthwhile stories of our own, not with ink or camera but with our lives. He introduced the topic by asking people to answer two questions: "What's your favorite movie?" ... followed by "What's your favorite part of the Nicene Creed?"
• Gracia Burnham wisely chose not to rehash her well-known story (dramatized on video screens before she came onstage). Instead she spoke (briefly) of what she's doing now: like Moses in Exodus 4, she prays, "Lord, what have I got to tell people? I'm just a ditzy blonde whose life is a mess..." -- to which He replies, "...Who made your hair?"
• [update] I enjoyed watching Mark Batterson's flip-flops hang ten off the front edge of the stage throughout his talk. But he never did fall onto the audience -- a true professional! His "Chase The Lion" talk was as energetic as his 4-posts-a-day blog; at times a bit too close to a mere motivational speech ("live your life on offense, not defense!" "accumulate experiences, not possessions!"); still, he pointed to "Jesus the author and perfecter" of our stories, and to love as a source of fearlessness.

So, that was my foray into mainstream, suburban, big-budget, business-tainted, but still mostly well-intentioned, American Evangelical Christianity. To think that some would consider this "normal"! Still, I was glad to be there ... once in a while.

Andy Whitman, blast from the past

Well lookie here... Andy Whitman has been syndicating (?) excerpts from his near-daily blog with Paste Magazine ("Signs of life in music, film, and culture"). It'd been 12-13 years since I'd read Mr. Whitman's winsome writing, on the USENET (!) rec.music.christian newsgroup, where he sparked and fueled many a young person's exploration of "real thinking feeling people's music" with pointers to such artists as Peter Case, Victoria Williams, T-Bone Burnett, Bill Mallonee, et al. When he quit the newsgroup around 1995, it quickly lost what little creative / edgy content it had, and imploded in theological squabbles. But apparently, in all these years Andy's flair for writing and his passion for music haven't abated a bit. And his refreshing, holistic approach to music, life, faith, and culture seems to be shared by Paste Magazine as a whole. Nice to see some "signs of life" on the magazine rack.

Mark Scandrette & Soul Graffiti

I joined the Emergent Village DC Cohort for a dinner with hippie cowboy preacher poet Mark Scandrette. He asked us a bunch of questions (? wasn't expecting that); read (and riffed on) excerpts from his new book "Soul Graffiti"; and (with a slight nudge from Mike) closed his eyes and recited his poem "ReIMAGINE!" -- a sort of trippy psalm spiced with wordplay, bright urban sounds and colors, a fleeting mention of "Tai-Chi Mariachi"... you get the idea.

"Soul Graffiti (Making a life in the way of Jesus)" is a book best read slowly and savored. I'm halfway through; I may reread some chapters before going on; I'm surprised at how many times I've paused and thought, "this is what I've been wanting to say but hadn't found the words." Instead of a real book review, I'll post "gems" from the book as I stumble across them. The "ReIMAGINE!" poem above is one (so go ahead, give it a listen); and here's another:

"Graffiti can be a plea for identity or a proclamation to puncture the darkness. ... The fragmentation I recognize in the world and in myself weighed heavily upon me as I cut words into a waxed paper stencil. I prayed as I sprayed the paint through the stencil out onto the sidewalk: CREATOR - RECREATE HERE NOW - INSTIGATE A REVOLUTION OF FAITH HOPE & LOVE...... What question or statement would you shout out to the universe or to God right now? Go public with your yelping. Write it with chalk on the sidewalk or post it on a Web site and see what kind of response you get."

More excerpts in a later post.

"Where Uncle Phil go?"

My brother visited us from Los Angeles for a couple of days this week. He quickly made three young new friends, including 2-y.o. Diesel, pictured here finding a shoulder to lean on at The Awakening in DC. (I'd hoped the statue would be partially submerged after all the rain upstream; but we got some great pictures anyway.)

[UPDATE: the day after posting this, I read that "in the coming months" the Awakening would be moved across the river. I'm pretty sure it will lose some of its charm -- but we'll see...]

It was great to see Phil and his nephews interact, really for the first time. (Previous encounters were all at some kind of family reunion, with kids relegated to a separate room, and lots of competing activity.) In fact, I don't think our boys have bonded so eagerly with any other visitor. A few hours after Phil left, Diesel headed toward the guestroom: "Where Uncle Phil go?" He wasn't very pleased with the answer he got.

On Phil's last evening here, he and I escaped to the nearby brewery for drinks and conversation. Not a frequent occurrence for me anymore ... with anyone! let alone my brother from another planet. Quite a treat. Funny though, we were both tired enough that we stopped to get coffee on the way. (He can blame his fatigue on jet lag and time zones; me I'm just a doofus -- no matter how hard I try to pin the blame on baby Timo.)

Here's to more visits from Uncle Phil.

Gratitude

I'm such a lousy blogger that I forgot to bring a camera on our early-morning visit to the Washington cherry blossoms last week. So imagine, if you will, standing under a canopy of translucent Yoshino blooms that both glowed from the gentle sun shining through them, and shimmered and flickered in the reflections off the Tidal Basin... all of this against a cloudless blue backdrop.

Less famous, but equally delightful, is the Awakening statue at the tip of Hains Point. On this day, its appeal seemed especially broad: toddlers sat on the statue's teeth and fingers while high-schoolers dared each other to jump off his knee, 12 feet down to the ground.

It was a much more successful visit than we had any right to expect, especially with three little boys along for the trip: we found parking on the Potomac; missed the crowds; soaked in the day's best light and springtime warmth; and were home by mid-morning. And wouldn't you know it, the remainder of that week turned rainy and increasingly cold. "Lord, you give us what we need -- and sometimes so much more."

A few days later, I caught a nice picture of the unseasonable weather: I'm not sure when the DC area last saw snow in April, but there it was. I took this out our front window as we were waking up. (Click to see the full-size picture.)


With all of our sickly grass hidden under snow, the front yard looked pretty inviting! Hopefully this spring & summer we'll get it to look nice even without snow on it.

Tonight we took in another Washington-area delight, a Bowie Baysox game. There's something magical about a baseball diamond bathed in electric lights under a richly hued evening sky.

Because this is the Minor Leagues, the mood is calm and relaxed; the playing is great but the stakes are low; and tickets are cheap or free. We had comp tickets, so we didn't mind leaving after the 3rd inning (!) to get the boys into bed. Well worth a return visit.

The "Catch Me If You Can" pen

The local Staples store had these nice-looking pens on clearance this week. (...they gleam so ... but I don't really need another pen -- oh look, only 50 cents for a 3-pack...) Just as I was about to be reasonable and walk away, I saw that they were billed as somehow resistant to check fraud. And I spotted an ornate seal of approval on the back of the package: ... Abagnale .. A mouthful of a name ... Frank W. Abagnale ... Waitaminute ... That rings a bell ... Yes! This is the guy from "Catch Me If You Can," who singlehandedly invented dozens of tricks to forge documents, con people, and steal a few million dollars. At first I didn't get it: would we want Ronald McDonald certifying our filets mignons? But further study showed that Abagnale & Associates are a bona fide business -- lucrative enough, in fact, to pay back all the money he swindled. (Good thing he didn't pay them back four times over -- preachers everywhere would've made him a sermon illustration.) Among many other things, A&A helped formulate the Uni-Ball 207's special ink that sinks deeply into paper fibers and can't be washed out.

On the company Website, Abagnale comments on the book and movie and how he's changed since then. And Wikiquote has some juicy quips:

• "If my forgeries looked as bad as the CBS documents, it would have been 'Catch Me In Two Days'."
  • Frank Abagnale, on the Killian memos.

• "Remember what being an adult is: It has nothing to do with money or awards."
  • Frank Abagnale, speaking to high-school students in Highland Park, Texas [4]

• I had no fear -- like a kid driving down the freeway at 100 miles an hour.
  • Frank Abagnale [6]

• I did not make this film about Frank Abagnale because of what he did . . but because of what he has done with his life the past 30 years.
  • Steven Spielberg. [9]

I bought nine pens. I think I've already lost two.