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.