Barack Obama's Call to Renewal Keynote Address Part 2
Go to YouTube and watch the whole speech. If you are suffering from an attention deficit and can't sit still that long, at least watch this excerpt.
I don't know if he is going to run or not. And I don't know if he would be the best president for America. But I do know that I haven't seen this kind of authentic faith, or heard such genuine words from a politician in a long time.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Reachin', Writin', and a Rhythmic Tic
I am on sabbatical this semester, which you might assume would mean more blogging than less. Obviously, you would be wrong. I am working on a writing project that makes it hard to justify writing blog posts. Here's an update on my progress.
My original aim was to take on a topic similar to my academic book published in 2002. I was going to treat apologies and the discourse of humility as a counter to apologetics and the militant rhetoric in our current culture. I had in mind to prop up my arguments with serious background reading and well-placed interviews, all directed toward literary nonfiction for a relatively broad audience.
This idea didn't take for three reasons. First, I found the book I wanted to write had already been written by a psychiatrist and a sociologist. Second, even though my original idea was probably more overtly spiritual than the psychiatrist's and the sociologist's, I decided the particular angle I wanted to take on the topic would make a really good magazine article, but would not warrant a book-length work. Third, my informal survey of readers found that they (and I) were...just not that into it.
So, I shifted my focus to a collection of nonfiction essays. I would still treat the original topic, but I would expand the project to include a broader commentary on cultural practices, faith, and rhetoric. This found no traction either, for similar reasons as above.
Then, I got very excited about doing a collection of essays that were more memoirish in nature: a collection of creative nonfiction, not unlike the work of Anne Lamott, Donald Miller, or Frederick Buechner. I started collecting essays and making plans for a unifying rhythm or theme. I sent out my first essay to some editor friends. They were very encouraging and gave me some tremendous help with my writing; but they kept asking, "Where's this going? What is the book about?" Days and weeks passed, and I could not get the focus I needed. In the meantime I had accumulated a couple hundred pages of writing with nothing to hold them together.
In a fit of frustration, I flew to Colorado and retreated to a mountain cabin with a writer, artist, musician, therapist friend of mine. We spent time writing (he was editing the third draft of his novel) and talking about our projects, our souls, our insecurities, our addictions, our failures, our hopes, our families, our truths, and our gods.
After one particularly frustrating night of work, I was prepared to declare that I had no business writing, that I had nothing to say, and that I was a fraud. I was contemplating ways I could move to another country and change my name to Reuben. I was about to toss my laptop through the window, and Jeff stepped in and calmed me down. For the next two hours he wove a tapestry of grace and encouragement that got my mind going again, in a whole new direction.
I'm writing a novel.
It's a reach. Long fiction is terribly intimidating, even downright scary. I worry about my mental health. But, I decided that this project has been trying to get me to this point from the beginning. There is a tale that needs to be told, and it needs to be told in the medium of the novel. The Russian literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin once argued that if you want to impart a truth or message, don't prepare a speech or an essay, write a novel. By putting many voices (heteroglossia) in play, you create a much more textured meaning than a monologue.
I hope to use much of the narrative compost I've accumulated (a reader of The Reach might recognize the kernel of a story or two), and the original idea about apology will likely show up, but the story will be able to go places the previous incarnations could not take it.
The morning after I made this creative and spiritual breakthrough, my computer crashed.
My original aim was to take on a topic similar to my academic book published in 2002. I was going to treat apologies and the discourse of humility as a counter to apologetics and the militant rhetoric in our current culture. I had in mind to prop up my arguments with serious background reading and well-placed interviews, all directed toward literary nonfiction for a relatively broad audience.
This idea didn't take for three reasons. First, I found the book I wanted to write had already been written by a psychiatrist and a sociologist. Second, even though my original idea was probably more overtly spiritual than the psychiatrist's and the sociologist's, I decided the particular angle I wanted to take on the topic would make a really good magazine article, but would not warrant a book-length work. Third, my informal survey of readers found that they (and I) were...just not that into it.
So, I shifted my focus to a collection of nonfiction essays. I would still treat the original topic, but I would expand the project to include a broader commentary on cultural practices, faith, and rhetoric. This found no traction either, for similar reasons as above.
Then, I got very excited about doing a collection of essays that were more memoirish in nature: a collection of creative nonfiction, not unlike the work of Anne Lamott, Donald Miller, or Frederick Buechner. I started collecting essays and making plans for a unifying rhythm or theme. I sent out my first essay to some editor friends. They were very encouraging and gave me some tremendous help with my writing; but they kept asking, "Where's this going? What is the book about?" Days and weeks passed, and I could not get the focus I needed. In the meantime I had accumulated a couple hundred pages of writing with nothing to hold them together.
In a fit of frustration, I flew to Colorado and retreated to a mountain cabin with a writer, artist, musician, therapist friend of mine. We spent time writing (he was editing the third draft of his novel) and talking about our projects, our souls, our insecurities, our addictions, our failures, our hopes, our families, our truths, and our gods.
After one particularly frustrating night of work, I was prepared to declare that I had no business writing, that I had nothing to say, and that I was a fraud. I was contemplating ways I could move to another country and change my name to Reuben. I was about to toss my laptop through the window, and Jeff stepped in and calmed me down. For the next two hours he wove a tapestry of grace and encouragement that got my mind going again, in a whole new direction.
I'm writing a novel.
It's a reach. Long fiction is terribly intimidating, even downright scary. I worry about my mental health. But, I decided that this project has been trying to get me to this point from the beginning. There is a tale that needs to be told, and it needs to be told in the medium of the novel. The Russian literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin once argued that if you want to impart a truth or message, don't prepare a speech or an essay, write a novel. By putting many voices (heteroglossia) in play, you create a much more textured meaning than a monologue.
I hope to use much of the narrative compost I've accumulated (a reader of The Reach might recognize the kernel of a story or two), and the original idea about apology will likely show up, but the story will be able to go places the previous incarnations could not take it.
The morning after I made this creative and spiritual breakthrough, my computer crashed.
Friday, September 08, 2006
GONE
Daughter. Sister. Mother of a 12-year-old son and a 10-year-old daughter. Wife to my wife's brother. Dead at 39.
There was no warning, no chronic health problem, no clue. She went to sleep last Friday night. Around 5AM she breathed heavily like she was having a nightmare, then she was gone.
It has been a week of unimaginable grief. I have seen children age before my eyes. I have heard grown adults weep like babies. I have witnessed an extraordinary level of honesty.
Why does it take this kind of loss for families and friends to reconnect, to let down our guard and become vulnerable to each other? And, isn't it tragic that we don't often learn the best about someone until they are gone?
My new creed: Love one another honestly. The rest is bullshit.
There was no warning, no chronic health problem, no clue. She went to sleep last Friday night. Around 5AM she breathed heavily like she was having a nightmare, then she was gone.
It has been a week of unimaginable grief. I have seen children age before my eyes. I have heard grown adults weep like babies. I have witnessed an extraordinary level of honesty.
Why does it take this kind of loss for families and friends to reconnect, to let down our guard and become vulnerable to each other? And, isn't it tragic that we don't often learn the best about someone until they are gone?
My new creed: Love one another honestly. The rest is bullshit.
Monday, August 28, 2006
MY DIRTY LITTLE SECRET
It was 1984, and I pissed off Aunt V.
The world was living under the threat of nuclear holocaust and Lionel Richie. The fundamentalist takeover of the Southern Baptist Convention that started in 1979 had begun to get serious traction, and the Christian Right was becoming a political force to be reckoned with. I was going to college, where I was flirting with a major in political science, playing endless games of Defender, and perfecting my air guitar. I was tight-rolling my jeans and teasing my permed mullet. Business in the front, party in the back. I wore pastel shirts and skinny knit ties for my part-time job at Sears selling paint, electrical supplies, toys, and sporting goods.
And I campaigned for Reagan.
Yes, that's right.
No need to reread.
I was part of the Reagan Revolution.
I'm not sure I can fully explain it. I suppose part of it was overcorrection. I had recently made a dramatic turnaround from a life of narcissism; and, much like the Bob Dylan of that era, I found a home in an opposite pole. I wasn't part of the pinstriped set or the ultra-angry religious mob; but, I sincerely bought into the idea that the marketplace (of commerce and ideas) was the best hope of lifting all boats. I was a serious reader of Christian apologetics and activism, and I got carried away with arguments for moral absolutes, creationism, and biblical inerrancy. I was good at it. So good that I was capable of destroying a relationship in under 10 minutes.
I spent endless hours in the university coffee shop posing philosophical challenges for my detractors. I had (emphasis on "had") a friend--Jerome Shapiro--who was Jewish and planning to go to law school. He, like many of my acquaintances at the time, didn't buy my absolutist ontology, so we engaged the issues over Chik-fil-A sandwiches and Mello Yello. When friends like Jerome left and never came back, it just added verve to my swagger and my martyr complex ("Doing the work of the kingdom means we will suffer in this world.").
My Aunt Vinita had worked at Sears her entire career. Sometimes we would run into each other and have pleasant exchanges about our family. I didn't know her well, but she was a good soul with a kind heart. One of the things I didn't know about her was that she was a yellow dog Democrat. It was probably more of a cultural resentment of Lincoln and the Civil War than progressive ideologies, but whatever the reason, she was a hardcore Dem.
One night, I had stationed myself near the timeclock to pass out Reagan/Bush bumper stickers. It was closing time and employees were herding out the door.
I saw Aunt V making her way through the stockroom toward the exit. She saw me and her eyes filled with joy, until she saw what I was handing out.
"Reacher. Oh, Reacher" she exclaimed, voice dripping with despair and head wagging in shame. I didn't get it. How could this decent, heavenbound woman not support God's cause and candidate?
Didn't matter to me. I was committed to the "Truth," and I was prepared to suffer for it. Being right was the ultimate calling.
People like Jerome and Aunt V haunt my dreams sometimes. I never saw Jerome again, and I never talked to Aunt V about God or politics after that day in 1984.
I wonder how many relationships I sacrificed at the altar of a false god. Oh, Certainty, you wretched beast!
When Aunt V died last year, I went to her funeral. I'd like to tell you that I placed a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker on her grave. I didn't. She sure would have liked that, though.
The world was living under the threat of nuclear holocaust and Lionel Richie. The fundamentalist takeover of the Southern Baptist Convention that started in 1979 had begun to get serious traction, and the Christian Right was becoming a political force to be reckoned with. I was going to college, where I was flirting with a major in political science, playing endless games of Defender, and perfecting my air guitar. I was tight-rolling my jeans and teasing my permed mullet. Business in the front, party in the back. I wore pastel shirts and skinny knit ties for my part-time job at Sears selling paint, electrical supplies, toys, and sporting goods.
And I campaigned for Reagan.
Yes, that's right.
No need to reread.
I was part of the Reagan Revolution.
I'm not sure I can fully explain it. I suppose part of it was overcorrection. I had recently made a dramatic turnaround from a life of narcissism; and, much like the Bob Dylan of that era, I found a home in an opposite pole. I wasn't part of the pinstriped set or the ultra-angry religious mob; but, I sincerely bought into the idea that the marketplace (of commerce and ideas) was the best hope of lifting all boats. I was a serious reader of Christian apologetics and activism, and I got carried away with arguments for moral absolutes, creationism, and biblical inerrancy. I was good at it. So good that I was capable of destroying a relationship in under 10 minutes.
I spent endless hours in the university coffee shop posing philosophical challenges for my detractors. I had (emphasis on "had") a friend--Jerome Shapiro--who was Jewish and planning to go to law school. He, like many of my acquaintances at the time, didn't buy my absolutist ontology, so we engaged the issues over Chik-fil-A sandwiches and Mello Yello. When friends like Jerome left and never came back, it just added verve to my swagger and my martyr complex ("Doing the work of the kingdom means we will suffer in this world.").
My Aunt Vinita had worked at Sears her entire career. Sometimes we would run into each other and have pleasant exchanges about our family. I didn't know her well, but she was a good soul with a kind heart. One of the things I didn't know about her was that she was a yellow dog Democrat. It was probably more of a cultural resentment of Lincoln and the Civil War than progressive ideologies, but whatever the reason, she was a hardcore Dem.
One night, I had stationed myself near the timeclock to pass out Reagan/Bush bumper stickers. It was closing time and employees were herding out the door.
I saw Aunt V making her way through the stockroom toward the exit. She saw me and her eyes filled with joy, until she saw what I was handing out.
"Reacher. Oh, Reacher" she exclaimed, voice dripping with despair and head wagging in shame. I didn't get it. How could this decent, heavenbound woman not support God's cause and candidate?
Didn't matter to me. I was committed to the "Truth," and I was prepared to suffer for it. Being right was the ultimate calling.
People like Jerome and Aunt V haunt my dreams sometimes. I never saw Jerome again, and I never talked to Aunt V about God or politics after that day in 1984.
I wonder how many relationships I sacrificed at the altar of a false god. Oh, Certainty, you wretched beast!
When Aunt V died last year, I went to her funeral. I'd like to tell you that I placed a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker on her grave. I didn't. She sure would have liked that, though.
Eponymity
Since a new semester is upon us, I couldn't imagine a better post than Reach! A Lecture Musical.
My apologies for the lack of blog activity. I am on sabbatical this semester to work on a book. More on that soon.
My apologies for the lack of blog activity. I am on sabbatical this semester to work on a book. More on that soon.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Baptists, Revenge, and Too Much Tetosterone
Here are the articles that caught my attention this last week or so:
This article is old news to those of us in the Christian University business. It is a pretty accurate treatment of the subject, but it is not new information that Baptist universities have been cutting ties with their respective conventions for some time. In the cases of William Jewell, Georgetown College, and Baylor, for instance, the further away they get from Baptist affiliation, the better they do their jobs. It raises the question: can faith and academics be reconciled without compromising one or the other? Read this too.
This op-ed piece by Harvard psychologist, Daniel Gilbert, demonstrates what I am calling the "escalating reciprocity" principle. Fascinating stuff about our natural human propensity to take "an eye for an eyelash." It sheds a great deal of light on our natural escalation toward revenge.
Maybe Gilbert's column is connected to the problems in Baptist higher ed? Hmmm.
Finally, those of you who know me well know that I am a freak for the Tour de France. I have been an off and on cyclist myself for 20 years. Among my greatest sports heroes are Eddie Merckx, Greg Lemond, Miguel Indurain, and, of course, Lance. I was prepared to add this year's winner, Floyd Landis, to that pantheon--partly because we share hip problems--then, dammit, it happened. Doping scandal. It's not completely proven yet, but it doesn't look good.
Sigh.
I'm not sure why I grouped these stories. Each of them contains good news and failure. Maybe it is within the tension of hope and fear that I find meaning. Maybe this is why certain stories don't grab my attention. Stories about pleasantly unified academic communities, perfectly peaceful relationships, and spotless champions don't get much traction with me.
Maybe we all need to live with the sense that whatever we are a part of could be triumphant or disasterous at any given moment: living between the scourge and ascension. Maybe John Mellencamp is our dialectical prophet, living "between a laugh and a tear." In our inexorable progress toward destinations--life without uncertainty, prepackaged formulas with guaranteed results, and uniform perspectives--we lose something essential.
Or, maybe I'm just a freak who needs a powerful serotonin reuptake inhibitor.
This article is old news to those of us in the Christian University business. It is a pretty accurate treatment of the subject, but it is not new information that Baptist universities have been cutting ties with their respective conventions for some time. In the cases of William Jewell, Georgetown College, and Baylor, for instance, the further away they get from Baptist affiliation, the better they do their jobs. It raises the question: can faith and academics be reconciled without compromising one or the other? Read this too.
This op-ed piece by Harvard psychologist, Daniel Gilbert, demonstrates what I am calling the "escalating reciprocity" principle. Fascinating stuff about our natural human propensity to take "an eye for an eyelash." It sheds a great deal of light on our natural escalation toward revenge.
Maybe Gilbert's column is connected to the problems in Baptist higher ed? Hmmm.
Finally, those of you who know me well know that I am a freak for the Tour de France. I have been an off and on cyclist myself for 20 years. Among my greatest sports heroes are Eddie Merckx, Greg Lemond, Miguel Indurain, and, of course, Lance. I was prepared to add this year's winner, Floyd Landis, to that pantheon--partly because we share hip problems--then, dammit, it happened. Doping scandal. It's not completely proven yet, but it doesn't look good.
Sigh.
I'm not sure why I grouped these stories. Each of them contains good news and failure. Maybe it is within the tension of hope and fear that I find meaning. Maybe this is why certain stories don't grab my attention. Stories about pleasantly unified academic communities, perfectly peaceful relationships, and spotless champions don't get much traction with me.
Maybe we all need to live with the sense that whatever we are a part of could be triumphant or disasterous at any given moment: living between the scourge and ascension. Maybe John Mellencamp is our dialectical prophet, living "between a laugh and a tear." In our inexorable progress toward destinations--life without uncertainty, prepackaged formulas with guaranteed results, and uniform perspectives--we lose something essential.
Or, maybe I'm just a freak who needs a powerful serotonin reuptake inhibitor.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
NOSE JOB
My entire life I have had this problem. I came by it honestly; it's in my DNA. My father has it. My mother has it. From time to time, I see glimpses that suggest I have passed it on to at least one of my children. Is it psoriasis? No. The consumption? No. An overdeveloped sense of moral legalism? Hell no. Dyslexia? On. Body odor? Ew. Liberalism? Eh. A taste for Russian vodka? Nyet. Surrealism? The fish. No, it's none of these.
I have the pokey nose. I am predisposed to poking my nose into things that are none of my damn business.
Most people suffer from the opposite disorder: snub nose. Most people--or at least many people--live life afraid to get involved, fearful of the risks and dangers of drawing fire or attracting responsibility, inspiring an apathetic monotony in their lives. Or, maybe most people just live with an intelligent dose of wisdom that prevents them from enduring a lifetime of grief. They go about their business with noses tucked neatly into their own affairs. I, on the other hand, don't have enough of my own problems; so I create more by meddling. It comes in handy when someone is being dealt an injustice, or there is a need for bold or decisive action. But, most of the time there is no Bat signal beckoning me, no need for a superhero. Too much of the time, I just make trouble for myself.
The symptoms of nose-pokism may include -
1) using phrases like:
"My advice is..."
"I know you didn't ask for it, but my thoughts on the matter are..."
"I couldn't help but overhear..."
"What she needs to do is..."
2) an overdeveloped sense of obligation to be "my brother's keeper."
3) an abundance of expectations and responsibilities, because everyone is happy to let pokey-nose do it, if he is going to act like he knows everything.
4) less serving of others, and more doing for others. (They are not the same.)
5) a prevailing sense of guilt if you are not solving everyone's problems.
If you experience two or more of these symptoms, you may choose to follow my lead (I'm not trying to tell you what to do...really). I have resolved to do something about my nasal aggression. Eventually it may take the influence of prescription medication, but for now I am attempting to change through mindful behavior modification, a bit of a rhetorical rhinoplasty. My nose job does not require a retreat from active involvement in relationships: the world does not need another passive spectator paralyzed by relational inertia. But it does require that my default settings change from heedless action to a more reflective method of existence.
For instance, some neighbors of ours are thinking about moving. I don't want them to move. I heard a rumor about a great house on our street being remodeled, potentially for resale. It would be perfect for them. The old me would rush over the neighbor's house to give them the news and try to broker the deal. Make it happen. It is likely that the rumor would have turned out to be false, the neighbors would have resented me for putting them in an awkward position, and getting their hopes up. The owner of the house would have been a little put out that I was prying into their business, and, apparently wishing they would move away, etc., etc.
The new me--with the nose job--recogizes that it's none of his business, and further sees the wisdom in filtering out those times when intervention is not useful or important.
I suppose my absence from the blog lately has been motivated partly by this newly developed desire for self-censorship, and an effort to measure out my talk in more deliberate doses. Bad news for blog readers, I know. Our culture, particularly blogging communities, draw their life from nose-pokers. I realize that were it not for the pokers, most of us would just have to sit at our desks and get work done. Well, have no fear: I am not going away, and I am NOT turning into a coward, unwilling to speak his own peculiar brand of truth to power, or unwilling to comment on a heretofore overlooked phenomenon. I'm not going to become a humorless, passionless dullard. I'm not giving up blogging for knitting any time soon (even though knitting is very cool right now), I'm just going to work harder to recognize those moments when my intervention, my advocacy, my creativity, or my criticism may be useful. Otherwise, I'm going to shut up. Don't want to be no Cyrano.
I owe thanks to my wife and our friend Sarah for working out some of these thoughts with me. If you are ever in Portland, Oregon, you need to go to Sarah's chocolate shop.
I have the pokey nose. I am predisposed to poking my nose into things that are none of my damn business.
Most people suffer from the opposite disorder: snub nose. Most people--or at least many people--live life afraid to get involved, fearful of the risks and dangers of drawing fire or attracting responsibility, inspiring an apathetic monotony in their lives. Or, maybe most people just live with an intelligent dose of wisdom that prevents them from enduring a lifetime of grief. They go about their business with noses tucked neatly into their own affairs. I, on the other hand, don't have enough of my own problems; so I create more by meddling. It comes in handy when someone is being dealt an injustice, or there is a need for bold or decisive action. But, most of the time there is no Bat signal beckoning me, no need for a superhero. Too much of the time, I just make trouble for myself.
The symptoms of nose-pokism may include -
1) using phrases like:
"My advice is..."
"I know you didn't ask for it, but my thoughts on the matter are..."
"I couldn't help but overhear..."
"What she needs to do is..."
2) an overdeveloped sense of obligation to be "my brother's keeper."
3) an abundance of expectations and responsibilities, because everyone is happy to let pokey-nose do it, if he is going to act like he knows everything.
4) less serving of others, and more doing for others. (They are not the same.)
5) a prevailing sense of guilt if you are not solving everyone's problems.
If you experience two or more of these symptoms, you may choose to follow my lead (I'm not trying to tell you what to do...really). I have resolved to do something about my nasal aggression. Eventually it may take the influence of prescription medication, but for now I am attempting to change through mindful behavior modification, a bit of a rhetorical rhinoplasty. My nose job does not require a retreat from active involvement in relationships: the world does not need another passive spectator paralyzed by relational inertia. But it does require that my default settings change from heedless action to a more reflective method of existence.
For instance, some neighbors of ours are thinking about moving. I don't want them to move. I heard a rumor about a great house on our street being remodeled, potentially for resale. It would be perfect for them. The old me would rush over the neighbor's house to give them the news and try to broker the deal. Make it happen. It is likely that the rumor would have turned out to be false, the neighbors would have resented me for putting them in an awkward position, and getting their hopes up. The owner of the house would have been a little put out that I was prying into their business, and, apparently wishing they would move away, etc., etc.
The new me--with the nose job--recogizes that it's none of his business, and further sees the wisdom in filtering out those times when intervention is not useful or important.
I suppose my absence from the blog lately has been motivated partly by this newly developed desire for self-censorship, and an effort to measure out my talk in more deliberate doses. Bad news for blog readers, I know. Our culture, particularly blogging communities, draw their life from nose-pokers. I realize that were it not for the pokers, most of us would just have to sit at our desks and get work done. Well, have no fear: I am not going away, and I am NOT turning into a coward, unwilling to speak his own peculiar brand of truth to power, or unwilling to comment on a heretofore overlooked phenomenon. I'm not going to become a humorless, passionless dullard. I'm not giving up blogging for knitting any time soon (even though knitting is very cool right now), I'm just going to work harder to recognize those moments when my intervention, my advocacy, my creativity, or my criticism may be useful. Otherwise, I'm going to shut up. Don't want to be no Cyrano.
I owe thanks to my wife and our friend Sarah for working out some of these thoughts with me. If you are ever in Portland, Oregon, you need to go to Sarah's chocolate shop.
Friday, June 16, 2006
SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY: UNDER A BUSH RED SKY
After this post, I had to share this video with you.
George W. Bush sings U2.
Sweet.
Thanks for passing this on, Etta.
George W. Bush sings U2.
Sweet.
Thanks for passing this on, Etta.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
CHURCH IN THE WAR
There is no question that my struggles with church haven't gotten any better, but it's nice to catch glimpses of the Holy when my journey eases into Its near-orbit from time to time.
My pastor called and asked us to play some acoustic music on the front steps of the church before our Friday night alternative service. She didn't ask for "churchy" music--which is good, since we don't really know any--just our original stuff with a few obscure covers thrown in.
We were playing our version of this great Josh Ritter song for the downtown crowd gathering on the street and stoop when she came by and asked us to play it during the service. She had planned to use a recording of it before her sermon, but thought a live performance would do better. Weird. This is not a well-known song. And not a song you would expect to hear at church.
GIRL IN THE WAR
Peter said to Paul you know all those words we wrote
Are just the rules of the game and the rules are the first to go
But now talking to God is Laurel begging Hardy for a gun
I got a girl in the war man I wonder what it is we done
Paul said to Peter you got to rock yourself a little harder
Pretend the dove from above is a dragon and your feet are on fire
But I got a girl in the war Paul the only thing I know to do
Is turn up the music and pray that she makes it through
Because the keys to the Kingdom got locked inside the Kingdom
And the angels fly around in there but we can't see them
I got a girl in the war Paul I know that they can hear me yell
If they can't find a way to help her they can go to Hell
If they can't find a way to help her they can go to Hell
Paul said to Peter you got to rock yourself a little harder
Pretend the dove from above is a dragon and your feet are on fire
But I got a girl in the war Paul her eyes are like champagne
They sparkle bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain
They sparkle bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain
They sparkle bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain
So, there I was playing a song that is critical of the church, with a musical partner whose beliefs are uncertain at best, and I thought: Isn't this what church is supposed to do? Nudge us into a corner and beat on us a little bit with velvet gloves? Not to hurt us, but to dislodge us from the crust for a little while...until we eventually get back to our calcified ways of screwing it up.
It didn't solve my issues with organized religion, but it was a moment of grace.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
RANDOM THOUGHTS ON FEAR AND LOVING
Last weekend was the best and worst of times. Beginnings and endings. Laughter and tears.
As is often the case with the tug and tumult of extremes, some convergence and discovery emerged.
Friday we went to a party for a friend who quit her job to spend the summer in Europe. Not a terribly sad occasion--we're not exceptionally close friends and she will be back in August--but we wanted to support her in this big decision she's made. At the party we met some very interesting people, like Chris the video animation technician and Philip, the British computer programmer who lives in our neighborhood and walks his dog past our house.
After bidding our host farewell and making our way home, we ended up in an impromptu party on our back patio with the next-door-neighbors and their houseguests: two new journalist friends from Florida, who were in town for a wedding. Apparently everyone found the conversation sufficiently stimulating, since we didn't call it a night until about 1:00AM. Somewhere over the course of the evening the topic of inappropriate touching came up.
A physical education teacher at our neighborhood elementary school has been charged with sexual misconduct with students, and the principal is facing charges for not reporting the accusations in a timely manner. I have no position on the allegations, but there are some who are claiming that the charges are exaggerated or false. We all agreed that if it's true, the guy should have terrible things done to him; but if his life and career are ruined over false reports, it's a shame that has a long reach.
"With this kind of thing going on, why would anyone ever become a teacher?" asked Neighbor Matt. "The risk seems too great."
Everyone agreed that even for educators of the highest integrity the stakes have gotten terribly high. Every move and every word is scrutinized to the point that even the slightest miscalculation might cost you everything. As parents, all of us recognize the importance of protecting our children; but what happens to the quality of teachers, when the unsupported claims of children are allowed to destroy the adults who have committed so much to the shaping of young minds?
But what about copywriters and urban developers? Preachers and mechanics? Attorneys and carpenters? Don't we all have the threat of litigation hanging over us all the time? One wrong move, and game over. Unfortunately, some people don't fear the risk because they don't care. They are the problem. They sexually harass their employees and create unsafe work environments with little regard for the well-being of others. I'm not talking about assholes like that. I'm talking about the majority of folks who desire to do good.
I guess the question becomes this: Will you live your life in fear, or will you take your chances? What are we really afraid of? Are we afraid of incarceration or financial penalty? Humiliation and inconvenience? Or, are we afraid that our wretchedness will find us out? Most of us, if we are honest, recognize that there are plenty of reasons for us to suffer accusations. Our love is not pure. At least on some higher level, we are usually due a cosmic pounding. We aren't really afraid of the social consequences, we are afraid of our own inability to love recklessly.
"Perfect love casts out fear." Okay, I didn't say it to my friends on the patio, but I did say something like it.
"It seems to me that we have two choices: Live in fear and deny ourselves and others a relationship that is full of honesty and passion, or we can cast care to the wind, love people with all our hearts, and hope for the best."
That seemed to make sense to my friends. They are smart people, their decision to be my friend notwithstanding.
But, why is it so hard for us? Why is it so hard to embrace the one thing that liberates us and heals us, binds us together and gives us peace? Why is it so hard for us to love like that? Sin. That's what sin is about. It's not about having a drink, a smoke, a chew, or runnin' around with girls who do. It's about resisting the power of grace, the power of love to absolutely blow our minds and transform our relationships from antagonistic, competitive equations to nurturing, empowering entanglings of spirit and bone.
So, I went to the wedding the next day. Haven't seen that much seersucker, khaki, linen, dixieland jazz, and mint julip in one place since the last time I stepped into a J. Crew catalog. It was beautiful and joyful to see so many people celebrating unconditional love. I tried to not guard myself in conversation too much, but to give the love that we are all clearly desperate for. I failed much of the time. It is difficult to change our nature.
Perhaps the place we should all begin is the relationship closest to us. If we can love without fear in that place, we can start to build a critical mass that spreads. So, I am trying to give more comfort to my wife. Last weekend she was profoundly sad as she began packing her things and planning her departure from the school that was forced into closure. She's coming out the other side of her loss, and I pray that her happiness will be fully restored.
Saturday, I attended the University's commencement exercises Saturday morning. Immediately after shedding the sweat-soaked cap and gown, I had to deliver my friend, Dr. F, the embattled theater professor, to his moving van and watch him drive away to his new position.
It's always hard when friends leave. But, particularly difficult when they really get the "perfect love casts out fear" idea. Dr. F was unafraid. He refused to buy the company line and modify his behavior, scared it would cost him. The result: He left a legacy of students, and a few faculty, who will likely be a little more loving and reckless in their relationships.
To Dr. F, and Dr. H, who also walked away for good last weekend, and to all of us who are learning how to get beyond the fear: May you teach, trade, write, research, plant, build, defend, prosecute, proclaim, compute, dig, paint, parent, program, sing, and play with a love that is fierce. Is there risk? Will it cost you? Absolutely.
As is often the case with the tug and tumult of extremes, some convergence and discovery emerged.
Friday we went to a party for a friend who quit her job to spend the summer in Europe. Not a terribly sad occasion--we're not exceptionally close friends and she will be back in August--but we wanted to support her in this big decision she's made. At the party we met some very interesting people, like Chris the video animation technician and Philip, the British computer programmer who lives in our neighborhood and walks his dog past our house.
After bidding our host farewell and making our way home, we ended up in an impromptu party on our back patio with the next-door-neighbors and their houseguests: two new journalist friends from Florida, who were in town for a wedding. Apparently everyone found the conversation sufficiently stimulating, since we didn't call it a night until about 1:00AM. Somewhere over the course of the evening the topic of inappropriate touching came up.
A physical education teacher at our neighborhood elementary school has been charged with sexual misconduct with students, and the principal is facing charges for not reporting the accusations in a timely manner. I have no position on the allegations, but there are some who are claiming that the charges are exaggerated or false. We all agreed that if it's true, the guy should have terrible things done to him; but if his life and career are ruined over false reports, it's a shame that has a long reach.
"With this kind of thing going on, why would anyone ever become a teacher?" asked Neighbor Matt. "The risk seems too great."
Everyone agreed that even for educators of the highest integrity the stakes have gotten terribly high. Every move and every word is scrutinized to the point that even the slightest miscalculation might cost you everything. As parents, all of us recognize the importance of protecting our children; but what happens to the quality of teachers, when the unsupported claims of children are allowed to destroy the adults who have committed so much to the shaping of young minds?
But what about copywriters and urban developers? Preachers and mechanics? Attorneys and carpenters? Don't we all have the threat of litigation hanging over us all the time? One wrong move, and game over. Unfortunately, some people don't fear the risk because they don't care. They are the problem. They sexually harass their employees and create unsafe work environments with little regard for the well-being of others. I'm not talking about assholes like that. I'm talking about the majority of folks who desire to do good.
I guess the question becomes this: Will you live your life in fear, or will you take your chances? What are we really afraid of? Are we afraid of incarceration or financial penalty? Humiliation and inconvenience? Or, are we afraid that our wretchedness will find us out? Most of us, if we are honest, recognize that there are plenty of reasons for us to suffer accusations. Our love is not pure. At least on some higher level, we are usually due a cosmic pounding. We aren't really afraid of the social consequences, we are afraid of our own inability to love recklessly.
"Perfect love casts out fear." Okay, I didn't say it to my friends on the patio, but I did say something like it.
"It seems to me that we have two choices: Live in fear and deny ourselves and others a relationship that is full of honesty and passion, or we can cast care to the wind, love people with all our hearts, and hope for the best."
That seemed to make sense to my friends. They are smart people, their decision to be my friend notwithstanding.
But, why is it so hard for us? Why is it so hard to embrace the one thing that liberates us and heals us, binds us together and gives us peace? Why is it so hard for us to love like that? Sin. That's what sin is about. It's not about having a drink, a smoke, a chew, or runnin' around with girls who do. It's about resisting the power of grace, the power of love to absolutely blow our minds and transform our relationships from antagonistic, competitive equations to nurturing, empowering entanglings of spirit and bone.
So, I went to the wedding the next day. Haven't seen that much seersucker, khaki, linen, dixieland jazz, and mint julip in one place since the last time I stepped into a J. Crew catalog. It was beautiful and joyful to see so many people celebrating unconditional love. I tried to not guard myself in conversation too much, but to give the love that we are all clearly desperate for. I failed much of the time. It is difficult to change our nature.
Perhaps the place we should all begin is the relationship closest to us. If we can love without fear in that place, we can start to build a critical mass that spreads. So, I am trying to give more comfort to my wife. Last weekend she was profoundly sad as she began packing her things and planning her departure from the school that was forced into closure. She's coming out the other side of her loss, and I pray that her happiness will be fully restored.
Saturday, I attended the University's commencement exercises Saturday morning. Immediately after shedding the sweat-soaked cap and gown, I had to deliver my friend, Dr. F, the embattled theater professor, to his moving van and watch him drive away to his new position.
It's always hard when friends leave. But, particularly difficult when they really get the "perfect love casts out fear" idea. Dr. F was unafraid. He refused to buy the company line and modify his behavior, scared it would cost him. The result: He left a legacy of students, and a few faculty, who will likely be a little more loving and reckless in their relationships.
To Dr. F, and Dr. H, who also walked away for good last weekend, and to all of us who are learning how to get beyond the fear: May you teach, trade, write, research, plant, build, defend, prosecute, proclaim, compute, dig, paint, parent, program, sing, and play with a love that is fierce. Is there risk? Will it cost you? Absolutely.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
CAIRN
Sorry. I plan to get back to more substantive writing soon; but for now, piles of pre-finals papers await me. So, I go to grade. But before I leave you, let me give you this charge: Buy the new CD from Jeff Wiens. This disc, Cairn, is one of the finest examples of songwriting, inventive arrangements, and incredible production quality you will find in a recording these days. These songs will spill you out and soak you up, box you in and let you loose. Go ahead, listen to it...then buy it.Buy it, or I'll slap you.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Sunday, April 23, 2006
TWO SCORE AND TWO
In five months I will turn 42.
Ouch.
I'm not too worried about it, though; a while back somebody on the Today Show said something like, "42 is the new 27." So, it's all good.
I mean, even though I do tend to grunt when I stand up, my pant size hasn't grown lately. I could still pull off a red convertible without looking totally pathetic. I don't yet begin all my stories with "Back in my day...." And, all but one of my teeth are original equipment. I've never been one for daily shaving, but now when my beard starts to show, my chin looks like I grazed it across a bowl of whipped cream. People will nod and wipe around their mouth sometimes say, "You got something on your...oh...er...nothing" before they walk away embarrassed.
Yes, I am aging. I check my retirement account frequently. I have various hitches in my git-along. It's cold in here, and "You kids better STAY OUTTA MY DAMN LAWN!" But I have not yet switched to elastic waistbands.
I have an alarm on my cell phone that reminds me on Tuesdays and Thursdays that it's my turn to pick up my daughter and the neighbor kids at middle school. I started using the alarm after a couple of panicked calls I received 30-45 minutes after school was dismissed.
"Um, Reacher?"
"Yeah, Barb, how are y-- Oh, crap!"
I have alarms for everything now, and my shirt pocket is perpetually full of notes reminding me what to do, where to be, and who to call.
I was on the phone the other day with a representative from the company that administers my 403b account. The call was taking longer than I expected. I realized that in a few minutes my alarm would go off, and since I intentionally programmed it to be loud and obnoxious, capable of distracting me from whatever I happened to be doing at the time, I got really worried. (You'd think I would have quit caring what people thought so far this side of adolescence.) So I started a frantic search for my cell phone so I could disable the alarm before it sounded.
The time was approaching. I couldn't find the phone.
"From a customer service standpoint, sir, is there a reason you wish to transfer these particular funds?"
Don't have time for this. Must end call.
I used shorthand, and probably lied a little to quicken the transaction.
"Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Reacher?"
I rushed to finish the call. "Nope. Thanks. Bye."
Click.
As I ended the call, I saw my cell phone. There it was. IN MY HAND! I had been using it to place the long distance call.
It's a wonder that I still know how to breathe.
Ouch.
I'm not too worried about it, though; a while back somebody on the Today Show said something like, "42 is the new 27." So, it's all good.
I mean, even though I do tend to grunt when I stand up, my pant size hasn't grown lately. I could still pull off a red convertible without looking totally pathetic. I don't yet begin all my stories with "Back in my day...." And, all but one of my teeth are original equipment. I've never been one for daily shaving, but now when my beard starts to show, my chin looks like I grazed it across a bowl of whipped cream. People will nod and wipe around their mouth sometimes say, "You got something on your...oh...er...nothing" before they walk away embarrassed.
Yes, I am aging. I check my retirement account frequently. I have various hitches in my git-along. It's cold in here, and "You kids better STAY OUTTA MY DAMN LAWN!" But I have not yet switched to elastic waistbands.
I have an alarm on my cell phone that reminds me on Tuesdays and Thursdays that it's my turn to pick up my daughter and the neighbor kids at middle school. I started using the alarm after a couple of panicked calls I received 30-45 minutes after school was dismissed.
"Um, Reacher?"
"Yeah, Barb, how are y-- Oh, crap!"
I have alarms for everything now, and my shirt pocket is perpetually full of notes reminding me what to do, where to be, and who to call.
I was on the phone the other day with a representative from the company that administers my 403b account. The call was taking longer than I expected. I realized that in a few minutes my alarm would go off, and since I intentionally programmed it to be loud and obnoxious, capable of distracting me from whatever I happened to be doing at the time, I got really worried. (You'd think I would have quit caring what people thought so far this side of adolescence.) So I started a frantic search for my cell phone so I could disable the alarm before it sounded.
The time was approaching. I couldn't find the phone.
"From a customer service standpoint, sir, is there a reason you wish to transfer these particular funds?"
Don't have time for this. Must end call.
I used shorthand, and probably lied a little to quicken the transaction.
"Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Reacher?"
I rushed to finish the call. "Nope. Thanks. Bye."
Click.
As I ended the call, I saw my cell phone. There it was. IN MY HAND! I had been using it to place the long distance call.
It's a wonder that I still know how to breathe.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
HEAD NOTES
It was a dark and stormy night. Well, it wasn't really stormy, but it was a dark night. Not particularly dark I guess. And, actually, it was about 1:00 in the morning, on July 11, 2002. I was fast asleep, until I was strangely awakened by an overwhelming sense of disorientation and numbness in my limbs.
I woke to the most frightening experience of my life.
For two days previous, my friend Todd and I had been holed up in a friend's river cabin on the Niangua, recording about 10 songs for a self-produced CD. We called ourselves "Brother Wiley" back then, and you won't find the disc anywhere, unless you ask me for a copy. We had a very productive session, thriving on very little sleep and original musical elixir. When I returned home, I recounted the stories to my family, then promptly collapsed in bed, exhausted.
"Messy," I slurred to my wife, Betsy. My speech was nearly gone.
She rolled over, in the throes of her own peculiar diorientation that comes from interrupted REM sleep.
"What?" she asked lazily, blinking.
"I can...I cn...Som...Somes wrong," I managed to stammer, my eyelids fluttering.
She bolted upright. "What? What's wrong? What's wrong?"
"I jst...I ngh...I jss...I ono...can think"
I managed to get "call 911" out somehow, then thickly rolled out of bed and started to stumble toward the bathroom. I don't know what I thought I was going to do there. I guess it's just where we go when something is wrong with our bodies. I discovered, when I got there, that I had an overwhelming urge to urinate. I did, then collapsed on the floor, moaning and slinging verbal nonsense. Betsy had run to get help; so, for a few moments I was alone.
What was happening in my mind was, "I'm dying. This is it. I don't know how or why, but this is it--the end of my life." I always thought I would face death calmly. "I'm not afraid to die." Lived with no regrets. Got my spiritual ducks in a row. Bullshit. I was terrified. "What would happen to my daughters? Will my wife remarry? Is there a hell?"
Amidst the blathering, I managed to get out, "Jesus. Jesus. Jesus..." not as a mantra, or even a prayer. It was just all I could think to say. All my talk about radical grace and learning to accept forgiveness, and I realized I didn't really believe it. I was a liar. When it came my time, I was not saturated with sweet assurance, I was tripping in a panic unlike anything I had ever felt before.
By the time the paramedics arrived, I had stabilized quite a bit. I was still weak and dizzy, but the severe disorientation and most of the numbness had passed. The immediate thinking was that I had experienced a TIA, or mini-stroke. The ER docs ordered a CT scan and blood tests. Normal. They did some other tests (thyroid, blood sugar, etc.), but everything came back fine.
Over the next few weeks, I had an MRI to test for MS or a brain tumor. Normal. An EEG to test for seizure disorders. Normal. A lumbar puncture (spinal tap) to test for things like encephalitis, Lyme's disease, West Nile, meningitis, etc. Normal. Normal. Normal.
It was mid-August and the new semester was upon us, and I was normal. I was so normal, I walked with a cane much of the time, and my incredible father drove me the 65-mile roundtrip commute each day, because I was experiencing too much vertigo to drive a car safely. I'm sure my classes were the height of academic stimulation: teacher talks in a monotone while staring at us like he is drunk.
Eventually, through my own research, I raised the possibility of low B12 level to my neurologist. He checked me and found that I was right at the dangerously low threshold. I began taking B12 injections right away and experienced a dramatic improvement. I was able to function normally, but the lightheadedness and loss of balance were still with me. I think I have progressively gotten better, or I am just learning to cope with it. I still have "bad head" periods, where I experience pressure, a cognitive fuzziness, fatigue, a loss of balance, and a variety of other symptoms.
Over the course of the last--soon to be--four years, I have had two more MRIs (the brain pics are from the last one), numerous blood tests, a full allergy panel, an inner ear exam, and I've worn a heart monitor. I've been examined by three ER docs, three primary care physicians, four neurologists, an ear, nose, and throat specialist, an allergist, and two chiropractors, one of whom also practices acupuncture and Chinese medicine. I have discussed my case with at least three lawyers, several English professors, and one landscaper. No one seems to have a clue. The result of every test and medical visit: I am in perfect health.
Two different doctors essentially told me I should quit being a baby and get over myself, suggesting it was all in my head. I guess that's what medical dumbasses say when they are too stupid to figure out what ails their patients. "It's not in my handy-dandy medical differential diagnostic guidebook, so you must be cuckoo."
I don't happen to believe that mental illnesses should be stigmatized, so I even went through a mental screening with a psychiatric counselor. After 30 minutes of insightful probing like, "Are you under a lot of stress at work?" the therapist declared my problems to be purely physical, rejecting me as a psychiatric patient.
As a longshot I tried two different selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs). One made me much worse, and one made me happier...but I still had all my normal symptoms. I'm not a fan of long-term medicating, so I punted the depression pills. I took sleep aids for quite awhile, since I had taken to sleeping 3-4 hours a night. I have since quit that, and my slumber has improved a bit. I tried various herbal remedies that either did nothing or exacerbated my symptoms. So, no medications have worked.
I struggle with my memory sometimes, and I still tip over sometimes. But, since I have passed 4o in the interim, I don't know how much of it is aging and how much is bad head. Overall, I can function normally, I'm just not always doing so well behind the veil.
So, why am I telling you all this?
Sympathy. I want to be showered with well-wishing and pies. Warm pies. Mmmm, warm pies.
I'm really not fishing for encouragement. Please don't leave comments about how you are praying for me. There is some question about how effective that is these days anyway. I'm not really looking for help. If you want to pray for me, just do it; don't tell me about it. However, your time would be better spent if you prayed for them.
I suppose this is partly an exercise for me to try to understand things better by telling the story. Maybe some aspiring medical genius will read this and figure out what's wrong with me (there's a pie in it for you if you do). Maybe I would like to use this as an excuse for why I haven't posted anything in a month. It has been a bad head couple of weeks, but that's never stopped me before.
Some have suggested that I should be careful telling this story publicly, since employers or other interested parties might be tempted to discriminate against me because of my health condition. I have serious disagreements with some of the folks at the University, but I must say that no one there has ever been anything but kind and supportive regarding my health.
Maybe this is the reason for this post: I have been a little discouraged about my spiritual vibrancy lately. I begin to wonder sometimes if I am just kidding myself, that I really don't believe, and that I am a terrible person, husband, father, friend, teacher, musician, writer, etc. But, I am encouraged when I remember that when I was "dying," it made perfect sense to me to cry out the name of my savior. Nothing else came to mind. The only hope I saw in the face of certain ruin was the One. It's a no-brainer as a Sunday School answer, but the name came to my lips automatically, in the time of my greatest fear.
I don't know if he saved me that night. Maybe things just happened the way biology dictated they should. I must confess that it pisses me off sometimes that my so-called savior hasn't fixed me completely. I sometimes wonder how much good I could do if I didn't fall into an occasional brain cloud. I am selfish and spoiled. I want to be fixed and I don't understand what the hold up is. Then I listen to how I talk to my daughters sometimes, how I ignore the poor, how my dogs go unwalked when I don't feel like getting out, how I cut people off in traffic, how I snicker at the misfortunes of others, and I think: It's a wonder that I still know how to breathe.
I woke to the most frightening experience of my life.
For two days previous, my friend Todd and I had been holed up in a friend's river cabin on the Niangua, recording about 10 songs for a self-produced CD. We called ourselves "Brother Wiley" back then, and you won't find the disc anywhere, unless you ask me for a copy. We had a very productive session, thriving on very little sleep and original musical elixir. When I returned home, I recounted the stories to my family, then promptly collapsed in bed, exhausted.
"Messy," I slurred to my wife, Betsy. My speech was nearly gone.
She rolled over, in the throes of her own peculiar diorientation that comes from interrupted REM sleep.
"What?" she asked lazily, blinking.
"I can...I cn...Som...Somes wrong," I managed to stammer, my eyelids fluttering.
She bolted upright. "What? What's wrong? What's wrong?"
"I jst...I ngh...I jss...I ono...can think"
I managed to get "call 911" out somehow, then thickly rolled out of bed and started to stumble toward the bathroom. I don't know what I thought I was going to do there. I guess it's just where we go when something is wrong with our bodies. I discovered, when I got there, that I had an overwhelming urge to urinate. I did, then collapsed on the floor, moaning and slinging verbal nonsense. Betsy had run to get help; so, for a few moments I was alone.
What was happening in my mind was, "I'm dying. This is it. I don't know how or why, but this is it--the end of my life." I always thought I would face death calmly. "I'm not afraid to die." Lived with no regrets. Got my spiritual ducks in a row. Bullshit. I was terrified. "What would happen to my daughters? Will my wife remarry? Is there a hell?"
Amidst the blathering, I managed to get out, "Jesus. Jesus. Jesus..." not as a mantra, or even a prayer. It was just all I could think to say. All my talk about radical grace and learning to accept forgiveness, and I realized I didn't really believe it. I was a liar. When it came my time, I was not saturated with sweet assurance, I was tripping in a panic unlike anything I had ever felt before.
By the time the paramedics arrived, I had stabilized quite a bit. I was still weak and dizzy, but the severe disorientation and most of the numbness had passed. The immediate thinking was that I had experienced a TIA, or mini-stroke. The ER docs ordered a CT scan and blood tests. Normal. They did some other tests (thyroid, blood sugar, etc.), but everything came back fine.
Over the next few weeks, I had an MRI to test for MS or a brain tumor. Normal. An EEG to test for seizure disorders. Normal. A lumbar puncture (spinal tap) to test for things like encephalitis, Lyme's disease, West Nile, meningitis, etc. Normal. Normal. Normal.
It was mid-August and the new semester was upon us, and I was normal. I was so normal, I walked with a cane much of the time, and my incredible father drove me the 65-mile roundtrip commute each day, because I was experiencing too much vertigo to drive a car safely. I'm sure my classes were the height of academic stimulation: teacher talks in a monotone while staring at us like he is drunk.
Eventually, through my own research, I raised the possibility of low B12 level to my neurologist. He checked me and found that I was right at the dangerously low threshold. I began taking B12 injections right away and experienced a dramatic improvement. I was able to function normally, but the lightheadedness and loss of balance were still with me. I think I have progressively gotten better, or I am just learning to cope with it. I still have "bad head" periods, where I experience pressure, a cognitive fuzziness, fatigue, a loss of balance, and a variety of other symptoms.
Over the course of the last--soon to be--four years, I have had two more MRIs (the brain pics are from the last one), numerous blood tests, a full allergy panel, an inner ear exam, and I've worn a heart monitor. I've been examined by three ER docs, three primary care physicians, four neurologists, an ear, nose, and throat specialist, an allergist, and two chiropractors, one of whom also practices acupuncture and Chinese medicine. I have discussed my case with at least three lawyers, several English professors, and one landscaper. No one seems to have a clue. The result of every test and medical visit: I am in perfect health.
Two different doctors essentially told me I should quit being a baby and get over myself, suggesting it was all in my head. I guess that's what medical dumbasses say when they are too stupid to figure out what ails their patients. "It's not in my handy-dandy medical differential diagnostic guidebook, so you must be cuckoo."
I don't happen to believe that mental illnesses should be stigmatized, so I even went through a mental screening with a psychiatric counselor. After 30 minutes of insightful probing like, "Are you under a lot of stress at work?" the therapist declared my problems to be purely physical, rejecting me as a psychiatric patient.
As a longshot I tried two different selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs). One made me much worse, and one made me happier...but I still had all my normal symptoms. I'm not a fan of long-term medicating, so I punted the depression pills. I took sleep aids for quite awhile, since I had taken to sleeping 3-4 hours a night. I have since quit that, and my slumber has improved a bit. I tried various herbal remedies that either did nothing or exacerbated my symptoms. So, no medications have worked.
I struggle with my memory sometimes, and I still tip over sometimes. But, since I have passed 4o in the interim, I don't know how much of it is aging and how much is bad head. Overall, I can function normally, I'm just not always doing so well behind the veil.
So, why am I telling you all this?
Sympathy. I want to be showered with well-wishing and pies. Warm pies. Mmmm, warm pies.
I'm really not fishing for encouragement. Please don't leave comments about how you are praying for me. There is some question about how effective that is these days anyway. I'm not really looking for help. If you want to pray for me, just do it; don't tell me about it. However, your time would be better spent if you prayed for them.
I suppose this is partly an exercise for me to try to understand things better by telling the story. Maybe some aspiring medical genius will read this and figure out what's wrong with me (there's a pie in it for you if you do). Maybe I would like to use this as an excuse for why I haven't posted anything in a month. It has been a bad head couple of weeks, but that's never stopped me before.
Some have suggested that I should be careful telling this story publicly, since employers or other interested parties might be tempted to discriminate against me because of my health condition. I have serious disagreements with some of the folks at the University, but I must say that no one there has ever been anything but kind and supportive regarding my health.
Maybe this is the reason for this post: I have been a little discouraged about my spiritual vibrancy lately. I begin to wonder sometimes if I am just kidding myself, that I really don't believe, and that I am a terrible person, husband, father, friend, teacher, musician, writer, etc. But, I am encouraged when I remember that when I was "dying," it made perfect sense to me to cry out the name of my savior. Nothing else came to mind. The only hope I saw in the face of certain ruin was the One. It's a no-brainer as a Sunday School answer, but the name came to my lips automatically, in the time of my greatest fear.
I don't know if he saved me that night. Maybe things just happened the way biology dictated they should. I must confess that it pisses me off sometimes that my so-called savior hasn't fixed me completely. I sometimes wonder how much good I could do if I didn't fall into an occasional brain cloud. I am selfish and spoiled. I want to be fixed and I don't understand what the hold up is. Then I listen to how I talk to my daughters sometimes, how I ignore the poor, how my dogs go unwalked when I don't feel like getting out, how I cut people off in traffic, how I snicker at the misfortunes of others, and I think: It's a wonder that I still know how to breathe.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
WHAT GOD IS DOING
I'm a little behind on this, but I just recently watched Bono's Keynote Address at the 2006 National Prayer Breakfast.
It was a relatively stunning piece of work. He was refreshingly nonpartisan, giving props to the President and Congress for their accomplishments in addressing third-world debt and AIDS in Africa. He claimed that religious and political leaders had helped usher in an "era of grace." But he was also prophetically confrontational in calling the US to increase its "tithe" to the world's poor.
What was most interesting, however, about the homily was that Bono can preach. He was bringing it, and it was good. He didn't get political, expliciting condemning or criticizing administration policies on war or economics. He addressed the human struggle we face in balancing the convenience of "charity" and the uncomfortable demands of "justice" and "equality."
This is not about charity, it’s about justice. And that’s too bad. Because we’re good at charity. Americans, Irish people, are good at charity. We like to give, and we give a lot, even those who can’t afford it.But justice is a higher standard. Africa makes a fool of our idea of justice; it makes a farce of our idea of equality. It mocks our pieties; it doubts our concern, and it questions our commitment. Six and a half thousand Africans are still dying every day of preventable, treatable disease, for lack of drugs we can buy at any drug store. This is not about charity: This is about justice and equality.
Because there's no way we can look at what’s happening in Africa and, if we're honest, conclude that deep down, we would let it happen anywhere else -- if we really accepted that Africans are equal to us.
Look what happened in South East Asia with the Tsunami. 150, 000 lives lost to the misnomer of all misnomers, “mother nature”. Well, in Africa, 150,000 lives are lost every month -- a tsunami every month. And it’s a completely avoidable catastrophe.
It’s annoying but justice and equality are mates, aren’t they? Justice always wants to hang out with equality. And equality is a real pain in the ass. Seriously.
As a way of discerning the will of God when we take our faith public, Bono points out that wherever God may be, we know God is with the poor and the downtrodden. He says, "God is with us if we are with them." Sounds like a pretty simple calculus: If our actions are designed to benefit anything or anyone over "the least of these," it is suspect. Doesn't mean it's wrong, but it ought to come under some serious scrutiny.
The "money line" in the speech was when he recalls the wisdom of a spiritual advisor:
A number of years ago, I met a wise man who changed my life -- in countless ways, big and small. I was always seeking the Lord’s blessing. I - I'd be saying, "Look, I've got a new song...Would you look out for it. I have a family; I'm going away on tour -- please look after them. I have this crazy idea. Could I have a blessing on it."
And this wise man asked me to stop. He said, "Stop asking God to bless what you’re doing. Get involved in what God is doing -- because it’s already blessed."
Well, let's get involved in what God is doing. God, as I say, is always with the poor. That's what God is doing. That's what He’s calling us to do.
I suppose the problem is that everyone thinks that what they are doing is what God is doing. We continually make and remake God in our own image.
May we all be blessed by our actions, not by our intentions.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
WHERE HAVE I BEEN?
What's it to you?
If you must know, I have been racking my brain for a writing idea. Nothing is coming. Sure, I could write about politics or current events; but don't you think there are enough bloggers doing that duty? I don't mind laying down some smack on the matters of the day, but I would rather peer into my soul and share what I see, even if it scares the hell out of us. But, for now nothing screams at me to be written, and I am not so desperate for attention that I will just post something just to be posting something.
Yeah, the brain appears to be empty at the moment. However, in the spirit of democratic bloggery, I invite you to participate in my muse search. Look around.
See anything worth writing about? Sure, there's the goofy head shape and the inexplicable piece of broccoli resting below the intestine east of the nose. But, no meaningful ideas appear to be floating around in there.
I almost had a story when I discovered this angle: It seems that I have a relative of Mr. Bill floating around near my cerebellum. Ohhhh Noooo!!!!
And I must confess that it disturbed me a great deal to know that at a certain angle I look like this:
Yipes! Protect your children.
Well, I'll keep looking.
I'm thinking about inviting my sister in as a guest blogger. Huh? What do you think? She has a very scary brain.
If you must know, I have been racking my brain for a writing idea. Nothing is coming. Sure, I could write about politics or current events; but don't you think there are enough bloggers doing that duty? I don't mind laying down some smack on the matters of the day, but I would rather peer into my soul and share what I see, even if it scares the hell out of us. But, for now nothing screams at me to be written, and I am not so desperate for attention that I will just post something just to be posting something.
Yeah, the brain appears to be empty at the moment. However, in the spirit of democratic bloggery, I invite you to participate in my muse search. Look around.
See anything worth writing about? Sure, there's the goofy head shape and the inexplicable piece of broccoli resting below the intestine east of the nose. But, no meaningful ideas appear to be floating around in there.
I almost had a story when I discovered this angle: It seems that I have a relative of Mr. Bill floating around near my cerebellum. Ohhhh Noooo!!!!
And I must confess that it disturbed me a great deal to know that at a certain angle I look like this:
Yipes! Protect your children.
Well, I'll keep looking.
I'm thinking about inviting my sister in as a guest blogger. Huh? What do you think? She has a very scary brain.
Friday, February 17, 2006
GUNS AND POSES
I wasn't planning to address Dick's misfire, expecting instead to point you to the excellent treatment of the topic here and here. But, after engaging my conservative colleagues on a private editorial advisory board blog for a local newspaper, I have to address a couple of things.
Even though there are some interesting issues surrounding the hunting of quail raised in captivity, drinking and shooting, and the lack of firearm safety, to me the bigger story is the way the issue was handled and what it reveals about the Vice President's view of us and democracy.
Cheney's supporters that I have talked to suggest that all of this is a non-issue that is being unfairly inflated by the liberal media. Perhaps. Certainly is possible. They go on to say that Cheney is not a weak-willed politician who is poll-driven in his decision making. He is a man of principle who plows ahead regardless of the popularity of his moves. Maybe. Or, maybe he is driven by the perception that he and his cadre of fellows have received a divine millenial calling to release the world from certain brands of tyranny, and no one will be allowed to stop them, or even question their goals or methods. When you adopt a position like that, it is not a big step to believe that none of your actions should be scrutinized by the public.
Cheney's reaction to this situation has betrayed an arrogance and an insensitivity to the will of the people that is disturbing. At first he indicated that it wasn't anyone's business, then he agreed to an interview by a shadow of a journalist (Fox's Brit Hume) that served notice to all the "liberal media" that he was not interested in offering his story as news.
The whole thing just reveals the ongoing trend in this administration: Decide on your version of the truth; make sure the public is always afraid; accept no criticism; engage in no meaningful dialogue with your detractors. I've already talked about Bush's disdain for opposition. This is just another example.
Please spare me the purely partisan defenses of the guy. I am not making these remarks because he is a Republican. For instance, I found Clinton's "depends on what the meaning of 'is' is" rhetoric to be shameful and devastating blow to the notion of accuracy, truth, and integrity in public life.
So anyway, that's not what I really came here to tell you. The Dickshot incident reminded me of a story.
I was 13 and a brand new hunter. Back in those days, people didn't take hunter safety or gun certification courses. Your course was getting up in the middle of the night, donning too-big tin cloth pants and coats with game bag pockets, drinking coffee for the first time (black, no cream or sugar), and learning how to act like a man. No goofing around. No petting the dog like she's a pet. It's working time.
I rode quietly on the bench seat of the pickup with stool-softening anticipation and fear roiling around in my pre-pubescent gut. I kept thinking about the Savage 20-gauge riding in back. I had shot it a few times to get used to the recoil. I knew there was something in that gun that was far more powerful than me, and I was not sure I was strong enough to conquer it.
[Okay, I'll shorten the story since I hadn't planned on the big Dick prologue.]
We met up with our hunting companion and got on our way. After a few hours we had nearly given up. All of a sudden the dog went on point. We kicked up a covey and I shot. I caught one on the wing and it went down. My first bird. We found it a few yards away, flopping around in an injured state. We circled around it to contain it. Apparently the expectation was that the dog would go in and finish it off. Not good enough for me. I was intoxicated by the juice of the hunt. The rush of bloodlust overcame me and I fired. The blast shredded the wounded bird into a bloody smear of pins and feathers. I knew immediately that I had done wrong. If I hadn't felt it in my conscience, the look of horror on all faces would have been my clue. Even the dog stopped and glanced at me, then looked around the circle, as though to say, "Where the hell did you get this kid?"
In my childish mind what I came away with was the glee that "I got a bird." Later, it began to dawn on me that I could have killed someone.
I hunted a few times after that, but eventually lost the appetite for it. Literally. I never really liked the meat I killed, so I guess it was all a little empty as an exercise.
When I heard about Cheney's incident I felt a certain empathy at first. I know the sense of shame, the fear of what could have happened. It has troubled me for years that I didn't grasp the full gravity of what I had done. Besides completely obliterating the bird, I had seriously imperiled everyone around me. My ignorance and lust almost cost a life. To those men and that dog I say I am sorry.
I guess this is what bothers me so about the VP. He came very close to killing someone because of his negligence. I don't think any fair-minded person is going to continue to blame him for that misjudgment if he quickly owns up to it and subjects himself to public scrutiny. By finessing the situation and showing disregard for inquiry, however, is to suggest that you aren't really sorry.
Shame costs something. When you are afraid to endure it, you aren't really sorry.
Even though there are some interesting issues surrounding the hunting of quail raised in captivity, drinking and shooting, and the lack of firearm safety, to me the bigger story is the way the issue was handled and what it reveals about the Vice President's view of us and democracy.
Cheney's supporters that I have talked to suggest that all of this is a non-issue that is being unfairly inflated by the liberal media. Perhaps. Certainly is possible. They go on to say that Cheney is not a weak-willed politician who is poll-driven in his decision making. He is a man of principle who plows ahead regardless of the popularity of his moves. Maybe. Or, maybe he is driven by the perception that he and his cadre of fellows have received a divine millenial calling to release the world from certain brands of tyranny, and no one will be allowed to stop them, or even question their goals or methods. When you adopt a position like that, it is not a big step to believe that none of your actions should be scrutinized by the public.
Cheney's reaction to this situation has betrayed an arrogance and an insensitivity to the will of the people that is disturbing. At first he indicated that it wasn't anyone's business, then he agreed to an interview by a shadow of a journalist (Fox's Brit Hume) that served notice to all the "liberal media" that he was not interested in offering his story as news.
The whole thing just reveals the ongoing trend in this administration: Decide on your version of the truth; make sure the public is always afraid; accept no criticism; engage in no meaningful dialogue with your detractors. I've already talked about Bush's disdain for opposition. This is just another example.
Please spare me the purely partisan defenses of the guy. I am not making these remarks because he is a Republican. For instance, I found Clinton's "depends on what the meaning of 'is' is" rhetoric to be shameful and devastating blow to the notion of accuracy, truth, and integrity in public life.
So anyway, that's not what I really came here to tell you. The Dickshot incident reminded me of a story.
I was 13 and a brand new hunter. Back in those days, people didn't take hunter safety or gun certification courses. Your course was getting up in the middle of the night, donning too-big tin cloth pants and coats with game bag pockets, drinking coffee for the first time (black, no cream or sugar), and learning how to act like a man. No goofing around. No petting the dog like she's a pet. It's working time.
I rode quietly on the bench seat of the pickup with stool-softening anticipation and fear roiling around in my pre-pubescent gut. I kept thinking about the Savage 20-gauge riding in back. I had shot it a few times to get used to the recoil. I knew there was something in that gun that was far more powerful than me, and I was not sure I was strong enough to conquer it.
[Okay, I'll shorten the story since I hadn't planned on the big Dick prologue.]
We met up with our hunting companion and got on our way. After a few hours we had nearly given up. All of a sudden the dog went on point. We kicked up a covey and I shot. I caught one on the wing and it went down. My first bird. We found it a few yards away, flopping around in an injured state. We circled around it to contain it. Apparently the expectation was that the dog would go in and finish it off. Not good enough for me. I was intoxicated by the juice of the hunt. The rush of bloodlust overcame me and I fired. The blast shredded the wounded bird into a bloody smear of pins and feathers. I knew immediately that I had done wrong. If I hadn't felt it in my conscience, the look of horror on all faces would have been my clue. Even the dog stopped and glanced at me, then looked around the circle, as though to say, "Where the hell did you get this kid?"
In my childish mind what I came away with was the glee that "I got a bird." Later, it began to dawn on me that I could have killed someone.
I hunted a few times after that, but eventually lost the appetite for it. Literally. I never really liked the meat I killed, so I guess it was all a little empty as an exercise.
When I heard about Cheney's incident I felt a certain empathy at first. I know the sense of shame, the fear of what could have happened. It has troubled me for years that I didn't grasp the full gravity of what I had done. Besides completely obliterating the bird, I had seriously imperiled everyone around me. My ignorance and lust almost cost a life. To those men and that dog I say I am sorry.
I guess this is what bothers me so about the VP. He came very close to killing someone because of his negligence. I don't think any fair-minded person is going to continue to blame him for that misjudgment if he quickly owns up to it and subjects himself to public scrutiny. By finessing the situation and showing disregard for inquiry, however, is to suggest that you aren't really sorry.
Shame costs something. When you are afraid to endure it, you aren't really sorry.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
CONFIRMATION
So. You turned 13.I was in the process of writing an essay about my first hunting experience that happened when I turned 13. I thought it was timely, what with the Vice President shooting a guy like I almost did in 1977. But that's a story for another day.
I was thinking about turning 13 and the whole notion of coming of age, and I couldn't get my mind off of you. Before my very eyes you have become a young woman. When I see you, when I think about you, it shatters me. You devastate me with your beauty and paralyze me with fear. You are a mystery that is daily unfolding, then refolding, then surprising me with a whole new angle. Pubescent origami.
I remember that as a baby, and then as a toddler, you were bald. People thought you were a boy, even when you were festooned with pink frilly things. You were hard to figure out even then.
As soon as you could speak and hold on to an opinion, you expressed your disappointment that you had not been born black.
I remember the moment the U.S. women's soccer team won the 1999 World Cup. Brandi Chastain ripped off her jersey as a group of us erupted in cheers. You retreated to the corner with your arms crossed and a sour expression on your face.
"What's wrong, honey?" I asked.
You turned your defiant little six-year-old face toward me and said, "I'm mad. I wanted China to win."
I told that story to my university hosts in China a few years later. They are probably still talking about you.
"You come back next year and bring Daughter Number Two with you!" declared Mr. Mu triumphantly.
Your kindergarten teacher said that if she were planning a party she would most definitely invite you.
I remember the times you join me for a walk around the neighborhood, and you can't stop talking. Then, sometimes you join me for a walk or a ride in the car and we can be together for long periods of time with comfortable silence resting between us.
I love watching you grow from a baby to the person dozens of adults turn to first to care for their babies. Little kids look at you like you're Willy Wonka and they just found the golden ticket.
I love your strong will. It often manifests itself in protests against the daily required piano practicing, but all I can really hear is the way you make me feel when you lose yourself in music.
I love how you love innocence. Children and old people. Anyone who might be considered vulnerable. You have always favored the underdog, the least of these. You despise injustice like a Hebrew prophet.
I love that you love the presence of your friends, but how you can be absolutely content in solitude.
I love how adults who know you get a certain glimmer in their eyes when they talk about you. You seem to bring out the mischievous impulse in everyone. They know you are an outlaw...in the best kind of way. You evoke a yearning in them. They sense that you will have the courage to say and do things they would never dream of. That's the part that scares me. It fills me with pride and frightens me at the same time. That's what I love about you.
If we were Jewish, you would have a bat-mitzvah (Actually, I think bar-mitzvahs are at 13 and bat-mitzvahs are actually at 12.). Instead, the only tangible sign of your age is a confirmation class at church, where you are learning from a fantastic woman pastor how to come at God from an uncommon perspective.
You are confirming who you are in the world and what you believe. At this moment and in this space I also confirm something: I cannot imagine my life without you.
I know there are times you would rather not have me around. You're 13. I get that. But I remember what you used to say to me when you were three or four: "Go away in the house." You didn't want me in your face, but you needed me nearby.
Well, dear, I will try to give you the space to become a woman. May you grow into everything God has dreamed for you. May you learn to love foolishly and fight recklessly. May all that passion and ferocity and mischief in you ignite holy fires. May there always be evidence that you were in the area.
Okay. I'm going to go away now and leave you alone.
But I will always be right here.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
THE STATE OF THE SPEECH
Okay, here's the speech teacher's score: C-My score this time around is based almost entirely on delivery. I have to confess that I have quit paying much attention to the content of State of the Union addresses, because they are usually little more than forgettable laundry lists of unrealistic proposals.
Here are my delivery observations:
He is better than he used to be. He used to really herky-jerky. It's still there, but not as pronounced. There were brief moments of clarity and gravity, glimpses of cadence and intensity; but overall the speech was incredibly uneven.
He is uncomfortable in the rostrum. This guy does not want to be there. I'm not talking about the presidency, he very much wants to be there. But he is not an orator, and these events are not pleasant for him. He does not enjoy the spoken word.
The speech is not his. He didn't write it; but more importantly, he has never owned it. Presidents don't write their own speeches anymore, of course, but some go to great lengths to make the speech theirs (see Reagan and Clinton). This is a speech assembled by bureaucrats that could never find its rhythm. He is anchored to the teleprompters. He turns his head before his eyes are ready to leave the security of the plexiglass manuscript. Watch him when he finishes a phrase that invites applause. He doesn't lean into it, because it doesn't belong to him. He is not offering something of himself to his audience, he is simply serving as a vehicle for a broad set of ideas. When he finishes those phrases, and the applause begins, he appears relieved that it is over for a few seconds. Eager speakers get impatient with the applause because they want to get on to the really good stuff.
The old smugness is still there. Again, not as bad as before, but the smirk and wink business persists. Here's one thing that will always prevent him from appearing to be a statesman or grand orator: opposition pisses him off, and it shows. He has no respect for disagreement. This hardly makes him unique, but he allows it to color his rhetoric. It visibly disturbs him when people don't stand to applaud for him and his ideas. Consequently, when he talks about bipartisanship and unified goals, it all falls flat.
I swear if I hear him say, "nucular" one more time, I may resign from the assiociation of English-speaking humans.
His handlers are not getting him ready. Maybe that's as good as it can get, but the best it can get is a C- from me.
Why do I care? Because speech matters. Sure, policies and actions are more important, but when you are the Chief Orator, the public and history look to you to shape the way we talk about things of importance. When you reveal in your rhetoric that you have no tolerance for dissent, and that any effort you make toward dialogue is little more than a chimera of the worst order, you do a disservice to all who aspire to democracy.
Oh, by the way, please save us the irony of eulogizing Coretta Scott King in the same speech that you declare the rightward shift of the Supreme Court.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
A RIVER RAN THROUGH US (PART II)
Sorry about that. A four-day trip to Chicago has diverted my attention. I'm back. Here we go:
After scurrying around to throw on some clothes, they came to the door.
Dusty and Clint. It was clear by their accents and all the nonverbal cues - that men learn to recognize in other men - that what we had here were two gay, native Arkansan, Shetland pony ranchers, who had a strong interest in bourbon and baseball.
We had to explain ourselves to Dusty and Clint several times before they understood our predicament. Admittedly, our situation jumped the grooves of normal expectations; but the fog of alcohol was making it even harder for them to comprehend.
"You came from where?"
"What happened, exactly?"
I felt like the family in Flanner O'Connor's story A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Jeff and I were John Wesley and June Star shouting "We've had an ACCIDENT! We've had an ACCIDENT!" I was just hoping we had not stumbled upon the Misfit and Bobby Lee, the escaped convicts that end up murdering the family in cold blood.
Before long, Dusty and Clint drew a bead on the situation and started scrambling to help. We used their phone to call the canoe outfitter. No answer. Clint drove us down to the river in his his pickup and we hauled our crew up to the house.
Finally, Jeff and Clint decided they would have to take the truck and try to find our vehicle. Good luck. We had no idea where we were, or what bridge the Suburban was supposed to be under. It was about 9:30 when they pulled down the driveway on their search.
The rest of us settled in the living room to wait. Some of us lounged on the couch and most of the kids scattered on the floor. We made small talk and pretended we were all very interested in the fate of the Cardinals. However, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling I'd had since we came upon the goose.
I kept my eyes on Dusty. He was uncomfortable and fidgety. He kept getting up to go to another room. Each time he left, I made up a reason I needed to follow him. I had to try the outfitter's number again. I needed a glass of water. I guess I was being paranoid, but this was rural Arkansas, and these guys had to have firearms in the house. I think it's the law: Live in rural Arkansas, have gun.
After 11:00 had come and gone, Dusty started to get visibly agitated. His drunk had turned to the droop-eyed stare. I found him gazing darkly at the girls from time to time. Out of nowhere, he would pop out of his trance and ask, "How did you all get here again?" Or, "Somebody tell me what's going on again." Clint was clearly the one who kept it together around here, and Dusty was getting scared. Don't get me wrong, Dusty was a good host. He was kind and helpful, but as the hours passed, the paranoia and bourbon were burning deeper into his brain.
About 11:30 Dusty gestured to me. "C'mo...C-c-can you...c-c'mon out here...side...I need talk t' you." He busted out the front door, clearly upset and ready for a confrontation. I followed him, keeping my eyes on loose objects I could use as weapons. Dusty was a pretty small guy, I think I would have been able to take him pretty easily, but this daddy wasn't going to leave anything to chance.
He pulls me around the side of the house and starts to cry.
"What's going on here?" he sputters. "I don't know y-you. I d-don't know w-what's goin' on. Where's Clint?"
I try to reassure him. "It's okay, Dusty. This must all seem pretty weird to you. But, I'm sure they are just having a hard time finding the car."
"Clint's all I have," said Dusty, with his chin drawn toward his shoulder and the top of his head swaying back to the other shoulder. As he then turned and looked me square in the face, he said, "I'm scared."
I tried to give him a reassuring smile. "I know, Dusty. I'm sorry. Surely they'll be back any minute now."
Then, it happened. He looked me up and down. He spread his arms like Christ and hung his head. He was either that drunk, or that ashamed of this betrayal.
"Can I have a hug?" His body hiccupped a little with sobs.
I was confused. What was I supposed to do? I was still fairly new to the world of liberal sensibilities. I had been raised to believe that this man's lifestyle was sinful. Was I to support it? Was hugging him a tacit endorsement? Would he take it as a come-on? Would a kiss be next? Besides, I was still a little scared myself. My fear and the residue of adolescent homophobia bested my impulse toward grace.
"No, Dusty. I'm not going to hug you. I know you are upset...they'll...be back...soon." My words trailed off as I stood there in shame. Now I felt like crying. I had chosen the route of safety and suspicion. What was I so afraid of? How was this small, scared, drunk, gay man a threat to me? I was spinning.
A few minutes later, around midnight, Jeff and Clint pulled up in two separate vehicles. They had finally found the Suburban, after an exhaustive search of the Northern Arkansas bridge population.
With great relief, we offered our thanks and made our departure. I was experiencing a strange hangover of release and guilt.
Jeff and his family exchanged Christmas cards with Dusty and Clint for a couple of years after that. Eventually they lost touch. I'm ashamed to say that I never pursued the relationship with those men. I suppose part of me rationalized it as Jeff being our spokesman. But, I guess there were just too many secrets I had learned about all of us.
A river ran through us that day. I can't help but think that the Kings, in its sovereignty, took us where it wanted us to be; changed the course of our lives just a little. Sure, the river left us with a great story - few people get to tell about being rescued by gay Shetland pony ranchers in Arkansas - but, I always tell it with a certain amount of regret.
Float trip anyone?
After scurrying around to throw on some clothes, they came to the door.
Dusty and Clint. It was clear by their accents and all the nonverbal cues - that men learn to recognize in other men - that what we had here were two gay, native Arkansan, Shetland pony ranchers, who had a strong interest in bourbon and baseball.
We had to explain ourselves to Dusty and Clint several times before they understood our predicament. Admittedly, our situation jumped the grooves of normal expectations; but the fog of alcohol was making it even harder for them to comprehend.
"You came from where?"
"What happened, exactly?"
I felt like the family in Flanner O'Connor's story A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Jeff and I were John Wesley and June Star shouting "We've had an ACCIDENT! We've had an ACCIDENT!" I was just hoping we had not stumbled upon the Misfit and Bobby Lee, the escaped convicts that end up murdering the family in cold blood.
Before long, Dusty and Clint drew a bead on the situation and started scrambling to help. We used their phone to call the canoe outfitter. No answer. Clint drove us down to the river in his his pickup and we hauled our crew up to the house.
Finally, Jeff and Clint decided they would have to take the truck and try to find our vehicle. Good luck. We had no idea where we were, or what bridge the Suburban was supposed to be under. It was about 9:30 when they pulled down the driveway on their search.
The rest of us settled in the living room to wait. Some of us lounged on the couch and most of the kids scattered on the floor. We made small talk and pretended we were all very interested in the fate of the Cardinals. However, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling I'd had since we came upon the goose.
I kept my eyes on Dusty. He was uncomfortable and fidgety. He kept getting up to go to another room. Each time he left, I made up a reason I needed to follow him. I had to try the outfitter's number again. I needed a glass of water. I guess I was being paranoid, but this was rural Arkansas, and these guys had to have firearms in the house. I think it's the law: Live in rural Arkansas, have gun.
After 11:00 had come and gone, Dusty started to get visibly agitated. His drunk had turned to the droop-eyed stare. I found him gazing darkly at the girls from time to time. Out of nowhere, he would pop out of his trance and ask, "How did you all get here again?" Or, "Somebody tell me what's going on again." Clint was clearly the one who kept it together around here, and Dusty was getting scared. Don't get me wrong, Dusty was a good host. He was kind and helpful, but as the hours passed, the paranoia and bourbon were burning deeper into his brain.
About 11:30 Dusty gestured to me. "C'mo...C-c-can you...c-c'mon out here...side...I need talk t' you." He busted out the front door, clearly upset and ready for a confrontation. I followed him, keeping my eyes on loose objects I could use as weapons. Dusty was a pretty small guy, I think I would have been able to take him pretty easily, but this daddy wasn't going to leave anything to chance.
He pulls me around the side of the house and starts to cry.
"What's going on here?" he sputters. "I don't know y-you. I d-don't know w-what's goin' on. Where's Clint?"
I try to reassure him. "It's okay, Dusty. This must all seem pretty weird to you. But, I'm sure they are just having a hard time finding the car."
"Clint's all I have," said Dusty, with his chin drawn toward his shoulder and the top of his head swaying back to the other shoulder. As he then turned and looked me square in the face, he said, "I'm scared."
I tried to give him a reassuring smile. "I know, Dusty. I'm sorry. Surely they'll be back any minute now."
Then, it happened. He looked me up and down. He spread his arms like Christ and hung his head. He was either that drunk, or that ashamed of this betrayal.
"Can I have a hug?" His body hiccupped a little with sobs.
I was confused. What was I supposed to do? I was still fairly new to the world of liberal sensibilities. I had been raised to believe that this man's lifestyle was sinful. Was I to support it? Was hugging him a tacit endorsement? Would he take it as a come-on? Would a kiss be next? Besides, I was still a little scared myself. My fear and the residue of adolescent homophobia bested my impulse toward grace.
"No, Dusty. I'm not going to hug you. I know you are upset...they'll...be back...soon." My words trailed off as I stood there in shame. Now I felt like crying. I had chosen the route of safety and suspicion. What was I so afraid of? How was this small, scared, drunk, gay man a threat to me? I was spinning.
A few minutes later, around midnight, Jeff and Clint pulled up in two separate vehicles. They had finally found the Suburban, after an exhaustive search of the Northern Arkansas bridge population.
With great relief, we offered our thanks and made our departure. I was experiencing a strange hangover of release and guilt.
Jeff and his family exchanged Christmas cards with Dusty and Clint for a couple of years after that. Eventually they lost touch. I'm ashamed to say that I never pursued the relationship with those men. I suppose part of me rationalized it as Jeff being our spokesman. But, I guess there were just too many secrets I had learned about all of us.
A river ran through us that day. I can't help but think that the Kings, in its sovereignty, took us where it wanted us to be; changed the course of our lives just a little. Sure, the river left us with a great story - few people get to tell about being rescued by gay Shetland pony ranchers in Arkansas - but, I always tell it with a certain amount of regret.
Float trip anyone?
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
A RIVER RAN THROUGH US
"You can't miss it," claimed the woman. She was assuring us that we would see the vehicle from the river. Her kids, who helped her run a river outfitter business, were putting in our canoes before they left to drop the truck at the take out spot six miles downstream."A big ol' bright red Chevy like this? It'll be easy to see."
It was a beautiful summer day in northern Arkansas. My family and I had joined up with some friends for a canoe trip on the Kings River: one of the best-kept secrets in the Midwest. A beautiful day and a quiet stretch of water. Ahh, sweet release. What a day.
"You'll come to a wide gravel take-out by a bridge. Just go past the bridge and you'll see it. I'll leave the keys on top of the left front tire."
Jeff told her thanks and gave her the keys to his Suburban. The nine of us stepped into our four boats and settled in for a great time away from the city.
We weren't exactly whitewater veterans, but most of us had spent a fair amount of time on the water. We had a couple of reluctant novices with us; but as is always the case, the magic and mystery of the river quickly muted all protest. Before long, we were shooting the rapids and paddle-splashing our companions like pros.
I have heard it said that a sure-fire compatibility test for a couple is a river trip in the same canoe. Canoes have a way of clarifying relationships. Disaster is ever-present, requiring constant coordination and communication. It is the perfect opportunity to negotiate conflicting views of reality. You can disagree, but physics is the final mediator, and walking away in a huff means getting very wet and uncomfortable.
On the whole, all of our relationships eventually settled into a comfortable rhythm of J-stroke and stern pry, the panic paddling of roiling foam and the lazy cruise of calm water. We stopped on gravel bars and ate. We snorkeled and lounged. We fished and frolicked, jumped from bluffs and skipped rocks. As the afternoon reached toward early evening, we came to the take-out and bridge.
At least we thought we were there.
We passed under the bridge, tired, full, and satisfied with a successful day of floating. We did not see a bright red Suburban.
We assumed, then, that by "past the bridge" she must have meant around the bend. So, we floated on down a few hundred yards, making the turn. No Suburban. In fact, no cars or parking lot. Well, maybe it was the next bend. After all, she didn't really say how far past the bridge.
The Kings is not a well-traveled river. Normally you expect a campground or river access road every mile or so. Not on the Kings. As we went around bend after bend, the afternoon began to creep toward evening, and there was no sign of civilization anywhere near the water's edge. We didn't worry, because experience had told us that we could just take out at a lower point and hitch a ride back to our car.
Except there were no lower points. Nothing. And there was no going back: the current was too strong to allow it.
By the time our situation began to get a bit usettling, we noticed that most of the houses we could see in the distance would require about a mile walk through a cornfield. Not a terrible prospect...if you had real shoes and a shirt.
Visions of Deliverance danced in my head. "You sure got a purdy mouth, boy" started to become something more than a chilling quote from a disturbing movie. Three teachers, five children, and a professional opera singer did not seem to make for a mighty force against what I was sure would soon become teeming hordes of inbred ne'er-do-wells.
Laughter and smiles were dimming with the sun. No one found it amusing when I suggested that it would soon be over when we spilled into the Gulf of Mexico. Soon we would begin to blame and turn against each other. We were exiled Israelites talking only in murmurs. And our manna supply was dwindling. How long, O Lord?
When we judged that we had probably doubled our planned distance, and evening was giving way to night, we decided we had to stop. It was getting dark, we were wet and cold. We pulled onto a gravel bar and started a small fire.
Jeff and I could make out lights from a house up the hill. So, with our families huddled together for heat and strength, we decided to go for help. We made our way up through a pasture, slowed by a skunk going up the same path ahead of us.
We soon came upon a small ranch that appeared to specialize in small horses. Shetland ponies. We shouted a few times as we approached. Sure, we were city boys, but both of us had country roots; and we knew it was a bad idea to walk up to a house in rural Arkansas unannounced, unless you wanted an assload of buckshot.
"HONK! SQUAWK!"
After nearly soiling ourselves, we realized that we had been discovered by the home's guard goose. The large winged beast strutted around the yard, neck jutted out and head cocked as if to declare, "You ain't getting inside this fence, boyfriend." We sweet-talked the bird, and it eventually allowed us to come onto the porch.
Before I went to the door, I peered in the window. It was a precaution. I was a little concerned that with the shouting and the honking no one had come out yet. As I looked in I saw two moustached men sitting on a couch in their underwear, drinking whiskey and watching a Cardinals game on television.
I took a deep breath and knocked.
(Part II soon)
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