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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

SLAM SUPERHERO

My friend Ocho was dubbed Slam Champion last night.

Here is a sample of his work.

Word.

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.

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.

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.

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.