Well, with about 3 weeks to go until Microsoft stops supporting one of its biggest and most successful operating systems ever, 500 million computer users worldwide are soon to be abandoned--if they keep running Windows XP.
I'm one of them.
I've kept my old Gateway workhorse computer, which I've had since late 2005, running XP and even have given it a refurb. Of course, I couldn't have upgraded if I'd wanted to--Win Vista and it's subsequent generations (all bloated like a corpse in hot TX heat) wouldn't fit.
So now my options are the same as every other user's: update both the machine and the OS, start using Linux on my current older machine, or switch to Mac (not--it's hard enough having to learn new, needlessly and endlessly updated software and OSes without switching the horse under this rider completely).
I probably would have gotten to this upcoming milestone in somewhat blissful ignorance except that now that I'm working for a computer service business part-time, well, it's THE topic right now, at least for me. If you want to read more of what I wrote about XP's impending doom, follow this link. (In a future article, I'll write about what you can and should do with your XP machines.)
That article is a rather serious look at what those who waited must do now that we're down to the 11th hour. This one is different.
Imagine working for an employer who constantly changes the rules about the time you learn your job and how to do it.
Imagine being in a relationship with someone who has a habit of leaking your personal information to others unless you constantly remind him not to.
Imagine having a co-worker who performs her tasks just a bit differently from month to month or year to year, leaving you to figure out what the heck she just did.
That's the software bind we've gotten ourselves into--and yes, we've been there for years. There was a time when consumer preference drove the economy and the goods we bought, used, and kept buying. No more. It's now engineer-driven--software engineers, I might add.
We buy what they design, whether we want it or not. Usually, we don't.
But we keep buying it like a junkie at a meth lab. Ugly image, I know. But honestly, we're addicted--helplessly so--to our electronic lifestyles. And because we are, software engineers have us by the short hairs.
How's that feel? Are you squirming, yet? In about 3 weeks and the weeks thereafter, when XP is still running on many thousands of machines, there'll be more squirming when viruses and other malware attack these unsupported systems. They will come, despite the fact that some have said other viable systems make a more attractive target. That may be partly true. But there are others who love destruction for destruction's sake.
It seems to me that we've forgotten our power as consumers in the act of consuming. And that, my friends, is why XP is going away at all.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Hope is the Thing With Feathers
I've been reading Christopher Cokinos' book Hope is the Thing with Feathers for several weeks now. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Sorrowfully. This book has only enlarged and energized my compassion for birds and their fragile existence--not all birds, of course--but for more and more species, this has become the reality.
Cokinos, who is a poet, became interested in birding and then conservation issues as he became aware of species now lost to us: the Ivory-billed woodpecker, the Carolina parakeet, the Heath Hen, and three others covered in his book. This is the gist of his intensely personal memoir--how six birds now extinct still move him like few other things have. They have moved me, too.
I had a conversation with a friend just this morning about climate change and human agency in the world, and though we differ on how we perceive the changes going on around us, we both agree that more is being lost than we can ever quantify. And it's because of our disregard for nature and our own environments.
Cokinos pursues with a detective's deft drive to know the truth the harrowing extinction of the Carolina parakeet, last seen in the early 1900s, and though the dates vary, the pathos of the loss of this beautiful parrot--North America's only native parrot--is stunning. It was largely shot for sport, horded away in cages as the species' plight began to emerge, or shot for so-called "scientific" reasons and stuffed to be placed into various gentlemen's collections. Cokinos here has exposed me first-hand to the rather ridiculous practice of early naturalists: horde away the "skins" (the entire bird, actually) this way to preserve it for posterity. The stuffed bird was seen as equally valuable to the real, breathing thing.
The Ivory-billed woodpecker, this huge, 2-foot-plus bird with a 2-foot wingspan, that used to rattle the trees in the dense forests of North America, is another striking example of tragic loss. Often called the "Lord God bird" because of it's size (the exclamation of at least one ornithologist), this woodpecker had no equal in the forest canopy. The amazing thing is that these birds, which dwindled to just a few pairs in the vast Lousianna swamps and forests, simply vanished. No one knows where or when the last one was seen for sure. And in 1999, there were a flurry of reports of sightings or "hearings" of the long-vanished king of the forest. Is the bird still around? We don't know. But Cokinos and millions of other birders hope it is still eeking out a fragile life in the fractured, decimated forests--less than 1% of the original mass--on the continent.
Cokinos tells how the Heath Hen, a "goofy"-looking race of the prairie chicken, known only to exist on Martha's Vineyard, was studied down to the last, lone, surviving bird, a male. These hens' populations and traits in various parts of the continent differ some according to region, but all are unique in that they have for centuries made a strange "booming" sound when mating by inflating an air sac on their sides. The males jousted with each other on the low, grassy plains, called "leks," which were the mating areas. Sometimes the scourge of farmers, and in the end the "most famous bird ever" due to public sentiment about its endangered status on Martha's Vineyard, these strange-looking chickens caught the spirits of people around the world. The numbers on the island varied, but eventually took a steep decline, all the way down to one bird. In an amazing kind of mating swan-song, this lone individual flew not in to the lower branches of scrub oak but to the very top of a pine tree and boomed out his last mating call, which, of course, would go un-answered. A farmer on the Vineyard watched this last bird in his fields for perhaps two more years. Then, the bird failed to return there one spring. The body has never been found.
How can we live with ourselves, I sometimes wonder. How can we continue to disregard animals--living beings whose lives intersect our own in ways we can sometimes explain, but often cannot? How can we STOP the pointless destruction of habitat that so many animals need to continue living their equally viable lives?
There are no more Carolina parakeets to grace the skies with their bright green, yellow, and orange plumage. There are no more (perhaps?) "Lord God birds" to hammer away at dead trees and fill the observer in the quiet woods with awe. There are no more Heath Hens on Martha's Vineyard to boom and squawk their ways through the seasons, astounding visitors and natives alike each year.
And there are no more excuses for why there are no more.
Cokinos, who is a poet, became interested in birding and then conservation issues as he became aware of species now lost to us: the Ivory-billed woodpecker, the Carolina parakeet, the Heath Hen, and three others covered in his book. This is the gist of his intensely personal memoir--how six birds now extinct still move him like few other things have. They have moved me, too.
I had a conversation with a friend just this morning about climate change and human agency in the world, and though we differ on how we perceive the changes going on around us, we both agree that more is being lost than we can ever quantify. And it's because of our disregard for nature and our own environments.
Cokinos pursues with a detective's deft drive to know the truth the harrowing extinction of the Carolina parakeet, last seen in the early 1900s, and though the dates vary, the pathos of the loss of this beautiful parrot--North America's only native parrot--is stunning. It was largely shot for sport, horded away in cages as the species' plight began to emerge, or shot for so-called "scientific" reasons and stuffed to be placed into various gentlemen's collections. Cokinos here has exposed me first-hand to the rather ridiculous practice of early naturalists: horde away the "skins" (the entire bird, actually) this way to preserve it for posterity. The stuffed bird was seen as equally valuable to the real, breathing thing.
The Ivory-billed woodpecker, this huge, 2-foot-plus bird with a 2-foot wingspan, that used to rattle the trees in the dense forests of North America, is another striking example of tragic loss. Often called the "Lord God bird" because of it's size (the exclamation of at least one ornithologist), this woodpecker had no equal in the forest canopy. The amazing thing is that these birds, which dwindled to just a few pairs in the vast Lousianna swamps and forests, simply vanished. No one knows where or when the last one was seen for sure. And in 1999, there were a flurry of reports of sightings or "hearings" of the long-vanished king of the forest. Is the bird still around? We don't know. But Cokinos and millions of other birders hope it is still eeking out a fragile life in the fractured, decimated forests--less than 1% of the original mass--on the continent.
Cokinos tells how the Heath Hen, a "goofy"-looking race of the prairie chicken, known only to exist on Martha's Vineyard, was studied down to the last, lone, surviving bird, a male. These hens' populations and traits in various parts of the continent differ some according to region, but all are unique in that they have for centuries made a strange "booming" sound when mating by inflating an air sac on their sides. The males jousted with each other on the low, grassy plains, called "leks," which were the mating areas. Sometimes the scourge of farmers, and in the end the "most famous bird ever" due to public sentiment about its endangered status on Martha's Vineyard, these strange-looking chickens caught the spirits of people around the world. The numbers on the island varied, but eventually took a steep decline, all the way down to one bird. In an amazing kind of mating swan-song, this lone individual flew not in to the lower branches of scrub oak but to the very top of a pine tree and boomed out his last mating call, which, of course, would go un-answered. A farmer on the Vineyard watched this last bird in his fields for perhaps two more years. Then, the bird failed to return there one spring. The body has never been found.
How can we live with ourselves, I sometimes wonder. How can we continue to disregard animals--living beings whose lives intersect our own in ways we can sometimes explain, but often cannot? How can we STOP the pointless destruction of habitat that so many animals need to continue living their equally viable lives?
There are no more Carolina parakeets to grace the skies with their bright green, yellow, and orange plumage. There are no more (perhaps?) "Lord God birds" to hammer away at dead trees and fill the observer in the quiet woods with awe. There are no more Heath Hens on Martha's Vineyard to boom and squawk their ways through the seasons, astounding visitors and natives alike each year.
And there are no more excuses for why there are no more.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
The Scapegoat
I've deliberately kept myself out of most of the recent gun control debates since the Sandy Hook shooting. And there have been a couple more since then--one in KY and another in TX, neither as tragic, thankfully. Disturbing? Yes. But these incidents point out one major dynamic that has no doubt been expressed in many ways by those who believe we should have the right to bear arms: Don't blame the guns when the person behind the trigger is the real problem. I'm adding my voice to that argument, as it were, but perhaps in a different way.
We have, in effect, created a metal scapegoat.
For the nation of Israel, operating in an Old Testament world, God instituted the scapegoat as a symbolic gesture: by laying their hands on its head, the people placed their sins (figuratively) onto the goat. The animal would then be run out of the camp to perish in the wilderness. By this act, the people were spiritually cleansing themselves from past wrongs against each other and God.
"Scapegoat" is an old word with a complex meaning, first coming into English usage around 1530. It means "one who bears the blame for others." It's also interesting to note that Webster's Dictionary postulates that the original Hebrew word was "probably the name of a demon." And, there is the number 2b definition which most accurately puts this word into my mental crosshairs--"one that is the object of irrational hostility." If that doesn't describe the current anti-gun sentiment, I don't know what does or could.
We want to lay all of our sins as a culture onto guns and then send them into the wilderness by legislation. We believe that we must do this in order to have a safer, less volatile society--and to absolve our consciences from the constitutionality of allowing nearly anyone who wants a gun to get one. Is that a moral lapse? It's certainly a legislative lapse because not everyone is fit to carry or use a firearm. There's no doubt we need to tighten this loophole.
But we tend to think what is allowable by law is moral, don't we? It's often portrayed as such by both sides--if we don't do thus-and-such, we are negligent to our children. Those who see gun ownership as a moral right from the Constitution say it's our duty to protect ourselves when we need to: it keeps people from danger. Those who oppose guns see wide gun ownership as a moral blight on our national conscience: it puts too many people in danger. So banish guns, and we'll be safe.
Hardly. Suppose the weapon of choice had been a slingshot. A baseball bat? A Molotov cocktail? Remove guns from our societal make-up, and these may become the next weapon available to those who are unstable and intent on harming or killing others--and themselves.
That brings me to another point. The reason the scapegoat is such a good example in my mind to describe the anti-gun sentiment is that often, we have no one else to put the blame on: the shooter often kills himself or is killed by law enforcement (and occasionally by someone packing, whom the NRA's LaPierre called a "good guy with a gun." Why don't we hear more of those kinds of stories in the mainstream media--but that's another subject!) We can't prosecute a dead body. So, we turn to the weapon used.
Did the scapegoat system God wisely instituted solve ancient Israel's sin problem? No. But it did point to something infinitely more useful: a coming Savior who could absolve sin for real, Jesus Christ. Sadly, Israel rejected him, too--scapegoated him.
What does that have to do with the gun debate? Simply this: ban guns, and we'll move on to the next harmful item--one that can be used for good, but is used for evil in the hands of those who shouldn't own guns, slingshots, or bats, or know how make a Molotov cocktail. The scapegoat system, no matter how often it is instituted, cannot solve the problem. The problem is inside us. It will not begin to be addressed until we acknowledge that as a culture, we continue to dehumanize ourselves in a myriad of ways. That's bound to express itself darkly.
When we can learn to scapegoat the right thing and eradicate it from our midst, we'll be on the path to a genuinely safer, less volatile society.
Until we do, I'll keep my gun ready.
We have, in effect, created a metal scapegoat.
For the nation of Israel, operating in an Old Testament world, God instituted the scapegoat as a symbolic gesture: by laying their hands on its head, the people placed their sins (figuratively) onto the goat. The animal would then be run out of the camp to perish in the wilderness. By this act, the people were spiritually cleansing themselves from past wrongs against each other and God.
"Scapegoat" is an old word with a complex meaning, first coming into English usage around 1530. It means "one who bears the blame for others." It's also interesting to note that Webster's Dictionary postulates that the original Hebrew word was "probably the name of a demon." And, there is the number 2b definition which most accurately puts this word into my mental crosshairs--"one that is the object of irrational hostility." If that doesn't describe the current anti-gun sentiment, I don't know what does or could.
We want to lay all of our sins as a culture onto guns and then send them into the wilderness by legislation. We believe that we must do this in order to have a safer, less volatile society--and to absolve our consciences from the constitutionality of allowing nearly anyone who wants a gun to get one. Is that a moral lapse? It's certainly a legislative lapse because not everyone is fit to carry or use a firearm. There's no doubt we need to tighten this loophole.
But we tend to think what is allowable by law is moral, don't we? It's often portrayed as such by both sides--if we don't do thus-and-such, we are negligent to our children. Those who see gun ownership as a moral right from the Constitution say it's our duty to protect ourselves when we need to: it keeps people from danger. Those who oppose guns see wide gun ownership as a moral blight on our national conscience: it puts too many people in danger. So banish guns, and we'll be safe.
Hardly. Suppose the weapon of choice had been a slingshot. A baseball bat? A Molotov cocktail? Remove guns from our societal make-up, and these may become the next weapon available to those who are unstable and intent on harming or killing others--and themselves.
That brings me to another point. The reason the scapegoat is such a good example in my mind to describe the anti-gun sentiment is that often, we have no one else to put the blame on: the shooter often kills himself or is killed by law enforcement (and occasionally by someone packing, whom the NRA's LaPierre called a "good guy with a gun." Why don't we hear more of those kinds of stories in the mainstream media--but that's another subject!) We can't prosecute a dead body. So, we turn to the weapon used.
Did the scapegoat system God wisely instituted solve ancient Israel's sin problem? No. But it did point to something infinitely more useful: a coming Savior who could absolve sin for real, Jesus Christ. Sadly, Israel rejected him, too--scapegoated him.
What does that have to do with the gun debate? Simply this: ban guns, and we'll move on to the next harmful item--one that can be used for good, but is used for evil in the hands of those who shouldn't own guns, slingshots, or bats, or know how make a Molotov cocktail. The scapegoat system, no matter how often it is instituted, cannot solve the problem. The problem is inside us. It will not begin to be addressed until we acknowledge that as a culture, we continue to dehumanize ourselves in a myriad of ways. That's bound to express itself darkly.
When we can learn to scapegoat the right thing and eradicate it from our midst, we'll be on the path to a genuinely safer, less volatile society.
Until we do, I'll keep my gun ready.
Monday, April 30, 2012
The BEST Online Teaching Resource for Drummers
I play drums, and I've been frustrated over the years by the lack of good lesson instruction available to me here in rural Colorado. Sure, we have drummers in town--good ones--but I have never been able to envision myself having lessons with any of them. I'm not quite sure why. Call me lesson anti-social, though I give drum lessons, myself. I know, it's weird.
I stumbled upon Drumeo.com in March, and I have to say, my whole motivation for drumming has changed. "Drumeo" stands for "Drum Education Online," and that's exactly what it is. Through Railroad Media, this site boasts several amazing resources to members, among them:
The streaming live lessons are generally one-hour long with accompanying sheet music and mp3s--all downloadable--for most lessons. The instructors take the time to explain what they're doing, how and why they're doing it, and how you can best integrate the instruction into your practical drumming.
Just one viewing of any of the instructor's lessons will show you that these guys are competent and eager to share what they know with each person--even individually as the lessons progress through a pop-up Chat box and question submit area. There do not appear to be huge egos among the bunch, something drumming seems to engender sometimes. It's all about encouraging and sharing knowledge.
Drumeo has assembled various high-quality Training Packs" that you may purchase, either in physical or online format. These include important areas like drum rudiments (which I'm working through now, having NEVER had a lesson on these my entire 30-ish years of playing), Latin and Jazz Drumming, the Cobus Method, Bass Drum secrets, etc. Each pack comes with extensive videos or DVDs, workbooks, sheet music, mp3s or play-along CD's, and even an interactive place for you to ask questions about the materials in the online versions. Purchasing one Pack gets you access to all of the site's resources mentioned above in various quantities. Any way you cut it, it's the best deal around for value-added drum instruction.
There's also an extensive and growing database of archived online lessons (in case you miss a live lesson that your membership allows you to view). These, at just about 1 hour each, also have an interactive dialog box for you to ask questions.
Want to talk about drumming with others just like you? There are many forums to do just that covering everything from drum gear to "who's the best drummer" to "show us pics of your drum kit." The forums provide a place for the creation of a vibrant and truly global drumming community. It's unlike anything I've ever seen. I've never been a fan of so-called "social" media, but this is actually USEFUL.
The Built-in Chat and Q&A features allow contact during and after lessons with the instructor, as well as notices about frequent contests and give-aways. You're only a click or two away from help with any content or from winning something really cool, like a Training Pack or trial live lesson membership.
One of the best things about Drumeo.com is the positive, affirming attitude displayed by the instructors and the drumming community alike. A novice drummer doesn't need to feel self-conscious asking questions about rudiments or basic drum beats, how to set up the kit, etc. Sure, there are those on the site who are advanced in all these things and more, but rather than use the site to boost one's ego at the expense of others, Drumeo is committed to enhancing and promoting "your drumming success" no matter your level of learning.
Lastly, this incredible site has an on-the-spot Web and customer support team. You need not worry about purchasing an online product that does not stream well, for instance. The staff there can either help you troubleshoot those problems or set you up with an account upgrade that allows you to purchase Training Packs in physical format, which they can then ship to you nearly anywhere. And best of all, they're friendly AND knowledgeable about what they do.
So, if you play drums--or have ever wanted to--check out Drumeo.com. It's sure to become on of the Web's best sites, and with good reasons.
I stumbled upon Drumeo.com in March, and I have to say, my whole motivation for drumming has changed. "Drumeo" stands for "Drum Education Online," and that's exactly what it is. Through Railroad Media, this site boasts several amazing resources to members, among them:
- Streaming live lessons
- Knowledgeable, friendly instructors
- Training packs
- Archived lessons for streaming (about 75 hours as of this post)
- An extensive forum section
- Built-in Chat and Q&A features
- A positive, affirming attitude for drummers of all levels
- Awesome, responsive Web and customer support teams
The streaming live lessons are generally one-hour long with accompanying sheet music and mp3s--all downloadable--for most lessons. The instructors take the time to explain what they're doing, how and why they're doing it, and how you can best integrate the instruction into your practical drumming.
Just one viewing of any of the instructor's lessons will show you that these guys are competent and eager to share what they know with each person--even individually as the lessons progress through a pop-up Chat box and question submit area. There do not appear to be huge egos among the bunch, something drumming seems to engender sometimes. It's all about encouraging and sharing knowledge.
Drumeo has assembled various high-quality Training Packs" that you may purchase, either in physical or online format. These include important areas like drum rudiments (which I'm working through now, having NEVER had a lesson on these my entire 30-ish years of playing), Latin and Jazz Drumming, the Cobus Method, Bass Drum secrets, etc. Each pack comes with extensive videos or DVDs, workbooks, sheet music, mp3s or play-along CD's, and even an interactive place for you to ask questions about the materials in the online versions. Purchasing one Pack gets you access to all of the site's resources mentioned above in various quantities. Any way you cut it, it's the best deal around for value-added drum instruction.
There's also an extensive and growing database of archived online lessons (in case you miss a live lesson that your membership allows you to view). These, at just about 1 hour each, also have an interactive dialog box for you to ask questions.
Want to talk about drumming with others just like you? There are many forums to do just that covering everything from drum gear to "who's the best drummer" to "show us pics of your drum kit." The forums provide a place for the creation of a vibrant and truly global drumming community. It's unlike anything I've ever seen. I've never been a fan of so-called "social" media, but this is actually USEFUL.
The Built-in Chat and Q&A features allow contact during and after lessons with the instructor, as well as notices about frequent contests and give-aways. You're only a click or two away from help with any content or from winning something really cool, like a Training Pack or trial live lesson membership.
One of the best things about Drumeo.com is the positive, affirming attitude displayed by the instructors and the drumming community alike. A novice drummer doesn't need to feel self-conscious asking questions about rudiments or basic drum beats, how to set up the kit, etc. Sure, there are those on the site who are advanced in all these things and more, but rather than use the site to boost one's ego at the expense of others, Drumeo is committed to enhancing and promoting "your drumming success" no matter your level of learning.
Lastly, this incredible site has an on-the-spot Web and customer support team. You need not worry about purchasing an online product that does not stream well, for instance. The staff there can either help you troubleshoot those problems or set you up with an account upgrade that allows you to purchase Training Packs in physical format, which they can then ship to you nearly anywhere. And best of all, they're friendly AND knowledgeable about what they do.
So, if you play drums--or have ever wanted to--check out Drumeo.com. It's sure to become on of the Web's best sites, and with good reasons.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Still Shocking . . . Almost 70 Years Later
I have written about my reading of the atomic bomb and its destruction of Nagasaki and Hiroshima here back in June and August, 2009. This week, Time has released 14 unpublished photos from their vast archives. The stark black-and-white images convey anew and fresh the horror and utter devastation we unleashed on a people we considered our enemies all those decades ago. And there is copy on the Web page, too, that reiterates among the photographers, military men, and others that we did not know the monster we let loose in the world. Now, as many had warned, we are forced to live with its barely-caged existence forever.
I cannot imagine that civilized humanity would ever deliberately obliterate each other in this manner again. And yet, we will not disarm. We will not back down. We will not "un-know" what we do. It is impossible. And when we look at the news headlines that speak of a nuclear-armed and ready North Korea or Iran (or any other number of nations), well, we're forced on some level to see those leaders with blood in their eyes as less than human because they, now knowing, seek to do the world great harm.
While doing research for the textbook I am currently working on with my colleague Ken Haley, I came across this passage, which I included in the text's section on Narrative Non-fiction, from E=mc2, by David Bodanis:
I cannot imagine that civilized humanity would ever deliberately obliterate each other in this manner again. And yet, we will not disarm. We will not back down. We will not "un-know" what we do. It is impossible. And when we look at the news headlines that speak of a nuclear-armed and ready North Korea or Iran (or any other number of nations), well, we're forced on some level to see those leaders with blood in their eyes as less than human because they, now knowing, seek to do the world great harm.
While doing research for the textbook I am currently working on with my colleague Ken Haley, I came across this passage, which I included in the text's section on Narrative Non-fiction, from E=mc2, by David Bodanis:
"The unearthly object burns at full power for about one-half of a second, then begins to fade away, taking two or three seconds to empty itself out. This “emptying” is accomplished, in large part, by spraying heat energy outward. Fires begin, seemingly instantaneously; skin explodes off, hanging in great sheets from the bodies of everyone below. The first of tens of thousands of deaths in Hiroshima begin.
At least a third of the energy from the chain reactions [of nuclear materials] comes out in this flash. The rest now follows soon behind. The strange object’s heat pushes on ordinary air, accelerating it to speeds that have never occurred here before, unless at some time in the distant past a large meteor or comet arrived. It travels several times faster than any hurricane could achieve--so fast, in fact, that it’s silent--for it outruns any sound its immense force might make. After it there’s a second air pulse, a little slower; after that the atmosphere sloshes backward, to fill up the gap pushed out. This briefly lowers the air density to virtually zero. Far enough from the blast, life-forms that have survived will begin to explode outward, having been exposed--briefly--to the vacuum of outer space. (167-169)[i]
What I was attempting to show my students here is that Bodanis, by way of non-fiction writing, narrates for us a chain of events that no human could have been there inside the bomb to witness. Bodanis doesn't even comment here (or elsewhere) about the bomb's horrific effects. He simply and methodically discusses in this book's chapter first Einstein's equation as it relates to the bomb's working out of its colossal power and then, in this passage, the natural results of that unstoppable and unknowable chain reaction in a reportorial-style voice. It is as if we were inside the bomb and then hovering above Hiroshima.
And for those who were below, those mercurial moments are forever unspeakable, though Time's newly-published photos attempt again to do just that through these voices and images. Just knowing what we do of the survivors' awful outcomes is about enough for crush our collective psyches.
And very soon, every single person who lived through the dark dawning of the atomic age will die, and so will the gut-wrenching reflections of which we continually need to be reminded.
And very soon, every single person who lived through the dark dawning of the atomic age will die, and so will the gut-wrenching reflections of which we continually need to be reminded.
In this sometimes-heartless world, the Internet is a useful and powerful tool in the right hands, a place worth visiting. May this planet remain such a place.
[i] Bodanis, David. E=mc2: A Biography of the World’s Most Famous Equation. New York: Walker and Co. 167-69. Print.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Too Big for their Chemical Britches
FROM THE WEB SITE Food Democracy NOW:
On January 31, family farmers will take part in the first phase of a court case filed to protect farmers from genetic trespass by Monsanto’s GMO seed, which contaminates organic and non-GMO farmer’s crops and opens them up to abusive lawsuits. In the past two decades, Monsanto’s seed monopoly has grown so powerful that they control the genetics of nearly 90% of five major commodity crops including corn, soybeans, cotton, canola and sugar beets.
In many cases farmers are forced to stop growing certain crops to avoid genetic contamination and potential lawsuits. Between 1997 and 2010, Monsanto admits to filing 144 lawsuits against America’s family farmers, while settling another 700 out of court for undisclosed amounts. Due to these aggressive lawsuits, Monsanto has created an atmosphere of fear in rural America and driven dozens of farmers into bankruptcy. Please join us in standing up for family farmers everywhere against Monsanto's abusive seed monopoly.
I did just that a few days ago. I know it's only the end of January, but I'm already thinking about gardening. Robin, my housemate, and I have been planting only heirloom seeds now for several years. And with every year that passes, in the back of my mind I'm thinking of how much tougher it gets for farmers every year. The LAST thing we need is to have 2 or 3 companies like Monsanto feeding this country. Oh, they're feeding us something, alright.
Please click on the title of this blog post to add your voice to over 55,000 others across the country who have decided enough is enough. Let's put Monsanto and companies like it in their places.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
New Year, New Poems, Old Themes
My last post was in August 2011. Sometimes I wonder why I am keeping this blog. I suppose it's just a fancy place to write, sort of a glorified journal. (God forbid anyone find my real one before I'm dead.)
I feel, at times, like Stephen King's character Alfie, the frozen-food salesman who has decided to off himself in the middle of the bleak Nebraska winter but who can't actually perform the act because he's worried about his notebook full of collected graffiti--what on earth will his family think when they find it?--and so he delays, which, of course, saves his life, though King never gives us that nice, tidy ending we Americans love--well, some of folks do. I can and do live with plenty of unsolved stuff.
No, I'm not thinking of offing myself (I have too much work to do), but rather than collect graffiti in a spiral notebook and sit on the hotel bed reading it and alternatively putting a loaded pistol in my mouth, I choose to write my way out of darkness, or at least into the gray of a cloudy morning. So, here goes--a new poem (one of 3 already) for 2012.
I feel, at times, like Stephen King's character Alfie, the frozen-food salesman who has decided to off himself in the middle of the bleak Nebraska winter but who can't actually perform the act because he's worried about his notebook full of collected graffiti--what on earth will his family think when they find it?--and so he delays, which, of course, saves his life, though King never gives us that nice, tidy ending we Americans love--well, some of folks do. I can and do live with plenty of unsolved stuff.
No, I'm not thinking of offing myself (I have too much work to do), but rather than collect graffiti in a spiral notebook and sit on the hotel bed reading it and alternatively putting a loaded pistol in my mouth, I choose to write my way out of darkness, or at least into the gray of a cloudy morning. So, here goes--a new poem (one of 3 already) for 2012.
So Much of Relationships is Unseen
So much of relationships is unseen:
The careful placement or concealment of words
articulated beforehand in the silent, mysterious,
compliant mind, calmly assuring a solution to
this two-piece, heart-shaped indelible puzzle;
The sweet, intense, then angry soliloquies
(What a piece of work is man!) we rehearse
until the words lose their meaning and time,
brought at last to its knees, collapses on itself;
The earnest hopes etched in silicone tablets,
imaginary, shifting ones and zeros that, though
they are arranged with mathematical precision,
forever do not total a sum worth knowing;
The pale, white light illuminating naked fantasies
whose gauzy existences depend on withholding
the shroud of reality--far too constricting a covering,
for fostering festering wayward, juvenile schemes;
The slow but sure erasure of what is and was
and could have been (the bigger loss)--once again:
So much data corrupted by invisible forces--
Real identity theft, right before our eyes.
But so much of relationships is unseen.
__________
Daylight, where the hell are you?
Thursday, August 4, 2011
New Poem . . . Old Problem
Foreign Language
Amid the leavings of a meal, satiated, he carefully extracts
the skinny, white paper from inside the protective, curled,
gold crust of his fortune cookie. He clears his throat.
“LEARN CHINESE” he reads, then proffers the mystery:
one simple English word dissected by linguistic dao
into two pieces, flanked by whimsical markings, English transliteration.
(As though one could learn an entire, complex language,
four-thousand characters, subtle concepts concealed in one word,
each word mastered several months apart--not to mention the
host of guttural, lunatic-sounding, but necessary noises it requires.)
Then, of course, there is the matter of self-awareness:
He struggles with the very syllables and sounds--
Where to put the accent?--with the cryptic and arcane ways
those sounds can transform, even mutate on the way
to the ears of another, where nothing is worse than being
profoundly misunderstood. He shakes his head, then reads
our lucky numbers, instead, his attention about to wane.
But I can read the other side, in quiet English plain enough:
“The major value in life is not in what you get, but in what you become.”
Tonight, amid this table-top language school, the words I need
to hear are these: relationship, care, committed, worthwhile, love--
foreign words, harder than Chinese, that also cannot fall easily from his lips.
It’s true: learning a new tongue is best done while we are young and
ready to take chances, while we can inhale languages, a woman’s scent,
as opportunity and crisis meet, unbidden, across a cup of tea.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The Timelessness of Pain
Though this blog was horribly out of date, my previous post is still current. That old ache, the never-ending desire of my heart, to know and be known, is still top on my list of things to wish done. And yet, I cannot force it into being. All the effort, the emotion, the heart, the will, the desire, and the prayer cannot change the stark reality that most often, life is nothing but a never-ending drive to end that hunger.
The thing I find most amazing is that no one--not one single human on the planet--is exempt from this set of desires. So you'd think, then, that we'd all be ready and willing to help each other (and ourselves) along the way. But we don't. In our relationships, instead we:
But today, instead, I have:
Back a few posts ago, I complained that God should yank the re-wiring job He finally did on me when it comes to appreciating men and learning how to love women in the right way. I've been diligently trying to apply hope in this area, but I have to confess I am at my wits' end on the reasons He made men and women so different. Men love sympathy, but can rarely give it back; men hold back their inner most thoughts and prefer to just sit in their own black stew until . . . until what? Men do not really have the patience to hear a woman out on any issue. And men are notoriously fickle, especially in close proximity to other beautiful women.
You know, this would have been bad enough, but then He had to drop us into a world so sin-prone we cannot ever see anything else. And it's not like we could look Him square in the face, either--we'd die. So we're stuck with the ugly human scenery we have and the barren inner landscapes of each others' hearts. And now that I can FEEL something about the other half of humanity He made, now I long for a way out. I want to be numbed to this particular pain. I want to know why this is the reward for my labor, how long it will be like this, and whether or not the emotional carnage is worth the effort. In the end, what will I have to show for the wait?
Of course, there are no guarantees in this life. The answer could be a resounding "NOTHING!" And yet, I'll hang my heart out to dry one more time in hopes that someday, somewhere, I will be vindicated. Not venerated. Just loved, known, and understood in spite of who I am.
The thing I find most amazing is that no one--not one single human on the planet--is exempt from this set of desires. So you'd think, then, that we'd all be ready and willing to help each other (and ourselves) along the way. But we don't. In our relationships, instead we:
- hide our feelings
- obscure the truth
- lie
- let fear rule our actions
- make excuses
- and deliberately hurt others . . .
But today, instead, I have:
- complained to the wrong person
- doubted my legitimate feelings
- made myself vulnerable for no good cause
- allowed a kind of despair to run my life
- almost given up on who I am
Back a few posts ago, I complained that God should yank the re-wiring job He finally did on me when it comes to appreciating men and learning how to love women in the right way. I've been diligently trying to apply hope in this area, but I have to confess I am at my wits' end on the reasons He made men and women so different. Men love sympathy, but can rarely give it back; men hold back their inner most thoughts and prefer to just sit in their own black stew until . . . until what? Men do not really have the patience to hear a woman out on any issue. And men are notoriously fickle, especially in close proximity to other beautiful women.
You know, this would have been bad enough, but then He had to drop us into a world so sin-prone we cannot ever see anything else. And it's not like we could look Him square in the face, either--we'd die. So we're stuck with the ugly human scenery we have and the barren inner landscapes of each others' hearts. And now that I can FEEL something about the other half of humanity He made, now I long for a way out. I want to be numbed to this particular pain. I want to know why this is the reward for my labor, how long it will be like this, and whether or not the emotional carnage is worth the effort. In the end, what will I have to show for the wait?
Of course, there are no guarantees in this life. The answer could be a resounding "NOTHING!" And yet, I'll hang my heart out to dry one more time in hopes that someday, somewhere, I will be vindicated. Not venerated. Just loved, known, and understood in spite of who I am.
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Ultimate Long-distance Romance
I’ve done a few long-distance romances in my life, and even though I’ve sworn off them for good, it hasn’t made any difference. I’m still in one, one that’s been going on for 30 years as of this past January. You think I’m nuts? At times like this, and on days like this, I do, too.
And yet, this Person is “the lover of my soul.” You guessed it: I’m speaking about God and me. I consider this long-term relationship the ultimate long-distance romance. Which part of that title gets the modifier “ultimate”? All of it, but for different reasons than you might suspect. Like any flesh and blood relationship conducted over long distances, I can’t say it’s all been good. Lately, thanks to writer Donald Miller, myself, and other un-named individuals, this romance has been downright painful.
First, I love most of Donald Miller’s writing, so in implicating him, I’m actually giving him a compliment. In his essay, “Naked: Why Nudity is the Point,” which appeared in his book Searching for God Knows What (Nelson, 2004) he’s written something that has so spoken to my heart as to almost be on par with what God might say, it feels so true. I’ve read this essay before, and it whanged me the first and second times. But the third, fourth, and fifth times are killing me, even years after those first readings.
If you’ve not read it, here are a few paragraphs of summary. Miller opens that essay with the twin events of a trip to Yosemite National Park and taking a class that helped him learn how read the Bible as literature, “as though a human being were trying to tell me something about life, something he thought was beautiful or ugly, true or inspiring--you know the drill” (61). Just as Yosemite began to enlarge Miller’s impression of the vastness of the Garden of Eden, so, too, did this reading technique enlarge Miller’s idea of the dynamics of Eden and the Fall. He makes some startling claims, among them, “I noticed Adam and Eve didn’t meet right away. Moses said God knew Adam was lonely or incomplete or however you want to say it, but God did not create Eve directly after he stated Adam was lonely. . . . He did not give Adam what he needed immediately. He waited. He told Adam to name the animals” (63).
Miller then points out, mostly by conjecture, but convincing conjecture nonetheless, how long it must have taken Adam to name all the animals then-present in the world--maybe at least a hundred years (64). By the time God created Eve, Adam was more than happy to have her around, and Miller even notes Moses’ record of what Adam called her, “Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh”--not as some clinical response to seeing her for the first time, but as a beautiful statement of unbreakable recognition down to his very core of who his mate was, who was made for him--and literally so (66).
Miller then goes on to imagine the gratitude Adam showed God for bringing Eve into the world for him specifically, and then he says, “I wondered at how beautiful it is that you and I were created to need each other. The romantic need is just the beginning” (67).
To be more precise, he states,
“In this way, we are made in God’s image. Certainly God does not need people in the way you and I do, but He feels a joy in being loved, and He feels a joy at delivering love. It is a striking thought to realize that, in paradise, a human is incomplete without a host of other people. We are relational, indeed.” (67)
Miller goes on to point out that in addition to each other, Adam and Eve had the perfect relationship with God that none of us since the Fall have ever enjoyed, and because this must have been so, they must have felt the most incredible security--not just “safety,” as we tend to think of that word, but a soul-calming, life-affirming peace in themselves and toward God and each other (68). In other words, God knew perfectly how to love His creation, and so they, too, knew perfectly how to love one another, and Him.
That perfect love and peace is manifested for Miller (and Moses) in the fact that they were “naked, and were not ashamed” (68). He goes on to then contrast how difficult it is for most of us to imagine living life being naked; most of us will do anything to avoid it. We’re terribly self-conscious about ourselves, our vulnerabilities (69-70). He points out, as Moses does, that their knowledge of their nakedness didn’t appear until after they had eaten from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil (70). In our Sunday-school wisdom, we’ve often just simply equate that to mean, “Nudity equals something evil; that’s why it was covered up.” But as Miller points out in a “frightening” epiphany,
“Man is wired so he gets his glory (his security, his understanding of value, his sense of purpose, his feeling of rightness with his Maker, his security for eternity) from God, and this relationship is so strong, and God’s love is so pure, that Adam and Eve felt no insecurity at all, so much so that they walked around naked and didn’t even realize they were naked. But when that relationship was broken, they knew it instantly. . . . All of the insecurity rises the instant you realize you are alone.” (70-71)
Adam and Eve had just entered into their first long-distance romance.
The most important point Miller makes then follows: it is precisely the absence of God’s affirmation in our lives that drives us to seek it in others (71). For Miller, it explains--but does not explain away--all of human interaction (71-72).
The first time I read that, I understood the bottom-line motivation for my prolonged sexual abuse from about age 8 until my mid-teens, my first affair with a married man, my decision to marry when I probably should not have, my first affair with a woman, my long stint in lesbianism, and now, my struggles with building real, lasting relationships with men. Good grief, Charlie Brown! My whole life looks like one long search for affirmation.
Put another way, because of my fourteen-ish years of struggle to build relationships with men, I have been experiencing “the ache of emptiness and the sudden horrifying awareness of self” (73) for the past few weeks. And the sad thing is, I’ve had to do it in the budding stages of a friendship that matters very much to me. I’m still trying to figure out why that is so--the timing of these events and the importance of this friendship still elude my understanding. I cannot, as yet, see why God is doing whatever it is He is doing with me.
For one thing, I’m not normally so insecure--really needing affirmation of all kinds. I usually can plow through life only occasionally wishing for a mate, sex, or even someone to hang out with. I have a housemate, and we’ve been able to mitigate some of the loneliness that living in a small town with few dating options and lots of gossip presents. But that’s not the same as being special enough to someone else that he/she makes--willingly makes--you a priority in his or her life on a continual basis (as much as possible, anyway). Knowing we matter immensely to another human being is the best antidote for insecurity that I know of.
God MADE us for relationships with each other, period. And so, it follows that it’s no crime to look to others to fulfill some of what vanished after the Fall and banishment from Eden. The real crime comes in the certain betrayal we all will see. And yet, where else can we go? To whom else can we turn?
Some Christians like to say, “Well, you need to get your sole affirmation from God.” I personally think that’s mostly some over-spiritualized B.S. Why? Because God didn’t make just ONE person on the planet. Yes, Adam even had animals for company, but as Miller points out, it was a sorry excuse for what was on the way. God made us relational. To simply admonish lonely people to “find your peace and your contentment only in God” is just a cop out; it can’t be done. The stark truth is ever since the Fall, we’re all caught in the ultimate long-distance romance: Earth to heaven, human to God. It’s the furthest span of space we can ever imagine. And we can’t bridge the gap, not even a little.
I’m not saying God’s care for us is useless, worthless, or even sub-standard. I’m only saying in practical terms, “He’s there, I’m here.” All I have around me are other humans. And I’m part of the landscape THEY have; wouldn’t it make sense on every level to look for affirmation in each other, yes, but with a realistic and compassionate heart, one that knows sooner or later, we let each other down--and more importantly, why?
And when I can speak to God about that disappointment and hunger, I can do so from the most enlightened position possible: God, here’s what I need, here’s how I tried to get it--and why--here’s how it turned out, and here I am, asking You to heal us all. You can’t begin to cooperate with God to fix what’s broken until you understand how it works in the first place. Thankfully, He already does.
Adam and Eve didn’t have to worry about God letting them down, yet God knew they were destined to let Him down. And He--even He--came searching after them. He wanted fellowship restored and was willing to make the first move toward that end.
What continues to be most painful for me at this moment are two primary problems: 1. I am afraid I probably cannot be satisfied with any amount of affirmation when I feel this low, and because I might be inconsolable, I might not see a genuine affirmation when it shows up (a crime) and 2. The earthly source, the person I’d like it most from, is probably least able to give it. So the soul-hunger continues, and yes, probably only God will ever be able to fully feed that need.
But He’s THERE and I’m HERE. . . .
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Looking Back, Thinking Forward
Here we are just a few weeks away from the close of 2010. It's natural to want to assess how things went, or didn't go, as the case may be. Everywhere we look, there will be "The Year in Review" articles, magazine issues, newscasts. It can't be avoided. So I'm not going to try to, but instead, just succumb. Surrender. Not a bad thing for the mentally exhausted person I seem to be at the moment.
I have to frame this in as simple terms as possible: Writer Tom Bodett (yes, the Motel 6 guy who said a few years back they'll "leave the light on for ya") has said we really only need 3 things in this life to be happy. Aren't you relieved? They are: (1) something to do; (2) something to believe in; and (3) someone to love.
I've had PLENTY to do this year--teaching, learning to kayak, drumming in the CMC Jazz Project and at my church's youth band, textbook and novel writing, a Bible study late this year, and work on the Habitat for Humanity Board of directors here in Chaffee County. Sleep, and precious little of it, came in there somewhere. Near the end of this year, it has become starkly apparent that for my sanity and health, I'd better cut some things out of the schedule. So out goes Habitat, earlier than I should be doing it, but come January, I'll be divested of that huge--and very worthwhile--time commitment. I'll miss working with those fine folks on a regular basis, but I do hope to see them some next summer. But the other items? Most of them stay--the writing, the kayaking, the teaching (I have to eat, and buy more drums), the music commitments. So looks like I'll still have number 1 covered. Maybe a little too covered yet again. But I'm learning as I go on this "No" thing. I never thought I'd have to say that.
Of course I have number 2 covered, as well: something to believe in--namely, God, His son, Jesus, and the ministry and guidance of the Holy Spirit in my life. I truly do not know how others get along in the world without God, a knowledge--limited though it is and always will be--that surpasses anything else I could ever wrap my brain around. Or my heart. God's providence, even when it looks different than what I'd like, still fills me mostly with gratitude: I have my health, great friends, great family (though 1,000 miles away), and assurance that He loves me and cares for my every need, knows my every desire, and wants only the best for me. Every time I see those whom I know don't know God in a personal relationship, I wonder how they weather the storms, wade through the grief life hands us all. It's lonely without Him.
And speaking of "lonely," now we come to number 3: "Somebody to love." (I hear that old Queen song in my head right now. Do you?) I love my family. I love my friends. I even love my church family, most of the time. But I know what Bodett meant when he uttered this phrase on the Trinity of happiness: someone to share the deepest, innermost pieces of the heart. Someone to discover life with. Someone to discover. Someone who can discover you. A relationship so special and private that it cannot ever be adequately expressed in mere words. An almost holy thing between two people that God ordains. Tough one, that. As I've been struggling this year with a certain male-female puzzle, it has occurred to me that we're put on this planet to partially heal each others' wounds while we wait for God to continue that work and ultimately perfect it. That's even more tough because often the wounding and the healing are happening simultaneously. Or one violently after the other. It doesn't even matter in what order. The pain is unmistakable either way.
And yet, I still covet number 3, pain and all. It gives a sense of purpose to number 1, above, and it gives a stage to work out the lessons of number 2, above. I don't think Bodett had any hierarchy of need in mind when he coined this list; if he did, he'd have probably put number 2 first. But I find that third item the most needful of all--not just to satisfy some sensual part of me (though that's a benefit I can't deny), but to give me an environment to become more fully what God had in mind for me all along: a fully-functioning woman, alive to the core, helping heal others even as I am being healed.
That's my prayer, my resolution, for 2011. Amen.
I have to frame this in as simple terms as possible: Writer Tom Bodett (yes, the Motel 6 guy who said a few years back they'll "leave the light on for ya") has said we really only need 3 things in this life to be happy. Aren't you relieved? They are: (1) something to do; (2) something to believe in; and (3) someone to love.
I've had PLENTY to do this year--teaching, learning to kayak, drumming in the CMC Jazz Project and at my church's youth band, textbook and novel writing, a Bible study late this year, and work on the Habitat for Humanity Board of directors here in Chaffee County. Sleep, and precious little of it, came in there somewhere. Near the end of this year, it has become starkly apparent that for my sanity and health, I'd better cut some things out of the schedule. So out goes Habitat, earlier than I should be doing it, but come January, I'll be divested of that huge--and very worthwhile--time commitment. I'll miss working with those fine folks on a regular basis, but I do hope to see them some next summer. But the other items? Most of them stay--the writing, the kayaking, the teaching (I have to eat, and buy more drums), the music commitments. So looks like I'll still have number 1 covered. Maybe a little too covered yet again. But I'm learning as I go on this "No" thing. I never thought I'd have to say that.
Of course I have number 2 covered, as well: something to believe in--namely, God, His son, Jesus, and the ministry and guidance of the Holy Spirit in my life. I truly do not know how others get along in the world without God, a knowledge--limited though it is and always will be--that surpasses anything else I could ever wrap my brain around. Or my heart. God's providence, even when it looks different than what I'd like, still fills me mostly with gratitude: I have my health, great friends, great family (though 1,000 miles away), and assurance that He loves me and cares for my every need, knows my every desire, and wants only the best for me. Every time I see those whom I know don't know God in a personal relationship, I wonder how they weather the storms, wade through the grief life hands us all. It's lonely without Him.
And speaking of "lonely," now we come to number 3: "Somebody to love." (I hear that old Queen song in my head right now. Do you?) I love my family. I love my friends. I even love my church family, most of the time. But I know what Bodett meant when he uttered this phrase on the Trinity of happiness: someone to share the deepest, innermost pieces of the heart. Someone to discover life with. Someone to discover. Someone who can discover you. A relationship so special and private that it cannot ever be adequately expressed in mere words. An almost holy thing between two people that God ordains. Tough one, that. As I've been struggling this year with a certain male-female puzzle, it has occurred to me that we're put on this planet to partially heal each others' wounds while we wait for God to continue that work and ultimately perfect it. That's even more tough because often the wounding and the healing are happening simultaneously. Or one violently after the other. It doesn't even matter in what order. The pain is unmistakable either way.
And yet, I still covet number 3, pain and all. It gives a sense of purpose to number 1, above, and it gives a stage to work out the lessons of number 2, above. I don't think Bodett had any hierarchy of need in mind when he coined this list; if he did, he'd have probably put number 2 first. But I find that third item the most needful of all--not just to satisfy some sensual part of me (though that's a benefit I can't deny), but to give me an environment to become more fully what God had in mind for me all along: a fully-functioning woman, alive to the core, helping heal others even as I am being healed.
That's my prayer, my resolution, for 2011. Amen.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Hanging Out Under MOVING Water
Kayak Lessons, Day 3
Old kayaking maxim: "There are two kinds of kayakers--those who've been in the drink, and those who are about to be."
On Monday, July 19th, I was both.
I spent a lovely first half of the day with KT, my trusty instructor from RMOC (actually, she's from New Zealand) working on a sort of review of general boat handling techniques, which was a good thing considering I hadn't been in my boat AT ALL during the month between my 2nd and 3rd lesson. Shame on me. But I was too busy. Wah, wah.
We worked under a gloriously blue sky sprinkled with a few clouds. The Class I and II stretch of the Arkansas River east of Salida about a mile from the Lone Pine takeout was clear and cool, but not painfully cold. I reviewed the famous Wet Exit, but found to my dismay I still couldn't make myself overturn my boat deliberately--kinda like jumping out of that perfectly good airplane--why? But she rolled me a few times and I exited just fine. We also worked hard (well, I WORKED HARD) on eddy entrances/exits, carving, turns, straight and sweep strokes, and a new move, the "ferry"--wherein my job was to row my 'yak upstream and across the river. Much harder than it might seem, but I suppose I got it. By lunchtime, I was feelin' it, and KT probably needed a PBR (she'll have to wait for supper at my house for that, but it will be frosty and ready).
At lunch, I asked her to grade my performance (since I'm a teacher), and she rated me at a B. I think that was pretty magnanimous of her, but hey, I'll take the compliment. Those of us who teach know the art of "praising with faint damns." I think I may have been a C.
Then, all hell broke loose. After a serious safety talk over paddle signals, swimming position, and a few other river nuances like what to do with the safety rope when or if it's thrown to me, we did a one-mile stretch just downstream of where we'd been training. She assured me we'd stay only a few boat lengths apart, that this was just a little thing ... a couple of rapids, one strainer ... nothing too big.
Yeah.
As she stroked away from me, my heart heaved in my chest while my peanut-butter sandwhich tried to make a second appearance. "Go, dammit!" I told myself. "Keep up with her!"
I navigated the first little rapid okay--some of it backward or sideways, though--and when we got through that, I relaxed just a bit. KT pointed out the strainer on my right--a rock with sticks and junk hung on it--and I hadn't even seen it. I was too busy trying to keep my boat heading straight.
We approached the second little rapid ... a few rocks here--BANG, bonk--and then I executed a classic "side pin"--my boat parallel and sideways to a rock. And I also executed a set of perfectly wrong moves in quick succession. They were: (1) rolling INTO the current, instead of away from it toward the rock, which would have likely freed my boat, and (2) attempting to STAND UP once I had wet-exited.
So number (1) flipped my kayak with ease, and number (2) made KT practically want to beat the crap out of me--that is, if I didn't drown. Yeah, the water was only about 4 feet deep, but that didn't matter. I KNEW I shouldn't be trying to stand up. I KNEW I could get a foot trapped. But my body still doesn't have the wherewithal to listen to my mind. This proves once again intellectual knowledge is a far cry from actual, practical practice. You'd figure I'd learn that by now.
This, unfortunately has been a lifelong problem.
"Don't stand up! Swim! SWIM!!" she yelled over and over. All I could think of was how could I manage to swim AND keep hold of the paddle? (Thank God KT had my boat.) I made it to shore, picked my way around the rocks toward my boat, now already dumped and balanced between two rocks.
"How was that?" she asked, a slightly smug and pleasantly malicious smile on her face, as I approached.
I only wish I could remember what I said. It probably wasn't too nice.
So, at the takeout, though it would have been GOOD for me to do that stretch again, I declined. I was whipped, and I know what happens when I'm that tired. I make even worse mistakes.
KT, bless her, recommended that I spend more time in the boat on flatwater before I get into the river again. Good idea. I WILL be in the river again, but maybe not this year. My flatwater blogging may not be as exciting ... but then again, who knows? I'm the one in the kayak, after all.
Hanging out under moving water is, as they say in Texas, "a whole 'nother thing."
My fridge has a little magnet on it that says, "Do something every day that scares you."
I think I'm set for about a month.
Old kayaking maxim: "There are two kinds of kayakers--those who've been in the drink, and those who are about to be."
On Monday, July 19th, I was both.
I spent a lovely first half of the day with KT, my trusty instructor from RMOC (actually, she's from New Zealand) working on a sort of review of general boat handling techniques, which was a good thing considering I hadn't been in my boat AT ALL during the month between my 2nd and 3rd lesson. Shame on me. But I was too busy. Wah, wah.
We worked under a gloriously blue sky sprinkled with a few clouds. The Class I and II stretch of the Arkansas River east of Salida about a mile from the Lone Pine takeout was clear and cool, but not painfully cold. I reviewed the famous Wet Exit, but found to my dismay I still couldn't make myself overturn my boat deliberately--kinda like jumping out of that perfectly good airplane--why? But she rolled me a few times and I exited just fine. We also worked hard (well, I WORKED HARD) on eddy entrances/exits, carving, turns, straight and sweep strokes, and a new move, the "ferry"--wherein my job was to row my 'yak upstream and across the river. Much harder than it might seem, but I suppose I got it. By lunchtime, I was feelin' it, and KT probably needed a PBR (she'll have to wait for supper at my house for that, but it will be frosty and ready).
At lunch, I asked her to grade my performance (since I'm a teacher), and she rated me at a B. I think that was pretty magnanimous of her, but hey, I'll take the compliment. Those of us who teach know the art of "praising with faint damns." I think I may have been a C.
Then, all hell broke loose. After a serious safety talk over paddle signals, swimming position, and a few other river nuances like what to do with the safety rope when or if it's thrown to me, we did a one-mile stretch just downstream of where we'd been training. She assured me we'd stay only a few boat lengths apart, that this was just a little thing ... a couple of rapids, one strainer ... nothing too big.
Yeah.
As she stroked away from me, my heart heaved in my chest while my peanut-butter sandwhich tried to make a second appearance. "Go, dammit!" I told myself. "Keep up with her!"
I navigated the first little rapid okay--some of it backward or sideways, though--and when we got through that, I relaxed just a bit. KT pointed out the strainer on my right--a rock with sticks and junk hung on it--and I hadn't even seen it. I was too busy trying to keep my boat heading straight.
We approached the second little rapid ... a few rocks here--BANG, bonk--and then I executed a classic "side pin"--my boat parallel and sideways to a rock. And I also executed a set of perfectly wrong moves in quick succession. They were: (1) rolling INTO the current, instead of away from it toward the rock, which would have likely freed my boat, and (2) attempting to STAND UP once I had wet-exited.
So number (1) flipped my kayak with ease, and number (2) made KT practically want to beat the crap out of me--that is, if I didn't drown. Yeah, the water was only about 4 feet deep, but that didn't matter. I KNEW I shouldn't be trying to stand up. I KNEW I could get a foot trapped. But my body still doesn't have the wherewithal to listen to my mind. This proves once again intellectual knowledge is a far cry from actual, practical practice. You'd figure I'd learn that by now.
This, unfortunately has been a lifelong problem.
"Don't stand up! Swim! SWIM!!" she yelled over and over. All I could think of was how could I manage to swim AND keep hold of the paddle? (Thank God KT had my boat.) I made it to shore, picked my way around the rocks toward my boat, now already dumped and balanced between two rocks.
"How was that?" she asked, a slightly smug and pleasantly malicious smile on her face, as I approached.
I only wish I could remember what I said. It probably wasn't too nice.
So, at the takeout, though it would have been GOOD for me to do that stretch again, I declined. I was whipped, and I know what happens when I'm that tired. I make even worse mistakes.
KT, bless her, recommended that I spend more time in the boat on flatwater before I get into the river again. Good idea. I WILL be in the river again, but maybe not this year. My flatwater blogging may not be as exciting ... but then again, who knows? I'm the one in the kayak, after all.
Hanging out under moving water is, as they say in Texas, "a whole 'nother thing."
My fridge has a little magnet on it that says, "Do something every day that scares you."
I think I'm set for about a month.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Hanging Out Underwater
I successfully completed the first two of three days of kayak lessons. Hard to believe, especially when I consider the outcome of my first assignment--the wet exit. Let me explain.
The "wet exit" is the technique of learning how to free yourself from your kayak while hanging upside-down underwater secured snugly in you boat by a tight, elasticized spray skirt. Think of that last piece of gear, the spray skirt, as a burial shroud. Or maybe an elasticized panic blanket.
Abetted, but not aided, by my PFD (personal floatation device), I discovered the sinister truth: the laws of gravity, or more specifically, SPECIFIC GRAVITY, and Murphy's Law work well underwater. Maybe even better than on dry land. So my first assignment in the kayaking class went something like this:
DAY 1
INSTRUCTOR: Karen, are you ready?
(I wiggle my boat into the water after watching 3 other classmates successfully complete their wet exits]
ME: Uh ... yeah. Ready as I'll ever be.
[I paddle out to where the instructor stands waist-deep in the water.]
INSTRUCTOR: Okay, here you go. One ... two ... THREE!
I gulp some air as he flips me over underwater, and, to my horror, I find that I'm now stretched out parallel to my boat--that is, with my back against the boat stern. This is precisely the maneuver the instructor warned us against not two minutes earlier, the one position that beginners often assume.
Now, I've been in some compromising positions before, but nothing like this one. Those others may have theatened my reputation, and even my sanity, but this one was threatening my LIFE. Result: I couldn't reach the spray skirt strap to free myself. And in my panic, I couldn't even realize what the problem was.
Result: inordinate, uncontrolled thrashing underwater.
I try, as my pitiful life flashes before my eyes, to raise my right--or was it my left?--hand out of the water to beg the instructor to turn my boat upright. About five years later, he gets the hint and hauls me up into the beautiful, oxygen-rich, rainy-day top of the world.
INSTRUCTOR: Are you okay? Just relax. You're fine.... Okay, how about you go hang out on the shore and get it together?
I did. And I didn't.
I spend the rest of that first day learning, or trying to learn, various paddling techniques--straight-ahead strokes, the sweep (a shallow, full-boat-length swoosh of the paddle designed to turn the kayak in the opposite direction the sweep is on), carving (wherein the kayaker leans the craft over to the right and/or left as far as possible without actually capsizing, all the while maintaining some forward speed), low and high bracing (slapping the water with your paddle just before you tip, which rights your boat), and some forward-backward manuevering. These things are all well and good, but I keep my spray skirt unhooked from my boat at the request of one of my instructors, which makes the 'yak take on a consdierable about of water from time to time. Thoughts of Gilligan's Island's ship the Minnow occassionally float into my consciousness. Or maybe of the Titanic. I occassionally dump my boat as the lessons proceed behind me. I know things aren't going exactly as I had imagined.
Before lunch, my instructor asks me to try that wet exit again. I still can't make myself roll under. I may as well have been asked to swallow a handful of broken glass.
After lunch, we play a couple rounds of "Sharks and Minnows" and "Steal the Rock," which are games designed to get your mind OFF learning to kayak, thus making you actually perform better. I am not quite sure this helps me, but the games are fun. Then a close lightning strike ends our already cold and rainy first day.
As I trudge up the shore and stand in my cold wetsuit gazing into my bag full of dry gear, I'm aware that others are busy rustling around me. "I KNOW I'm supposed to do something with this bag, but what?"
"You can change back at RMOC," one of my instructors, K.T., a girl from New Zealand, says reassuringly. Yeah. I can do that.
DAY 2:
I am the first to arrive for the second class day, sore but hopeful, and a little worried that I'm not ready to be on the Arkansas--even for the "light" stuff we'll be doing--eddy entrances, exits, reading the river, and I don't even know what else. The thought of my non-wet-exit day haunts me.
Suddenly, I'm surrounded by my instructors.
ONE INSTRUCTOR: We've talked it over, and we've been thinking ....
Right here I believe they're going to tell me I'm just not cut out for this kayaking thing.
INSTRUCTOR: ....that you're really probably not ready for the Arkansas. You know, the river is running really high right now, and we think you'd benefit from another day on the lake with K.T. How would you feel about that?
ME: [relieved] I agree. I'm not ready, and I'm fine with that.
That same relief crosses everyone's face. In no time, K.T. and I head for the same reservior and begin our workout. I feel gratitude rising in my heart, and my fear sliding away with the cloud cover. The sun comes out.
K.T. and I spend the first part of the day working hard on refining my paddling skills. By mid-morning, I'm tired, but getting better at going straight when I want to (possible in a boat, and real life, I'm happy to say), turns, make-believe eddy entrances and exits, carves, and even some figure 8 carves. My boat, like my body, doesn't always behave, but I try my best. The rest is all about learning my boat and in finding my limitations.
After lunch, we're back to the hair of the dog that bit me: the wet exit.
After going through the motions of the wet exit on dry land, we transition into the water. I am amazed at how different this feels than the day before.
KT: Okay, I'm going to barrel-roll you. Here we go.
[She rolls my boat completely several times in each direction. My spray skirt is on. My nose and ears fill with water, but my earplugs do their job, lessening my misery.]
KT: Now I'm going to roll you under and I want you to count. I'll probably have you up before you can get to 3.
She does.
KT: Now, I'm going to roll you under. I want you to say to yourself, 'I LIKE being underwater.' I'll have you up before you can finish saying that.
She does.
KT: This time, I'm going to roll you under, and I want you to hug your boat. Tap on the top when you're ready to come up.
[I roll under, hold my breath, finally getting comfortable at this idea, and she rolls me upright.
KT: You didn't tap, but I just wanted to be sure.
ME: I was fine. I hadn't yet tapped.
KT: You're getting it!
And I am. Several more variations and attempts later, I feel as though this wet-exit thing is within my grasp.
As we haul our boats and gear up to the truck, she tells me I'm ready to be on the river for that 3rd day of instruction. I am relieved and satisfied, so much so that it mitigates the pain I'm feeling after two hard days of physical labor. My mind, so accustomed to a small box, has been let out into the bright world, too. And it feels good.
My 3rd day will be July 19th. I can hardly wait. I'll be travelling to TX between now and then, and I hope to get in some boat time through renting while I'm there, and a couple more days on lakes here. My heartfelt thanks to the able staff at Rocky Mountain Outdoor Center--Greg, Ben, and K.T.--for their instruction and patience.
Here's a little something I came across in Kayaking, a book published by the American Canoe Association:
"Being relaxed in a kayak demands that you be comfortable hanging out underwater."
All I can say to that is, "No kidding."
The "wet exit" is the technique of learning how to free yourself from your kayak while hanging upside-down underwater secured snugly in you boat by a tight, elasticized spray skirt. Think of that last piece of gear, the spray skirt, as a burial shroud. Or maybe an elasticized panic blanket.
Abetted, but not aided, by my PFD (personal floatation device), I discovered the sinister truth: the laws of gravity, or more specifically, SPECIFIC GRAVITY, and Murphy's Law work well underwater. Maybe even better than on dry land. So my first assignment in the kayaking class went something like this:
DAY 1
INSTRUCTOR: Karen, are you ready?
(I wiggle my boat into the water after watching 3 other classmates successfully complete their wet exits]
ME: Uh ... yeah. Ready as I'll ever be.
[I paddle out to where the instructor stands waist-deep in the water.]
INSTRUCTOR: Okay, here you go. One ... two ... THREE!
I gulp some air as he flips me over underwater, and, to my horror, I find that I'm now stretched out parallel to my boat--that is, with my back against the boat stern. This is precisely the maneuver the instructor warned us against not two minutes earlier, the one position that beginners often assume.
Now, I've been in some compromising positions before, but nothing like this one. Those others may have theatened my reputation, and even my sanity, but this one was threatening my LIFE. Result: I couldn't reach the spray skirt strap to free myself. And in my panic, I couldn't even realize what the problem was.
Result: inordinate, uncontrolled thrashing underwater.
I try, as my pitiful life flashes before my eyes, to raise my right--or was it my left?--hand out of the water to beg the instructor to turn my boat upright. About five years later, he gets the hint and hauls me up into the beautiful, oxygen-rich, rainy-day top of the world.
INSTRUCTOR: Are you okay? Just relax. You're fine.... Okay, how about you go hang out on the shore and get it together?
I did. And I didn't.
I spend the rest of that first day learning, or trying to learn, various paddling techniques--straight-ahead strokes, the sweep (a shallow, full-boat-length swoosh of the paddle designed to turn the kayak in the opposite direction the sweep is on), carving (wherein the kayaker leans the craft over to the right and/or left as far as possible without actually capsizing, all the while maintaining some forward speed), low and high bracing (slapping the water with your paddle just before you tip, which rights your boat), and some forward-backward manuevering. These things are all well and good, but I keep my spray skirt unhooked from my boat at the request of one of my instructors, which makes the 'yak take on a consdierable about of water from time to time. Thoughts of Gilligan's Island's ship the Minnow occassionally float into my consciousness. Or maybe of the Titanic. I occassionally dump my boat as the lessons proceed behind me. I know things aren't going exactly as I had imagined.
Before lunch, my instructor asks me to try that wet exit again. I still can't make myself roll under. I may as well have been asked to swallow a handful of broken glass.
After lunch, we play a couple rounds of "Sharks and Minnows" and "Steal the Rock," which are games designed to get your mind OFF learning to kayak, thus making you actually perform better. I am not quite sure this helps me, but the games are fun. Then a close lightning strike ends our already cold and rainy first day.
As I trudge up the shore and stand in my cold wetsuit gazing into my bag full of dry gear, I'm aware that others are busy rustling around me. "I KNOW I'm supposed to do something with this bag, but what?"
"You can change back at RMOC," one of my instructors, K.T., a girl from New Zealand, says reassuringly. Yeah. I can do that.
DAY 2:
I am the first to arrive for the second class day, sore but hopeful, and a little worried that I'm not ready to be on the Arkansas--even for the "light" stuff we'll be doing--eddy entrances, exits, reading the river, and I don't even know what else. The thought of my non-wet-exit day haunts me.
Suddenly, I'm surrounded by my instructors.
ONE INSTRUCTOR: We've talked it over, and we've been thinking ....
Right here I believe they're going to tell me I'm just not cut out for this kayaking thing.
INSTRUCTOR: ....that you're really probably not ready for the Arkansas. You know, the river is running really high right now, and we think you'd benefit from another day on the lake with K.T. How would you feel about that?
ME: [relieved] I agree. I'm not ready, and I'm fine with that.
That same relief crosses everyone's face. In no time, K.T. and I head for the same reservior and begin our workout. I feel gratitude rising in my heart, and my fear sliding away with the cloud cover. The sun comes out.
K.T. and I spend the first part of the day working hard on refining my paddling skills. By mid-morning, I'm tired, but getting better at going straight when I want to (possible in a boat, and real life, I'm happy to say), turns, make-believe eddy entrances and exits, carves, and even some figure 8 carves. My boat, like my body, doesn't always behave, but I try my best. The rest is all about learning my boat and in finding my limitations.
After lunch, we're back to the hair of the dog that bit me: the wet exit.
After going through the motions of the wet exit on dry land, we transition into the water. I am amazed at how different this feels than the day before.
KT: Okay, I'm going to barrel-roll you. Here we go.
[She rolls my boat completely several times in each direction. My spray skirt is on. My nose and ears fill with water, but my earplugs do their job, lessening my misery.]
KT: Now I'm going to roll you under and I want you to count. I'll probably have you up before you can get to 3.
She does.
KT: Now, I'm going to roll you under. I want you to say to yourself, 'I LIKE being underwater.' I'll have you up before you can finish saying that.
She does.
KT: This time, I'm going to roll you under, and I want you to hug your boat. Tap on the top when you're ready to come up.
[I roll under, hold my breath, finally getting comfortable at this idea, and she rolls me upright.
KT: You didn't tap, but I just wanted to be sure.
ME: I was fine. I hadn't yet tapped.
KT: You're getting it!
And I am. Several more variations and attempts later, I feel as though this wet-exit thing is within my grasp.
As we haul our boats and gear up to the truck, she tells me I'm ready to be on the river for that 3rd day of instruction. I am relieved and satisfied, so much so that it mitigates the pain I'm feeling after two hard days of physical labor. My mind, so accustomed to a small box, has been let out into the bright world, too. And it feels good.
My 3rd day will be July 19th. I can hardly wait. I'll be travelling to TX between now and then, and I hope to get in some boat time through renting while I'm there, and a couple more days on lakes here. My heartfelt thanks to the able staff at Rocky Mountain Outdoor Center--Greg, Ben, and K.T.--for their instruction and patience.
Here's a little something I came across in Kayaking, a book published by the American Canoe Association:
"Being relaxed in a kayak demands that you be comfortable hanging out underwater."
All I can say to that is, "No kidding."
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The Yellow Boat
Well, after threatening, dreaming, and schemeing for almost two years, I finally did it--I bought a LiquidLogic Remix XP9. I guess I shouldn't call it a "boat" (lowly word that it is), but it IS a boat, technically speaking. More specifically, a kayak, defined loosely by me as, "1. any floatable watercraft containing a seat, leg traps, a semi-dry hatch, and more charisma than is probably legal; 2. a watercraft easily capsized deliberately or not (called a "roll") designed to put the appreciation for life back into its pilot as he/she hits 36-degree water"; 3. My plans for summer.
I'm a newbie kayaker, having only been in a sit-on-top about 25 years ago in OK (yes, they do have kayaks there), and I also remember how much fun the guy in the kayak had who filmed my capsized raft adventure in 1997 on the Arkansas River (Sidell Suckhole, I still respect you). We have that guy to thank, my friends and I, for the slow-mo video of our chaotic raft exit, guide and all. Later, in the Lariat Bar, our mishap paled in comparison to the monster falls and whitewater threshing machines other kayakers were braving up on the big screen. Right about my third beer, I knew I wanted a kayak even though I'd never have the guts to do those 5 and 5 ++ rapids.
So, here I am, my XP9 sitting in the middle of the den with enough equipment in it to open my own kayak retail clothing and gear shop. Am I exicted? You bet! Scared? A little, but probably nothing compared to those first few minutes I'll spend in some pond the middle of June, then on the AR River the next day. Hope deferred makes the heart sick. Fear deferred makes the heart glad!
I'm looking for enough insurance coverage to cremate me, should the need arise. And I'm hoping, of course, that I won't need it. But it is a serious consideration, what with one eye and all, and that one eye not the best-working model. But hey--no one can see in the middle of the rapid; it's whitewater all-around, and ya just keep strokin'. I've thought seriously of putting that Rush song title "Workin' Them Angels Overtime" on the side of my yellow boat.
Yellow boat. Uh-oh.
According to author Linda Greenlaw, to commercial fishermen, yellow is BAD LUCK for a boat. So is bringing bananas aboard. Or having a turned-over hatch cover (which implies a boat's capsize). It's also bad luck, according to Greenlaw, to have a woman onboard a boat, or for a woman to pilot a boat.
Considering she was one of the best commercial fishermen (she doesn't mind the "men" part of that word, though she's not gay) on the entire East coast, I think she's got the right perspective.
So, I'm going with Greenlaw. Wish me luck!
I'm a newbie kayaker, having only been in a sit-on-top about 25 years ago in OK (yes, they do have kayaks there), and I also remember how much fun the guy in the kayak had who filmed my capsized raft adventure in 1997 on the Arkansas River (Sidell Suckhole, I still respect you). We have that guy to thank, my friends and I, for the slow-mo video of our chaotic raft exit, guide and all. Later, in the Lariat Bar, our mishap paled in comparison to the monster falls and whitewater threshing machines other kayakers were braving up on the big screen. Right about my third beer, I knew I wanted a kayak even though I'd never have the guts to do those 5 and 5 ++ rapids.
So, here I am, my XP9 sitting in the middle of the den with enough equipment in it to open my own kayak retail clothing and gear shop. Am I exicted? You bet! Scared? A little, but probably nothing compared to those first few minutes I'll spend in some pond the middle of June, then on the AR River the next day. Hope deferred makes the heart sick. Fear deferred makes the heart glad!
I'm looking for enough insurance coverage to cremate me, should the need arise. And I'm hoping, of course, that I won't need it. But it is a serious consideration, what with one eye and all, and that one eye not the best-working model. But hey--no one can see in the middle of the rapid; it's whitewater all-around, and ya just keep strokin'. I've thought seriously of putting that Rush song title "Workin' Them Angels Overtime" on the side of my yellow boat.
Yellow boat. Uh-oh.
According to author Linda Greenlaw, to commercial fishermen, yellow is BAD LUCK for a boat. So is bringing bananas aboard. Or having a turned-over hatch cover (which implies a boat's capsize). It's also bad luck, according to Greenlaw, to have a woman onboard a boat, or for a woman to pilot a boat.
Considering she was one of the best commercial fishermen (she doesn't mind the "men" part of that word, though she's not gay) on the entire East coast, I think she's got the right perspective.
So, I'm going with Greenlaw. Wish me luck!
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Reviving the Dead
It's tough to come back to this blog after a more than five month hiatus. Not that I had planned it that way, believe me. But sometimes, things--lives--get in the way. And for all the talk about how solitary a career it is to write, or to be a writer, or to want to be successful enough at it to pay the bills and go to the Bahamas at will, well, it's true. No one but me really has what I have at stake in nailing writing to the door of my life. It still riles the little minions who plan my schedule. They say things like, "Oh, well, we'll take care of that little thing. How about a sizable smack of classwork? Or maybe a personal meltdown of some kind? You want to write? Yeah, yeah. Tell me another good one. How about another visit from your Noonday Demon? She hasn't seen you since .... hmmm .... July. Yeah. July. One month BEFORE your last post. It's about time, ain't it?"
No. It isn't.
Summoning what I can only call "the will to write" and to keep on doing it in the face of a void is tough. But that's exactly how it works. So, here I am. Back from the void. The same one I wrote about months and months ago, it turns out, while I was musing about creating in a vaccuum. Might as well be a Hoover. I could use a Eureka.
Is the corpse cold? Yes. Is it breathing? Yes, barely. Has there been irreversible brain damamge? I don't know. You'll have to stick around and see, I guess--right along with me.
No. It isn't.
Summoning what I can only call "the will to write" and to keep on doing it in the face of a void is tough. But that's exactly how it works. So, here I am. Back from the void. The same one I wrote about months and months ago, it turns out, while I was musing about creating in a vaccuum. Might as well be a Hoover. I could use a Eureka.
Is the corpse cold? Yes. Is it breathing? Yes, barely. Has there been irreversible brain damamge? I don't know. You'll have to stick around and see, I guess--right along with me.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Not-So-Light Summer Reading, Part 2
Summer is nearly over, and having spent all of it intermittently in the company of Joel Rosenberg and Peter Wyden (whose two books were written 25 years apart), I owe each man a great debt. Wyden has tour-guided me through the triumphs, horrors, egos, and fallout (literally) of living in a nuclear world. Rosenberg has impressed upon me through thorough research and painstaking interviews why the onset of the nuclear age has become so ominous. I can't say it was sunny reading, but it, like the mushroom cloud over Alamogordo, was certainly enlightening and full of implications for my future.
I left off my last post with that very test having just been completed. From there, the rest of my time with Wyden's Day One pummeled me with the sheer misery the inhabitants of Hiroshima went through--those that were unlucky enough to have lived through the Bomb. Of Hiroshima's 350,000 residents. well over 130,000 died, most instantly. Many more died later that day, a few days, weeks, and even years later. We dropped the Bomb while there were 23 American prisoners of war in that city; of the those airmen in downtown Hiroshima at the time of the blast, only 2 briefly survived. Their deaths were agonizing, and they died bewildered at what had happened, having no idea an atomic Bonb even existed. Their families were never told that the cause of their loved ones' deaths was from the A-bomb. Equally distressing is the scientists' ignorance of the dragon they were unleashing. Oppenheimer's pork-pie hat held dollar bills from 103 of the scientists; guesses varied from 0-18,000 tons of TNT. In the end, the Bomb produced an explosion of 20,000 tons. Then there was Truman's arrogance, Oppenheimer's slow dissolution, and the government seizure and classification of thousands of feet of film footage shot in Hiroshima just after the devastation. Why? Nuclear tests underway in the early 1950s couldn't be jeopardized. And so they weren't. That film footage wasn't released until 1982.
1982--3 years after the Islamic Revolution in Iran. As I mentioned before, Rosenberg's Inside the Revolution chronicles the struggle for supremacy in the Middle East by Radical Muslims, Reform-minded Muslims, and Revivalist Muslims. As I read with keen empathy Hiroshima's struggle to survive and somehow rise from its own ashes, I was simultaneously introduced to many Reformist Muslims--those who do not believe jihad is a viable way to win converts and remove opposition. Rosenberg introduces us to Jalal Talabani, Hamid Karzai, and Morocco's King Hussein, among others--all of whom are touting, either blatantly or covertly, a type of Jeffersonian-style reform they claim as compatible with Islam. Perhaps they are right. There are also the Revivalists, those Muslims who have been converted to Christianity and who are determined to continue challenging radical Islam for the dangerous agent it is. Many of these men and women do so with daily threats of death. Many have had several near-miss assassination attempts. Some, doubtless, have died a real martyr's death--one that offers a real redemption at the other end.
All this to say one thing: I am more convinced than ever that radical Islam poses the biggest threat EVER to the civilized world. We had a conscience during WWII, even though we unleashed the dragon. The after-effects of the dragon's breath inflamed that conscience. Perhaps that's why the Cuban Missile Crisis ended as it did.
But the fires of Alamogordo and Hiroshima only seem to have seared the consciences of those practicing Radical Islam. May God help us. We're a long way from Day One, approaching Day None.
I left off my last post with that very test having just been completed. From there, the rest of my time with Wyden's Day One pummeled me with the sheer misery the inhabitants of Hiroshima went through--those that were unlucky enough to have lived through the Bomb. Of Hiroshima's 350,000 residents. well over 130,000 died, most instantly. Many more died later that day, a few days, weeks, and even years later. We dropped the Bomb while there were 23 American prisoners of war in that city; of the those airmen in downtown Hiroshima at the time of the blast, only 2 briefly survived. Their deaths were agonizing, and they died bewildered at what had happened, having no idea an atomic Bonb even existed. Their families were never told that the cause of their loved ones' deaths was from the A-bomb. Equally distressing is the scientists' ignorance of the dragon they were unleashing. Oppenheimer's pork-pie hat held dollar bills from 103 of the scientists; guesses varied from 0-18,000 tons of TNT. In the end, the Bomb produced an explosion of 20,000 tons. Then there was Truman's arrogance, Oppenheimer's slow dissolution, and the government seizure and classification of thousands of feet of film footage shot in Hiroshima just after the devastation. Why? Nuclear tests underway in the early 1950s couldn't be jeopardized. And so they weren't. That film footage wasn't released until 1982.
1982--3 years after the Islamic Revolution in Iran. As I mentioned before, Rosenberg's Inside the Revolution chronicles the struggle for supremacy in the Middle East by Radical Muslims, Reform-minded Muslims, and Revivalist Muslims. As I read with keen empathy Hiroshima's struggle to survive and somehow rise from its own ashes, I was simultaneously introduced to many Reformist Muslims--those who do not believe jihad is a viable way to win converts and remove opposition. Rosenberg introduces us to Jalal Talabani, Hamid Karzai, and Morocco's King Hussein, among others--all of whom are touting, either blatantly or covertly, a type of Jeffersonian-style reform they claim as compatible with Islam. Perhaps they are right. There are also the Revivalists, those Muslims who have been converted to Christianity and who are determined to continue challenging radical Islam for the dangerous agent it is. Many of these men and women do so with daily threats of death. Many have had several near-miss assassination attempts. Some, doubtless, have died a real martyr's death--one that offers a real redemption at the other end.
All this to say one thing: I am more convinced than ever that radical Islam poses the biggest threat EVER to the civilized world. We had a conscience during WWII, even though we unleashed the dragon. The after-effects of the dragon's breath inflamed that conscience. Perhaps that's why the Cuban Missile Crisis ended as it did.
But the fires of Alamogordo and Hiroshima only seem to have seared the consciences of those practicing Radical Islam. May God help us. We're a long way from Day One, approaching Day None.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Not-So-Light Summer Reading, Part 1
A friend of mine loaned me Joel Rosenberg's 2009 book Inside the Revolution. I decided to pair that book with another I've had in my bookshelf for quite a few years now, Day One: Before Hiroshima and After, by Peter Wyden. The effect has been startling, and I'm only about half way though both books.
If you're not familiar with these books, here's the basic synopsis of each: Rosenberg takes a look at three primary groups of people who all have a stake in running the Middle East and world domination--the Islamic Radicals, Islamic Reformers, and Christian Revivalists, while Wyden's book details what its title and subtitle suggest--the ambition and anguish over the start of the atomic age.
Now, you may ask, why do these two books work so well together? The answer is simple and chilling: Though they were written 25 years apart, Wyden throws a magnifying glass on the human complexities and failures to regulate (or otherwise refuse to start) the atomic age, and Rosenberg dives beneath the surface of world politics to illuminate one of the darkest and most dangerous times ahead for the world since the end of WWII.
Consider these facts from each book:
(Day One)--The hundreds of scientists fanned out across the country and eventually (mostly) gathered in Los Alamos did not know exactly what they were unleashing. Their test plutonium bomb detonated in Alamogordo, NM, just days before the Hiroshima bomb drop, shocked them all. One scientist was temporarily blinded from 20 miles away (watching through a truck windshield). The bomb's fireball, "infinitely brighter than the sun, its temperature 10,000 times greater, began an eight-mile ascent, warming the faces of the men . . . turning night into day for more than a hundred miles." Scientists and a few army personnel had previously issued warnings, asked for a peaceful demonstration, or no use at all, of the bomb that would forever change the world. But in what Wyden calls the "rush to decision," these protests were swept aside in favor of using the bomb on Japan.
(Inside the Revolution): America was "asleep" according to past CIA operatives and leaders, when Iran became the first Islamic state ever in 1979. We thought it didn't matter. But over the years, Iran's leaders have radicalized Islam, and they mince no words when it comes to what they want: world domination, and a world without Israel and the United States, which they label "the Little Satan" and "the Great Satan" respectively. Ahmadinejad has said, "Israel must be wiped off the map." Osama bin Laden, who has so far eluded capture, has made it plain he considers the acquisition of weapons of mass destruction--and specifically, nuclear weapons--"a religious duty." The audience for radical Islam's agenda has been told to "imagine a world without the United States."
We've been here before. The Cold War and the Cuban Missile Crisis brought us to the brink of destruction. But the key difference seems to be that a sense of annihilation, a real fear of death on a mass scale, stopped the nightmare from unfolding. Those who would radicalize Islam for their own ends believe dying for Allah is a great honor--the highest honor--and life doesn't mean anything to the radicalized mind. It's simply a means to an end. Therein, of course, lies the danger.
As I watch today's headlines, Ahmadinejad, the radical, and Mir Hossein Mousavi, the reformist, are both claiming victory, a situation bound to destabilize Iran even further.
If you're not familiar with these books, here's the basic synopsis of each: Rosenberg takes a look at three primary groups of people who all have a stake in running the Middle East and world domination--the Islamic Radicals, Islamic Reformers, and Christian Revivalists, while Wyden's book details what its title and subtitle suggest--the ambition and anguish over the start of the atomic age.
Now, you may ask, why do these two books work so well together? The answer is simple and chilling: Though they were written 25 years apart, Wyden throws a magnifying glass on the human complexities and failures to regulate (or otherwise refuse to start) the atomic age, and Rosenberg dives beneath the surface of world politics to illuminate one of the darkest and most dangerous times ahead for the world since the end of WWII.
Consider these facts from each book:
(Day One)--The hundreds of scientists fanned out across the country and eventually (mostly) gathered in Los Alamos did not know exactly what they were unleashing. Their test plutonium bomb detonated in Alamogordo, NM, just days before the Hiroshima bomb drop, shocked them all. One scientist was temporarily blinded from 20 miles away (watching through a truck windshield). The bomb's fireball, "infinitely brighter than the sun, its temperature 10,000 times greater, began an eight-mile ascent, warming the faces of the men . . . turning night into day for more than a hundred miles." Scientists and a few army personnel had previously issued warnings, asked for a peaceful demonstration, or no use at all, of the bomb that would forever change the world. But in what Wyden calls the "rush to decision," these protests were swept aside in favor of using the bomb on Japan.
(Inside the Revolution): America was "asleep" according to past CIA operatives and leaders, when Iran became the first Islamic state ever in 1979. We thought it didn't matter. But over the years, Iran's leaders have radicalized Islam, and they mince no words when it comes to what they want: world domination, and a world without Israel and the United States, which they label "the Little Satan" and "the Great Satan" respectively. Ahmadinejad has said, "Israel must be wiped off the map." Osama bin Laden, who has so far eluded capture, has made it plain he considers the acquisition of weapons of mass destruction--and specifically, nuclear weapons--"a religious duty." The audience for radical Islam's agenda has been told to "imagine a world without the United States."
We've been here before. The Cold War and the Cuban Missile Crisis brought us to the brink of destruction. But the key difference seems to be that a sense of annihilation, a real fear of death on a mass scale, stopped the nightmare from unfolding. Those who would radicalize Islam for their own ends believe dying for Allah is a great honor--the highest honor--and life doesn't mean anything to the radicalized mind. It's simply a means to an end. Therein, of course, lies the danger.
As I watch today's headlines, Ahmadinejad, the radical, and Mir Hossein Mousavi, the reformist, are both claiming victory, a situation bound to destabilize Iran even further.
Just seconds after the Alamogordo detonation, Kenneth Bainbridge, the chief physicist at the test site, "sounded the first public note of regret," according to Wyden. He had on his mind the recent destruction of Britain by the Germans, and said, "Oppie, now we're all sons of bitches." Had we handled the start of the nuclear age differently, Bainbridge would have never had to utter those telling words. And Iran's elections wouldn't grip the world they way they do right now.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Spring is for the Birds!
While lying in bed with insomnia one recent early morning (a common occurrence for me), I started counting birds, not sheep. That is, now that it's spring, I added up the number of bird species who are either regular visitors or who happen through on their way to some other more suitable clime. (How can that be? Birds truly have small brains, no?)
Anyway, I came up with 30 species, and here they are: black-capped chickadee, crow, raven, house finch, lesser goldfinch, American goldfinch, house sparrow, Lincoln sparrow, song sparrow, nuthatch, Harris's woodpecker, Downy woodpecker, lazuli bunting, blue grosbeak, evening grosbeak, black-headed grosbeak, stellar's jay, grey jay, pine siskin, oriole, brown thrasher, green-tailed towhee, black-headed junco, summer tanager, yellow warbler, cedar waxwing, magpie, robin, red-tailed hawk, and Canada geese.
Of this last bird, the Canadian goose, Amish farmer and writer David Kline writes in his book Great Possessions, "Canada geese, like us, can hardly wait for spring. Unlike most other migrants who wait until the weather warms and then travel north rapidly, geese return with the opening of the water. Since spring moves north around 15 miles a day, the northward movement of geese might be considered a slow migration."
Indeed. Leisurely, you might say. I have heard a pair honking in a low flyover every morning now for months. I don't know where they sleep at night, but just before sunrise, they're headed east--right toward the Arkansas River, which runs just a couple miles from my house. How long they'll stay is anybody's guess.
I like to think of migration as a kind of bird wanderlust. A few years ago, I was seized by just such a thing when I thought I had to move back to Texas. I wrote a poem about it, called "Migration," which I'll share here, and then close with a comment.
Of all the animals there are to watch, birds are by far my favorite. And spring is by far the best time to do it. The leaves are not yet fully on the trees here in central Colorado--though, as Kline notes, every day another 15 miles green up and obscure these magnificent creatures. Soon, all you'll have is sound.But what a sound!
Anyway, I came up with 30 species, and here they are: black-capped chickadee, crow, raven, house finch, lesser goldfinch, American goldfinch, house sparrow, Lincoln sparrow, song sparrow, nuthatch, Harris's woodpecker, Downy woodpecker, lazuli bunting, blue grosbeak, evening grosbeak, black-headed grosbeak, stellar's jay, grey jay, pine siskin, oriole, brown thrasher, green-tailed towhee, black-headed junco, summer tanager, yellow warbler, cedar waxwing, magpie, robin, red-tailed hawk, and Canada geese.
Of this last bird, the Canadian goose, Amish farmer and writer David Kline writes in his book Great Possessions, "Canada geese, like us, can hardly wait for spring. Unlike most other migrants who wait until the weather warms and then travel north rapidly, geese return with the opening of the water. Since spring moves north around 15 miles a day, the northward movement of geese might be considered a slow migration."
Indeed. Leisurely, you might say. I have heard a pair honking in a low flyover every morning now for months. I don't know where they sleep at night, but just before sunrise, they're headed east--right toward the Arkansas River, which runs just a couple miles from my house. How long they'll stay is anybody's guess.
I like to think of migration as a kind of bird wanderlust. A few years ago, I was seized by just such a thing when I thought I had to move back to Texas. I wrote a poem about it, called "Migration," which I'll share here, and then close with a comment.
Migration
This damned Zugunruhe*, this urge to set my face
Toward some distant land, one I will inhabit again--
Like the doves my father kept when I was a child--
It must be true! I have stored fat for the journey,
A cache of fuel and burden, function and density
To propel me with its own downhill momentum.
I hope as I go I will lighten this load of me.
Before I leave, I watch the colorful cacophony
Of birds in my front yard who’ve just arrived:
The orioles in their dapper orange, white and black,
The Lincoln and white-crowned sparrows dressed in
Diminutive prairie suits of gray and brown,
And the startling, chattering, chortling goldfinches,
Who, like me, never seem to settle down.
And now, it is my turn to go.
Diurnal, I ride the rising current of hope,
The goodwill of friends, then glide slowly
Over my parched and receding present until
The next buoyant bubble catches me and lifts
My soaring soul away from the shimmering
Blue and brown, gray and green.
And thus, I will arrive to where I’ve been.
Nocturnal now, I glide down the dark corridor
Of cooling air, lit faintly by moon and stars;
I need not look up to read their courses.
My body heat trails behind me, a comet,
The long ribbon of highway ahead and behind.
In the quiet wonder I think, imagine, and worry
About all there is, or could be, or might not be.
Or perhaps what I feel is just old biology,
Pulled on by indelible urges known since the
Dawn of time--hunger, mating (It would be nice!)
Or death--to land myself on some other shore
After navigating seas, and seas, and seas.
Lucky and beleaguered, I’ll ease myself down,
Tired and thin, and deserve whatever I get.
Why do we give up our hard-won territory?
Can it really be just to eat, to die, or take a wife?
This is the question of any hour, of any life.
We fly madly on though we know the way,
Bodies aligned like iron filings to a magnet,
Eyes fixed on some point far beyond our vision,
Our bird-souls alighting ahead, calling us to follow.
This damned Zugunruhe*, this urge to set my face
Toward some distant land, one I will inhabit again--
Like the doves my father kept when I was a child--
It must be true! I have stored fat for the journey,
A cache of fuel and burden, function and density
To propel me with its own downhill momentum.
I hope as I go I will lighten this load of me.
Before I leave, I watch the colorful cacophony
Of birds in my front yard who’ve just arrived:
The orioles in their dapper orange, white and black,
The Lincoln and white-crowned sparrows dressed in
Diminutive prairie suits of gray and brown,
And the startling, chattering, chortling goldfinches,
Who, like me, never seem to settle down.
And now, it is my turn to go.
Diurnal, I ride the rising current of hope,
The goodwill of friends, then glide slowly
Over my parched and receding present until
The next buoyant bubble catches me and lifts
My soaring soul away from the shimmering
Blue and brown, gray and green.
And thus, I will arrive to where I’ve been.
Nocturnal now, I glide down the dark corridor
Of cooling air, lit faintly by moon and stars;
I need not look up to read their courses.
My body heat trails behind me, a comet,
The long ribbon of highway ahead and behind.
In the quiet wonder I think, imagine, and worry
About all there is, or could be, or might not be.
Or perhaps what I feel is just old biology,
Pulled on by indelible urges known since the
Dawn of time--hunger, mating (It would be nice!)
Or death--to land myself on some other shore
After navigating seas, and seas, and seas.
Lucky and beleaguered, I’ll ease myself down,
Tired and thin, and deserve whatever I get.
Why do we give up our hard-won territory?
Can it really be just to eat, to die, or take a wife?
This is the question of any hour, of any life.
We fly madly on though we know the way,
Bodies aligned like iron filings to a magnet,
Eyes fixed on some point far beyond our vision,
Our bird-souls alighting ahead, calling us to follow.
-----
*Migratory restlessness often seen in caged birds.
*Migratory restlessness often seen in caged birds.
Of all the animals there are to watch, birds are by far my favorite. And spring is by far the best time to do it. The leaves are not yet fully on the trees here in central Colorado--though, as Kline notes, every day another 15 miles green up and obscure these magnificent creatures. Soon, all you'll have is sound.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
More than Nature Hates a Vacuum
I am a writer. I am a musician. For the most part, I have been creating and practicing these art forms in a vacuum. I don’t like it at all. I’m also a Christian, a designation that complicates these other two: does that change—or should it change—how I feel about bringing writing into the world without a readership? Songs into the world without a listener?
Some people, other Christians in particular, think it should. Some of these people believe seeking glory or “the praise of men” is wrong, and I should just be content to sit back and wait on God. Well, I do believe in waiting on God, but I don’t believe it’s wrong to want someone—or a large group of people, even—to appreciate what I do. I’ll explain the key reason why in a moment.
For now, I want to discuss the word decorate. We use it often in association with art and art forms. When we hang a cherished painting, we are “decorating.” We usually think that means something like “making a room look pretty.” But actually, the word comes from the Latin word decoratus, which means “ornament” or “honor.” So, “to decorate” means something more profound: “to add honor to.” When I hang an artist’s painting, am I adding honor to the room? No. The room is an inanimate space. I am adding honor to the artist.
Is this wrong? Again, I don’t think so. How can it be, when art, by its very nature, is about conveying ideas, and those ideas basically cease to exist if they are not recognized, if there is no one to appreciate them?
I’ll be the first to tell you not all ideas expressed in art need to be honored. Their merits are a matter of taste or sensibilities, to be sure, but I think we can agree a song proposing murder contains less “honorable” ideas than a song proposing forgiveness. And if we “decorate” our lives (in the “make it pretty” sense) by choosing the song about forgiveness over the one about murder, are we not aligning ourselves with those ideas, endorsing them, if you will? We are. And more than that, while “giving honor” to the higher ideal, we are also decorating the artist behind that creation. That’s the spirit of the word “decorate.”
We often hear it spoken of soldiers, whom we decorate with medals of honor. When we do so, we are acknowledging the “rightness” of their actions; in effect, we are endorsing them in their sacrificial losses and acts of valor. And in so doing, we restore to the soldier some of the dignity of humanity—something war tends to strip away as a matter of course.
Sometimes, creating art can feel like fighting a battle. Seizing on an idea is just the beginning: the artist must find the best medium to convey that idea, then figure out how to do it in a way no other person has, in a way that speaks resoundingly to the souls of those who come in contact with that art. And now, we’re back to the beginning: the artist must then search for an audience.
I believe that in the searching for (and finding) an audience, something much more profound than artistic vainglory is at work: at the point of contact between artist and audience, a two-fold decorating takes place: the audience honors the artist, and the artist honors the audience. How? When I can speak resoundingly to the souls of those with whom my work resonates, I acknowledge their human dignity, their struggles, and their triumphs. I also honor the gifts God has given me, and if I can point someone toward God through the use of those gifts, so much the better.
Okay. I’ve held off long enough. The above reasons are important, but the key reason I believe it’s not wrong to want my art to be appreciated or understood by many people is this: my Christian teachings tell me I’ve been made in the image of God. He may have created in a vacuum, but He wasn’t content to leave it that way. After He created the heavens and the Earth, scripture says He created man and woman. And what do you think God wanted from them? Foremost, He wanted them to give Him honor—to decorate His achievements in creation. Why else would God pour out His infinite imagination? What good is a starry night sky, the achingly blue feathers of an indigo bunting, or the perfect crystalline symmetry of a snowflake without someone to notice? God seeks acknowledgement of His artistry from His creation, and He created humans to do just that. So, because I’m made in His image, I therefore share the same desire—and it’s a completely legitimate one—tucked inside every strand of my DNA.
Notice I didn’t say they would acknowledge Him. God left them free to choose. But for those of us who believe in a Creator, decorating God with the honor He deserves is a natural thing to do.
I know—someone is going to say, “But what you’re asking for is worship!” No, I’m not, no more than I “worship” my favorite songwriter or painter. God alone is worthy of worship, but for that to occur, I must at least first see His incredible, infinite hand in creation. And while it’s true some people do worship songwriters, painters, and writers, the true deficiencies of these gods come out sooner or later. In my case, it would be sooner, if not instantly.
No, I’m not looking for worship. But I would like some acknowledgement now and then that I’m using my God-given talents usefully, that I’m speaking deeply to the souls of those who can hear me. God sought it, and He created beings He hoped would give Him honor. But He left them free to exercise their wills.
Made in His likeness, I find creating in a vacuum as distasteful as He did. But unlike God, I can’t create an instant potential audience out of nothing.
Or can I?
Some people, other Christians in particular, think it should. Some of these people believe seeking glory or “the praise of men” is wrong, and I should just be content to sit back and wait on God. Well, I do believe in waiting on God, but I don’t believe it’s wrong to want someone—or a large group of people, even—to appreciate what I do. I’ll explain the key reason why in a moment.
For now, I want to discuss the word decorate. We use it often in association with art and art forms. When we hang a cherished painting, we are “decorating.” We usually think that means something like “making a room look pretty.” But actually, the word comes from the Latin word decoratus, which means “ornament” or “honor.” So, “to decorate” means something more profound: “to add honor to.” When I hang an artist’s painting, am I adding honor to the room? No. The room is an inanimate space. I am adding honor to the artist.
Is this wrong? Again, I don’t think so. How can it be, when art, by its very nature, is about conveying ideas, and those ideas basically cease to exist if they are not recognized, if there is no one to appreciate them?
I’ll be the first to tell you not all ideas expressed in art need to be honored. Their merits are a matter of taste or sensibilities, to be sure, but I think we can agree a song proposing murder contains less “honorable” ideas than a song proposing forgiveness. And if we “decorate” our lives (in the “make it pretty” sense) by choosing the song about forgiveness over the one about murder, are we not aligning ourselves with those ideas, endorsing them, if you will? We are. And more than that, while “giving honor” to the higher ideal, we are also decorating the artist behind that creation. That’s the spirit of the word “decorate.”
We often hear it spoken of soldiers, whom we decorate with medals of honor. When we do so, we are acknowledging the “rightness” of their actions; in effect, we are endorsing them in their sacrificial losses and acts of valor. And in so doing, we restore to the soldier some of the dignity of humanity—something war tends to strip away as a matter of course.
Sometimes, creating art can feel like fighting a battle. Seizing on an idea is just the beginning: the artist must find the best medium to convey that idea, then figure out how to do it in a way no other person has, in a way that speaks resoundingly to the souls of those who come in contact with that art. And now, we’re back to the beginning: the artist must then search for an audience.
I believe that in the searching for (and finding) an audience, something much more profound than artistic vainglory is at work: at the point of contact between artist and audience, a two-fold decorating takes place: the audience honors the artist, and the artist honors the audience. How? When I can speak resoundingly to the souls of those with whom my work resonates, I acknowledge their human dignity, their struggles, and their triumphs. I also honor the gifts God has given me, and if I can point someone toward God through the use of those gifts, so much the better.
Okay. I’ve held off long enough. The above reasons are important, but the key reason I believe it’s not wrong to want my art to be appreciated or understood by many people is this: my Christian teachings tell me I’ve been made in the image of God. He may have created in a vacuum, but He wasn’t content to leave it that way. After He created the heavens and the Earth, scripture says He created man and woman. And what do you think God wanted from them? Foremost, He wanted them to give Him honor—to decorate His achievements in creation. Why else would God pour out His infinite imagination? What good is a starry night sky, the achingly blue feathers of an indigo bunting, or the perfect crystalline symmetry of a snowflake without someone to notice? God seeks acknowledgement of His artistry from His creation, and He created humans to do just that. So, because I’m made in His image, I therefore share the same desire—and it’s a completely legitimate one—tucked inside every strand of my DNA.
Notice I didn’t say they would acknowledge Him. God left them free to choose. But for those of us who believe in a Creator, decorating God with the honor He deserves is a natural thing to do.
I know—someone is going to say, “But what you’re asking for is worship!” No, I’m not, no more than I “worship” my favorite songwriter or painter. God alone is worthy of worship, but for that to occur, I must at least first see His incredible, infinite hand in creation. And while it’s true some people do worship songwriters, painters, and writers, the true deficiencies of these gods come out sooner or later. In my case, it would be sooner, if not instantly.
No, I’m not looking for worship. But I would like some acknowledgement now and then that I’m using my God-given talents usefully, that I’m speaking deeply to the souls of those who can hear me. God sought it, and He created beings He hoped would give Him honor. But He left them free to exercise their wills.
Made in His likeness, I find creating in a vacuum as distasteful as He did. But unlike God, I can’t create an instant potential audience out of nothing.
Or can I?
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