This is an old reflection I wrote a couple years ago. In the interest of collecting all my favorite reflections in one place, I'm posting it here:
Have you ever seen the sun set on the coast right as the tide begins to
break? Waves crash against a weary shore, eating away at thousands of
years of sand and rock. The relentless assault on the integrity of the
beach is overwhelming. Enormous boulders begin to quake and move from
their decades-old resting places, and entire sections of sand begin to
disappear. The great roar of the ocean heaving its immensity against
the land is deafening. But just as one begins to lose hope for the
earth; just as one thinks that the sand and rocks and plants will
finally succumb to the pressures of the sea, the light begins to dim.
The sun creeps behind the trees, fortifying the earth, giving away all of itself
as it falls behind the horizon. The sky fumes in protest, shooting fire
across the clouds in anguish at its loss.
But as the light fades, the
waves lessen their assault. Strengthened by the force of the sun, the
earth roars back, a cacophony of night creatures called up from
reserve. The waves begin to shrink in fear. The sacrifice of the sun
has brought to the earth an internal warmth, allowing it to quiet the
sea. The tide rolls out, revealing weather beaten shores, now free from
drowning but still bathed in moonlight. The moon, enlightened by the
spirit of the sun, now gives the world a soft glow of peace.
Peace.
Peace settles in. The waves now gently roll--a soft and even sound.
The smell of salt is no longer caustic. Rather, the wet and heavy sand
now breathes with the slight breath of relief.
Look at the example of the sun. The earth rocks in its orbit,
straining to escape the warmth of its rays. But the sun forgives, and
each year it melts the frozen hatred of a wintery land. The sun burns
with a fiery intensity, but never complains of the monotony of the
constant need to renew the life of the earth.
And do not forget the
sacrifice of the sunset, when the sun descends from its rightful place
in the sky, if only to save the world from laying too long in its life-giving rays.
Take heed of the sun's example. As the terrors of the demons press
down on you, wearing away at your core and threatening your very
integrity, allow the sun to set behind you and sustain you in its
fullness. Love the moon and the stars of heaven, basking in the mere
reflection of the sun's rays. Forgive even in monotony; silence your
complaints in love; accept sacrifice in the depths of your heart.
And no matter how dark the night becomes, always remember the hope of
the sun's rising.
O Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on us!
Friday, June 13, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
they've come to set the Explorer free
My hand comfortably reached for the next branch and my right foot found a strong hold a little higher than the left one. I lifted up a few more inches. My head swung around to gather my new surroundings. To the left the leaves parted enough to see across the whole field and all the way to Ben's backyard. Ben was throwing a baseball with his father. To the right I could see my house and the open garage door and my father standing in front talking to Andrew's mom.
It was my world. I settled in, found a perfect curve in the bark, and sat down. I could sit here for hours, watching the field without worrying about being out of my parents' reach when it was time for dinner. I wanted to sit here. I wanted to stay and be the secret king of the neighborhood, sitting on my throne in the tree.
But my sisters were already moving on. For a kid who always wanted to be alone, I was terrified that someone might leave me by myself. I protested, but Mary had already launched herself the last 10 feet to the ground. Sarah awkwardly swung down behind her and said, "Come oooon!"
I was helplessly pulled towards them. A panicky fear welled up up in my chest. I grumbled and climbed down, a slave to the the group's adventure rather than my own.
They drove a firetruck to school and left it right in the parking lot. The classes took turns during the day going out and sitting in the drivers seat. At the end of each demonstration they'd turn the sirens on. It made us all simultaneously smother our ears with our palms while rolling around with excited cackles.
It was Wednesday, so I stayed for AfterSchoolCare. The firefighters hadn't anticipated the half day and had to wait around till 3, which meant that the AfterSchool Kids got to see the firetruck again before going to the playground.
I stood before the Shiny Red Beast in awe. I wanted to walk all around it, touching all the shiny chrome parts that held in the water and tools and strangely dressed men. I wanted to sit on all the ledges, and climb up the ladder on the back. I wanted to hold one of the hoses and pretend to put out a building. I wanted to sit in the driver's seat again, and I wanted to ask the man if I could reach up and honk the fog horn.
But Tom's dad was a firefighter and he was used to seeing the trucks. He got to play with them in the garage sometimes. So Tom got bored before I had barely started my exploration, and decided it was time to run to the playground. Adam and Sam ran off behind him, and that meant I had to go too. I looked mournfully at the truck, waved goodbye, and turned in pursuit of the other boys.
It took me entirely too long to realize that I could explore the world without the safety of the rest of everybody in the world. Perhaps the group of people around me, no matter how close my friendships might be, isn't quite as interested in the things I'm interested in.
In fact, I only learned this lesson a few years ago. I spent almost 20 years with a tethered field of exploration; I obediently followed the group instead of my own curiosity.
Then, one day it just clicked: I don't have to follow them. When we find a new place, I am free and can wander the paths of my wonder without staying within earshot of the pack. I am free.
So when the group falls out of the car onto a new beach or a southern plantation or a slice of Eden washed up on shore, I don't have to be on a Distance Leash. I wander away freely, talking and laughing to myself and sharing secrets with the wind and the surf and the trees and the piles of bricks.
But this is impossible to do with two people (unless you are traveling with an extraordinary person). I've been here two weeks, just me and the pastor. We go for a walk in the rose garden across the street EVERY NIGHT, which is both incredible and horrible. Incredible because he is delightful and sociable and kind; horrible because he is delightful and sociable and kind. I simply can't peel away and satiate my wanderlust because I have to walk with him and exchange stories of the day and muse on the world.
It's great really, and I'm learning a lot from him. BUT I WANT TO WANDER! I want to roam through the grassy pathways and the lay down under a tree and listen to the wind whisper the scent of roses softly through my nostrils.
But by the weekend, other seminarians will be here. We'll still go for our walks, but other people will be around. It will be more appropriate to break away and reenter my own world of quiet audible laughter and secret conversations with the flowers (yes, I talk to flowers and gardens and oceans. Well, I more talk at them than anything else. Yes, I am insane).
The irony is, the presence of a group will finally allow me the freedom to separate from a group. I thought that this whole situation is hilarious: I need company in order to run away from company. Without my community, I'm going insane because I have no community to escape from.
It was my world. I settled in, found a perfect curve in the bark, and sat down. I could sit here for hours, watching the field without worrying about being out of my parents' reach when it was time for dinner. I wanted to sit here. I wanted to stay and be the secret king of the neighborhood, sitting on my throne in the tree.
But my sisters were already moving on. For a kid who always wanted to be alone, I was terrified that someone might leave me by myself. I protested, but Mary had already launched herself the last 10 feet to the ground. Sarah awkwardly swung down behind her and said, "Come oooon!"
I was helplessly pulled towards them. A panicky fear welled up up in my chest. I grumbled and climbed down, a slave to the the group's adventure rather than my own.
They drove a firetruck to school and left it right in the parking lot. The classes took turns during the day going out and sitting in the drivers seat. At the end of each demonstration they'd turn the sirens on. It made us all simultaneously smother our ears with our palms while rolling around with excited cackles.
It was Wednesday, so I stayed for AfterSchoolCare. The firefighters hadn't anticipated the half day and had to wait around till 3, which meant that the AfterSchool Kids got to see the firetruck again before going to the playground.
I stood before the Shiny Red Beast in awe. I wanted to walk all around it, touching all the shiny chrome parts that held in the water and tools and strangely dressed men. I wanted to sit on all the ledges, and climb up the ladder on the back. I wanted to hold one of the hoses and pretend to put out a building. I wanted to sit in the driver's seat again, and I wanted to ask the man if I could reach up and honk the fog horn.
But Tom's dad was a firefighter and he was used to seeing the trucks. He got to play with them in the garage sometimes. So Tom got bored before I had barely started my exploration, and decided it was time to run to the playground. Adam and Sam ran off behind him, and that meant I had to go too. I looked mournfully at the truck, waved goodbye, and turned in pursuit of the other boys.
It took me entirely too long to realize that I could explore the world without the safety of the rest of everybody in the world. Perhaps the group of people around me, no matter how close my friendships might be, isn't quite as interested in the things I'm interested in.
In fact, I only learned this lesson a few years ago. I spent almost 20 years with a tethered field of exploration; I obediently followed the group instead of my own curiosity.
Then, one day it just clicked: I don't have to follow them. When we find a new place, I am free and can wander the paths of my wonder without staying within earshot of the pack. I am free.
So when the group falls out of the car onto a new beach or a southern plantation or a slice of Eden washed up on shore, I don't have to be on a Distance Leash. I wander away freely, talking and laughing to myself and sharing secrets with the wind and the surf and the trees and the piles of bricks.
But this is impossible to do with two people (unless you are traveling with an extraordinary person). I've been here two weeks, just me and the pastor. We go for a walk in the rose garden across the street EVERY NIGHT, which is both incredible and horrible. Incredible because he is delightful and sociable and kind; horrible because he is delightful and sociable and kind. I simply can't peel away and satiate my wanderlust because I have to walk with him and exchange stories of the day and muse on the world.
It's great really, and I'm learning a lot from him. BUT I WANT TO WANDER! I want to roam through the grassy pathways and the lay down under a tree and listen to the wind whisper the scent of roses softly through my nostrils.
But by the weekend, other seminarians will be here. We'll still go for our walks, but other people will be around. It will be more appropriate to break away and reenter my own world of quiet audible laughter and secret conversations with the flowers (yes, I talk to flowers and gardens and oceans. Well, I more talk at them than anything else. Yes, I am insane).
The irony is, the presence of a group will finally allow me the freedom to separate from a group. I thought that this whole situation is hilarious: I need company in order to run away from company. Without my community, I'm going insane because I have no community to escape from.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
when shyness saved the day
From the moment I entered the room I knew it was going to be painful. I could hear the laughter through the open porch door. It haunted me; my shoulders shivered.
Don't get me wrong, laughter (especially the laughter of strangers) is a beautiful thing. To walk down a quiet street at dusk and hear chuckles echoing through open windows is like catching the aroma of baking cookies on a breeze; it's an intrusion, but one that invokes an air of mystery that elicits immediate forgiveness.
But when you're forced to penetrate that mystery and become a part of something you were more than content to witness from afar, the majesty is lost. It's sticking your nose into a spoiled rose; there is no more wonder involved.
We stood on the porch and Rosanne appeared behind the screen. She's the type that will latch onto an insignificant phrase or joke in the first five minutes of your acquaintance and will accost you with it for the rest of your life (or hers; whichever comes first...) You know, the kind almost incapable of profound friendship. "Ah, our True Tenor is here!" she announces in the low light of the porch at dusk, while I whisper a prayer of gratitude that eye-rolls aren't audible.
She opens the screen and to admit me. They sit at the table behind the door, their bowls of ice cream reduced to carefully combed fields of Hershey's Syrup. They've been here awhile, already entrenched in their evening of revelry.
And I don't know a single one of them.
I'm ushered to the kitchen where I'm coaxed to fill a bowl with ice cream and why not a little chocolate and maybe you could use some more M&M's. What an ungrateful child I am to bear such a sullen expression while a nice old lady begged me to put more sugar in my mouth
I guess I was just waiting for something to set me off, but when the right phrase came I was still surprised at the amount of self-control it took to pacify my mouth with my spoon.
It was Rosanne who finally said something worth hating. She was talking about her trip to Italy, and lamented that she didn't have time to really witness Italian culture during her THREE WEEK VISIT. "I would have loved to have traveled to some smaller places, but we just had to see the tourist traps. You just can't travel in Rome without stopping at all the important places."
In that moment, she should have feared death. It was mostly shyness that kept me from striking her. I wished to slap her in the face and belittle her foolishness.
When I was younger I hated choose-your-own-adventure books. I only ever read one. You know why? Because they had nothing to do with adventure. Sure, you got to pick whether your next page was 167 or 32, but the whole thing was already determined. It seemed less like an adventure and more like the author couldn't make up his mind. It wasn't an adventure in the same way that connecting the dots isn't drawing.
Just like Rosanne. She wasn't on an adventure, she was connecting the dots. After she finished photographing some monument, she looked at her list at the next destination "they" planned for her. So she returned from Rome with a bunch of pictures and complaints, because her trip to "discover Italy" was really no more profound than opening a coffee-table picture-book.
I hated my time in Rome. I was obligated to visit the important sites, and the obligation threatened to ruin me. I was following orders instead of pilgriming. On the last day I violently threw away my itinerary, set off down a side street, and discovered a secret hidden gelato shop that no one would have ever told me about. Unlike the books, I actually chose my own adventure. I drew outside the lines, and created something magnificent.
I sat there fuming. I had chosen my words, about to lay into poor Rosanne who was just trying to make conversation in her own home. Then Father saved her. "Well, we have to run." I gave her one last look and thought,
Your safe, Rosanne.
This time.
Don't get me wrong, laughter (especially the laughter of strangers) is a beautiful thing. To walk down a quiet street at dusk and hear chuckles echoing through open windows is like catching the aroma of baking cookies on a breeze; it's an intrusion, but one that invokes an air of mystery that elicits immediate forgiveness.
But when you're forced to penetrate that mystery and become a part of something you were more than content to witness from afar, the majesty is lost. It's sticking your nose into a spoiled rose; there is no more wonder involved.
We stood on the porch and Rosanne appeared behind the screen. She's the type that will latch onto an insignificant phrase or joke in the first five minutes of your acquaintance and will accost you with it for the rest of your life (or hers; whichever comes first...) You know, the kind almost incapable of profound friendship. "Ah, our True Tenor is here!" she announces in the low light of the porch at dusk, while I whisper a prayer of gratitude that eye-rolls aren't audible.
She opens the screen and to admit me. They sit at the table behind the door, their bowls of ice cream reduced to carefully combed fields of Hershey's Syrup. They've been here awhile, already entrenched in their evening of revelry.
And I don't know a single one of them.
I'm ushered to the kitchen where I'm coaxed to fill a bowl with ice cream and why not a little chocolate and maybe you could use some more M&M's. What an ungrateful child I am to bear such a sullen expression while a nice old lady begged me to put more sugar in my mouth
I guess I was just waiting for something to set me off, but when the right phrase came I was still surprised at the amount of self-control it took to pacify my mouth with my spoon.
It was Rosanne who finally said something worth hating. She was talking about her trip to Italy, and lamented that she didn't have time to really witness Italian culture during her THREE WEEK VISIT. "I would have loved to have traveled to some smaller places, but we just had to see the tourist traps. You just can't travel in Rome without stopping at all the important places."
In that moment, she should have feared death. It was mostly shyness that kept me from striking her. I wished to slap her in the face and belittle her foolishness.
When I was younger I hated choose-your-own-adventure books. I only ever read one. You know why? Because they had nothing to do with adventure. Sure, you got to pick whether your next page was 167 or 32, but the whole thing was already determined. It seemed less like an adventure and more like the author couldn't make up his mind. It wasn't an adventure in the same way that connecting the dots isn't drawing.
Just like Rosanne. She wasn't on an adventure, she was connecting the dots. After she finished photographing some monument, she looked at her list at the next destination "they" planned for her. So she returned from Rome with a bunch of pictures and complaints, because her trip to "discover Italy" was really no more profound than opening a coffee-table picture-book.
I hated my time in Rome. I was obligated to visit the important sites, and the obligation threatened to ruin me. I was following orders instead of pilgriming. On the last day I violently threw away my itinerary, set off down a side street, and discovered a secret hidden gelato shop that no one would have ever told me about. Unlike the books, I actually chose my own adventure. I drew outside the lines, and created something magnificent.
I sat there fuming. I had chosen my words, about to lay into poor Rosanne who was just trying to make conversation in her own home. Then Father saved her. "Well, we have to run." I gave her one last look and thought,
Your safe, Rosanne.
This time.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Everlasting Autumn (or is it Spring?)
"I am sick and tired of looking at fannies," he said to me.
Really though, the timing was nothing short of miraculous. At the exact moment Jack Basic was explaining to me how young gentlemen need to stop sagging their pants, a group of 20 nude bicyclists passed by us on the road (on their way downtown for the 10,000-person annual Naked Bike Ride [keeping Portland weird is a full time job for its residents]). I honestly thought he was going to faint.
Jack Basic is the kind of name that deserves to be said in its entirety, and it belongs to the 92-year-old man who lives down the street from the parish. He moved into that house when he was 5. Yup, that's right, the man has spent 87 years living in the same home (unless you subtract the year he spent in college 3 miles down the road, which neither he nor I count because he hated it and left as soon as he could).
The very idea of spending 87 years in one place is terrifying to me. Seriously, I am afraid to even think of it. My mind begins to try and form scenarios of myself at his age waking up or getting the mail or cleaning the kitchen and I begin to feel sick with fear at even continuing the daydream. I shut my mind in a frenzied terror at the mere thought of such a life.
But let me tell you, Jack Basic does it right.
Our acquaintance began out of pity. Yah see, the parish is having a rummage sale. This is a different way to say garage sale, except instead of one garage its every garage in the parish. We've filled the school basement (seriously, the ENTIRE basement) with donated articles, and it's going to be my job to organize, price, and sell these items.
Great.
Organization and salesmanship; these are a few of my least fav'rite things [to be sung in your best Julie Andrews inyourhead voice].
So I'm sitting there waiting for people to drop stuff off, reading a book, when I hear this noise. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. I look around the corner and Jack Basic is hobbling toward me with a suitcase. He hands it to me, and says he has to go back for more. Can I drive you? No, you'd like to walk? Ok, I'll see you soon.
45 minutes later. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Hi jack, another suitcase? Oh, you have more? You have to let me drive you this time. No? Well alright.
25 minutes later, I finally get it in my head to meet him halfway. I set off down the street. 7 blocks down, I find him leaving his house. I intend to take the stuff from him and let him go back inside, but he insists that we walk all the way to the parish.
That's when the naked bikers arrive, and we become instant friends. You can't just share something like a posse of people with bike seats jammed up their bare bottoms without becoming a person's best friend.
Our conversation continues, and somewhere around block 5 he invites me to lunch. Of course I'll come.
Jack Basic is a legend around here. The local grocery store threw him a 90th birthday party in the store. We went by so he could show me off to the ladies there. We pretended that I was his son, cuz you know, EVERYONE has a son that's 70 years his junior.
All-in-all, we spent almost 5 hours together. We chatted about life, he complained to me about teachers he had in school 80 years ago, we traded book suggestions (he told me how committed he was to reading everything worth reading before he dies), he explained why he decided to start learning piano last year, we argued about Chesterton, and of course we got ice cream together. This man is a legend.
92 years. What will I be like if death stays away that long? Will I still read every day? Will I decide to pick up the piano at 91? Will I remember my grade school teachers? Will I still be willing to play tricks on my friends? Will I still walk 7 blocks over and over again because I think someone might want the coffee maker I bought 30 years ago for a party and only used once? Will I be able to befriend a young brat fresh out of college who's still juvenile enough to think he can change the world?
I suspect that Jack Basic still believes he can change the world. After the thought occurred to him somewhere on the streets of northwest Portland all those years ago, the thought never died. So perhaps it's not very juvenile at all. If his time-tested mind still yearns to learn and grow and love as newly and freshly as it did 85 years ago, then perhaps mine can too. Perhaps this is how Jack intends to change the world: by giving a little bit of himself to me.
Whatever it is, I like it, and I like my new friend.
Really though, the timing was nothing short of miraculous. At the exact moment Jack Basic was explaining to me how young gentlemen need to stop sagging their pants, a group of 20 nude bicyclists passed by us on the road (on their way downtown for the 10,000-person annual Naked Bike Ride [keeping Portland weird is a full time job for its residents]). I honestly thought he was going to faint.
Jack Basic is the kind of name that deserves to be said in its entirety, and it belongs to the 92-year-old man who lives down the street from the parish. He moved into that house when he was 5. Yup, that's right, the man has spent 87 years living in the same home (unless you subtract the year he spent in college 3 miles down the road, which neither he nor I count because he hated it and left as soon as he could).
The very idea of spending 87 years in one place is terrifying to me. Seriously, I am afraid to even think of it. My mind begins to try and form scenarios of myself at his age waking up or getting the mail or cleaning the kitchen and I begin to feel sick with fear at even continuing the daydream. I shut my mind in a frenzied terror at the mere thought of such a life.
But let me tell you, Jack Basic does it right.
Our acquaintance began out of pity. Yah see, the parish is having a rummage sale. This is a different way to say garage sale, except instead of one garage its every garage in the parish. We've filled the school basement (seriously, the ENTIRE basement) with donated articles, and it's going to be my job to organize, price, and sell these items.
Great.
Organization and salesmanship; these are a few of my least fav'rite things [to be sung in your best Julie Andrews inyourhead voice].
So I'm sitting there waiting for people to drop stuff off, reading a book, when I hear this noise. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. I look around the corner and Jack Basic is hobbling toward me with a suitcase. He hands it to me, and says he has to go back for more. Can I drive you? No, you'd like to walk? Ok, I'll see you soon.
45 minutes later. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Hi jack, another suitcase? Oh, you have more? You have to let me drive you this time. No? Well alright.
25 minutes later, I finally get it in my head to meet him halfway. I set off down the street. 7 blocks down, I find him leaving his house. I intend to take the stuff from him and let him go back inside, but he insists that we walk all the way to the parish.
That's when the naked bikers arrive, and we become instant friends. You can't just share something like a posse of people with bike seats jammed up their bare bottoms without becoming a person's best friend.
Our conversation continues, and somewhere around block 5 he invites me to lunch. Of course I'll come.
Jack Basic is a legend around here. The local grocery store threw him a 90th birthday party in the store. We went by so he could show me off to the ladies there. We pretended that I was his son, cuz you know, EVERYONE has a son that's 70 years his junior.
All-in-all, we spent almost 5 hours together. We chatted about life, he complained to me about teachers he had in school 80 years ago, we traded book suggestions (he told me how committed he was to reading everything worth reading before he dies), he explained why he decided to start learning piano last year, we argued about Chesterton, and of course we got ice cream together. This man is a legend.
92 years. What will I be like if death stays away that long? Will I still read every day? Will I decide to pick up the piano at 91? Will I remember my grade school teachers? Will I still be willing to play tricks on my friends? Will I still walk 7 blocks over and over again because I think someone might want the coffee maker I bought 30 years ago for a party and only used once? Will I be able to befriend a young brat fresh out of college who's still juvenile enough to think he can change the world?
I suspect that Jack Basic still believes he can change the world. After the thought occurred to him somewhere on the streets of northwest Portland all those years ago, the thought never died. So perhaps it's not very juvenile at all. If his time-tested mind still yearns to learn and grow and love as newly and freshly as it did 85 years ago, then perhaps mine can too. Perhaps this is how Jack intends to change the world: by giving a little bit of himself to me.
Whatever it is, I like it, and I like my new friend.
Friday, June 6, 2014
In Spite of Robert Frost
"A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair."1
I crest the hill at a cool 59 mph with the windows down. I'm going north on Interstate 5, and the city climbs into view.
It's alive.
9:45 on a friday night. I had a glass of wine with dinner; not enough to make the yellow line swerve left and right, but enough to make everything marvelous. As the lights of the city fill up the windshield, DJ Oh So Fresh puts on some Katy Perry.
So you wanna play with magic? Boy you should know what your fallin' for.
I ride onto the top of the Marquam Bridge and am swallowed by color. The sun has descended below the ridges, but still shoots a sharp spectrum of yellow then orange then purple from behind the earth like a child in protest of a premature bedtime. The road is lit before and behind me in little spotlights from the lamps of the other cars. The buildings are lit up in every color. Greens and purples and yellows and whites and reds and it all blends together in the calm waters of the Willamette River.
Baby do you dare to do this? Cause I'm coming at you like a dark horse.
Dark horse: an little known contender that makes an unusually good showing. Thanks Merriam-Webster. What a good way to describe this city. I didn't expect to like it. Honestly, I expected to hate it. Hippies and overthetop Granolas. Yuck.
"It's a seductive city," Phillip said to me this morning as I stared out listlessly over the Willamette.
I guess he was right.
Back to the bridge. I slow down to 50 mph so I can properly enjoy this spectacular moment. The warm evening breeze finds its way in through the windows. The scent of roses is dense in the air. I look to my left and see the Rose Festival on the opposite bank. A massive ferris wheel throws lights up and down its cross sections. The light tickles my eyes while the scent tickles my nose.
Are you ready for a perfect storm? Cause once you're mine...
At that moment, it happened. I fell in love with the city. This has only happened twice before. Once in London, and once in Charleston. Both overtook my guard and drew me into a wild love affair of twisting streets and historical markers and late-night lights reflecting off peaceful waters. And it's happened again: Portland has seduced me, and in that moment, on the bridge, I succumbed to her advances.
I am in love with Portland now, and...
...there's no going back.
1. Robert Frost, BBC Interview with Cecil Day Lewis. I usually like Robert Frost, but this post is a reckless attempt to spite him.
I crest the hill at a cool 59 mph with the windows down. I'm going north on Interstate 5, and the city climbs into view.
It's alive.
9:45 on a friday night. I had a glass of wine with dinner; not enough to make the yellow line swerve left and right, but enough to make everything marvelous. As the lights of the city fill up the windshield, DJ Oh So Fresh puts on some Katy Perry.
So you wanna play with magic? Boy you should know what your fallin' for.
I ride onto the top of the Marquam Bridge and am swallowed by color. The sun has descended below the ridges, but still shoots a sharp spectrum of yellow then orange then purple from behind the earth like a child in protest of a premature bedtime. The road is lit before and behind me in little spotlights from the lamps of the other cars. The buildings are lit up in every color. Greens and purples and yellows and whites and reds and it all blends together in the calm waters of the Willamette River.
Baby do you dare to do this? Cause I'm coming at you like a dark horse.
Dark horse: an little known contender that makes an unusually good showing. Thanks Merriam-Webster. What a good way to describe this city. I didn't expect to like it. Honestly, I expected to hate it. Hippies and overthetop Granolas. Yuck.
"It's a seductive city," Phillip said to me this morning as I stared out listlessly over the Willamette.
I guess he was right.
Back to the bridge. I slow down to 50 mph so I can properly enjoy this spectacular moment. The warm evening breeze finds its way in through the windows. The scent of roses is dense in the air. I look to my left and see the Rose Festival on the opposite bank. A massive ferris wheel throws lights up and down its cross sections. The light tickles my eyes while the scent tickles my nose.
Are you ready for a perfect storm? Cause once you're mine...
At that moment, it happened. I fell in love with the city. This has only happened twice before. Once in London, and once in Charleston. Both overtook my guard and drew me into a wild love affair of twisting streets and historical markers and late-night lights reflecting off peaceful waters. And it's happened again: Portland has seduced me, and in that moment, on the bridge, I succumbed to her advances.
I am in love with Portland now, and...
...there's no going back.
1. Robert Frost, BBC Interview with Cecil Day Lewis. I usually like Robert Frost, but this post is a reckless attempt to spite him.
a blog is meant for...
A blog can be a powerful thing, though usually not for the person reading. It's like a diary that's open to the public. Sort of. Usually no one really cares enough to read it, like a diary (let's be honest, you don't really want to read someone's diary. You might say you do, but once you read one or two stories and realize that none of it's about you you're going to get bored and go back to snooping through their dresser). It's usually unrefined, somewhat too personal, and uninteresting, like a diary. It's usually kind of boring, like a diary. In fact, there is really only one difference I can tease out between a diary and a blog: a diary is meant for one person, whereas a blog is meant for all.
Perhaps this is a product of the times, where everyone thinks that what they have to say in their private lives is pertinent to everyone around them. I'm amazed that as the number of people in the world grows larger and larger the number of persons believing themselves to be unanimously relevant to all people skyrockets exponentially (he said in his blog post).
Perhaps that's a little unfair. Some blogs are good. I have this one blog that I just can't stand to part ways with. It's just too good. I greedily race to the page each day to brave a search for new posts amongst the hideous background wallpaper, and I steal away with free minutes to sink my teeth into old posts. This one too. Sure it happens. But like almost never.
What is a blog meant for?
Good question, Josh. Would you believe that it's meant for the blogger? I do. I think that I will bring myself back to this page so often that Google learns that I like it here and sends me here without being asked not because I have anything substantial to say to anyone, but rather because I have things to say to myself.
It's like a diary, remember? But this diary is kept out on the front porch and anyone passing by is free to open it and flip around for a while. Most people won't sit down on the porch swing to read. Perhaps no one will. But I don't mind, this isn't for them.
I'm writing for me. This is a canvas on which the swimming colors and words and sounds that cloud my mind will spill forth and escape my cranium. And since the format is public, I need to do it in an organized manner.
Most diaries are dreadful to read. People drone on and on in ways that would only fly in a book that's tucked away in an underwear drawer. But here, under the great eye of the public, I have to work on my words. I have to let them sit, sink in, and accept my criticism. They have to be honed down so that the occasional passerby isn't accosted by their harsh character. This is a way for me to think clearer, so that when I say things that people will need to hear they'll be thankful that I've had the practice.
So here we go. A wild ride awaits. But don't worry, it's my ride, not yours.
Perhaps this is a product of the times, where everyone thinks that what they have to say in their private lives is pertinent to everyone around them. I'm amazed that as the number of people in the world grows larger and larger the number of persons believing themselves to be unanimously relevant to all people skyrockets exponentially (he said in his blog post).
Perhaps that's a little unfair. Some blogs are good. I have this one blog that I just can't stand to part ways with. It's just too good. I greedily race to the page each day to brave a search for new posts amongst the hideous background wallpaper, and I steal away with free minutes to sink my teeth into old posts. This one too. Sure it happens. But like almost never.
What is a blog meant for?
Good question, Josh. Would you believe that it's meant for the blogger? I do. I think that I will bring myself back to this page so often that Google learns that I like it here and sends me here without being asked not because I have anything substantial to say to anyone, but rather because I have things to say to myself.
It's like a diary, remember? But this diary is kept out on the front porch and anyone passing by is free to open it and flip around for a while. Most people won't sit down on the porch swing to read. Perhaps no one will. But I don't mind, this isn't for them.
I'm writing for me. This is a canvas on which the swimming colors and words and sounds that cloud my mind will spill forth and escape my cranium. And since the format is public, I need to do it in an organized manner.
Most diaries are dreadful to read. People drone on and on in ways that would only fly in a book that's tucked away in an underwear drawer. But here, under the great eye of the public, I have to work on my words. I have to let them sit, sink in, and accept my criticism. They have to be honed down so that the occasional passerby isn't accosted by their harsh character. This is a way for me to think clearer, so that when I say things that people will need to hear they'll be thankful that I've had the practice.
So here we go. A wild ride awaits. But don't worry, it's my ride, not yours.
the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these
"Hugo said that to grow old was to possess all ages and the essence of each one, particularly that of childhood..."1
I reached into my desk in a huff. I hotly pushed markers and folders around until my fingers closed on a notebook. I brought it out: the special one. It was a big notebook that I didn't need for any of my classes. I filled it with doodles of flowers and underground fortresses, scribbles about teachers and friends, and ten pages that were the beginning (and end) of my great novel series called "The Z Men".
I ripped open to the section marked "Journal". I was a boy, so I refused to use the word "diary"; too girly. I angrily rifled the pages until blank looseleaf lay open to the classroom. I tore into my desk for a pencil. In my anger I pressed the graphite to the paper and immediately broke the tip off. This was a job for a pen. I clenched my teeth and ripped off the cap.
"I HATE MRS. KLUCZINKSKY!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I scrawled across the page, taking up 3/4 of the space. The rage wildly distorted my handwriting. I continued, but my letters quickly began to take a normal size as the exercise calmed my anger.
"Why does she teach us if she hates children!?!?!?! She just doesn't understand us! I will NEVER forget what it is like to be a 5th grader!!!" The bell rang and I glared at her for another second, then hastily packed for Social Studies. By the time I had crossed the hallway the rage was forgotten, and the angry journal entry would remain untouched until the day before I graduated from college.
A week ago I moved into a parish for the summer. Since school is still in session, I have been tasked with being a nuisance in the classrooms this week. The principal told me, "Really, just walk around from room to room and meet the kids and sit in on classes."
Yes. Maam.
I've never been so good at my job! And I didn't even want this job. Work in a parish? That's for someone else! Someone much less qualified to teach. No, I will write books and inspire seminars of bright minds to be a little brighter.
And then Sally hugged me. Day one, after school. Madhouse. Children running in every direction. A line of cars snaking in from the street to collect them one by one. Teachers yelling in one direction, then another, then back in the first direction again. I am lost. Then, out of the corner of my eye I see a green streak speeding toward me. A little kindergartner named Sally, dressed in her jumper and collared shirt, Disney backpack hanging from her shoulders, and she screams in like a Kamikaze and collides with my lower half. She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her head in my stomach. A goodbye hug. She lingers until I reach my carefully trained scandal-free left arm around her shoulders to acknowledge her love. Then she disconnects and tears away into the chaos. Not a word was said.
And suddenly I am in love. I'm in love with the whole thing. She has barely any idea who I am. I merely popped my head in her classroom before lunch, introducing myself as the guy who will be a priest like Fr. John, but that was it. It was enough for her. I am huggable.
It's funny how being huggable opens you up to a new world. Suddenly, having tenure seems horrendous. How could I give up something like this? A life inescapably intimate with the people I long to serve.
As time went on, the kids learned my name. And as much more time went on, I learned theirs'. I attended a parish picnic and hung out with the kids because they were the only ones I knew. And they let me tag along. Grace looked at me after I helped her figure out the product of 7 and 80, and she said, "I was friends with the last seminarian that came here; we can be friends too if you want."
When I found that notebook while I was packing up to move out of college, I realized that I have forgotten what it was like to be a 5th grader. I forgot so bad that I couldn't even imagine any more. But I have been filled with comfort to know that spending time with a 5th grader teaches you all over again what it means to be a 5th grader. And I am much better off for learning this lesson.
On our evening walks through the rose garden across the street, I lobbed story after story at the pastor about the kids. He never really responded, just smiled. He smiled knowingly. Suddenly, I knew what the sneaky bastard was up to.
Children are the gateway to a parish. They are simple, trusting, and pure in their love. They love you simply because you're there, and they love you just as much as they love everything else. I learned their names first, then their parents. The kids love it because the little rascals love the attention, and the parents love it because they like someone who's good with their kids (like a natural, built-in babysitter detector).
Then I remember what I wrote in 5th grade, in the brilliant rage that flashes into the eyes of a child recently scolded. "Why does she teach if she hates children?" I've seen it since then: teachers who just seem to hate teaching. No joy leaks out the corners of their eyes when the kids line up at the door. A raised hand is met with a sigh; the beginning of a story with an eye roll.
But this time I ask a second question that's even more important than the first. "How could someone hate children?" My favorite musical is Matilda, and let's face it the show won me over from the very first number. Children are miracles. Little canvases running around with no paint and they proudly show it off. They are hope, running around our legs and screaming in our ears.
Every child is a miracle. Come on, isn't it obvious?
1. Jean Guitton, Journals. I found the quote in the delightful book, Things as They Are by Paul Horgan.
I reached into my desk in a huff. I hotly pushed markers and folders around until my fingers closed on a notebook. I brought it out: the special one. It was a big notebook that I didn't need for any of my classes. I filled it with doodles of flowers and underground fortresses, scribbles about teachers and friends, and ten pages that were the beginning (and end) of my great novel series called "The Z Men".
I ripped open to the section marked "Journal". I was a boy, so I refused to use the word "diary"; too girly. I angrily rifled the pages until blank looseleaf lay open to the classroom. I tore into my desk for a pencil. In my anger I pressed the graphite to the paper and immediately broke the tip off. This was a job for a pen. I clenched my teeth and ripped off the cap.
"I HATE MRS. KLUCZINKSKY!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I scrawled across the page, taking up 3/4 of the space. The rage wildly distorted my handwriting. I continued, but my letters quickly began to take a normal size as the exercise calmed my anger.
"Why does she teach us if she hates children!?!?!?! She just doesn't understand us! I will NEVER forget what it is like to be a 5th grader!!!" The bell rang and I glared at her for another second, then hastily packed for Social Studies. By the time I had crossed the hallway the rage was forgotten, and the angry journal entry would remain untouched until the day before I graduated from college.
A week ago I moved into a parish for the summer. Since school is still in session, I have been tasked with being a nuisance in the classrooms this week. The principal told me, "Really, just walk around from room to room and meet the kids and sit in on classes."
Yes. Maam.
I've never been so good at my job! And I didn't even want this job. Work in a parish? That's for someone else! Someone much less qualified to teach. No, I will write books and inspire seminars of bright minds to be a little brighter.
And then Sally hugged me. Day one, after school. Madhouse. Children running in every direction. A line of cars snaking in from the street to collect them one by one. Teachers yelling in one direction, then another, then back in the first direction again. I am lost. Then, out of the corner of my eye I see a green streak speeding toward me. A little kindergartner named Sally, dressed in her jumper and collared shirt, Disney backpack hanging from her shoulders, and she screams in like a Kamikaze and collides with my lower half. She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her head in my stomach. A goodbye hug. She lingers until I reach my carefully trained scandal-free left arm around her shoulders to acknowledge her love. Then she disconnects and tears away into the chaos. Not a word was said.
And suddenly I am in love. I'm in love with the whole thing. She has barely any idea who I am. I merely popped my head in her classroom before lunch, introducing myself as the guy who will be a priest like Fr. John, but that was it. It was enough for her. I am huggable.
It's funny how being huggable opens you up to a new world. Suddenly, having tenure seems horrendous. How could I give up something like this? A life inescapably intimate with the people I long to serve.
As time went on, the kids learned my name. And as much more time went on, I learned theirs'. I attended a parish picnic and hung out with the kids because they were the only ones I knew. And they let me tag along. Grace looked at me after I helped her figure out the product of 7 and 80, and she said, "I was friends with the last seminarian that came here; we can be friends too if you want."
When I found that notebook while I was packing up to move out of college, I realized that I have forgotten what it was like to be a 5th grader. I forgot so bad that I couldn't even imagine any more. But I have been filled with comfort to know that spending time with a 5th grader teaches you all over again what it means to be a 5th grader. And I am much better off for learning this lesson.
On our evening walks through the rose garden across the street, I lobbed story after story at the pastor about the kids. He never really responded, just smiled. He smiled knowingly. Suddenly, I knew what the sneaky bastard was up to.
Children are the gateway to a parish. They are simple, trusting, and pure in their love. They love you simply because you're there, and they love you just as much as they love everything else. I learned their names first, then their parents. The kids love it because the little rascals love the attention, and the parents love it because they like someone who's good with their kids (like a natural, built-in babysitter detector).
Then I remember what I wrote in 5th grade, in the brilliant rage that flashes into the eyes of a child recently scolded. "Why does she teach if she hates children?" I've seen it since then: teachers who just seem to hate teaching. No joy leaks out the corners of their eyes when the kids line up at the door. A raised hand is met with a sigh; the beginning of a story with an eye roll.
But this time I ask a second question that's even more important than the first. "How could someone hate children?" My favorite musical is Matilda, and let's face it the show won me over from the very first number. Children are miracles. Little canvases running around with no paint and they proudly show it off. They are hope, running around our legs and screaming in our ears.
Every child is a miracle. Come on, isn't it obvious?
1. Jean Guitton, Journals. I found the quote in the delightful book, Things as They Are by Paul Horgan.
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