Friday, March 26, 2004
Yesterday I finished securing our bunkbed fort to the earth. It now sits about 6" higher off the dirt, which was a tempting hight for little L. to dive off of yesterday. Thankfully I was squatting right underneath, messing with lagbolts and washers or something (maybe putting the sockets back in their places for the 6000th time, since N. likes to mess with my tools). So her fall was more of a bouce onto Papa's back from 3" up. Thank God. Lest you report my dangerous new fort, I ran out and bought materials for a railing (which was already next on the list).
You will hear nothing from me until Monday, 3.29.04. I will be traveling to the Mighty Bighorn with an old friend from my former place of employment. Word is that the river is a shadow of it's former glory. It used to have an insane number of fish, many of them large by every lower '48 standard. But the drought has taken a toll, snuffing out entire age classes and changing the nature of the entymology in the system. It should still be a nice float. I'm taking my camera & old paper journal should the fishing get too slow, which these days is a low threshold for me to reach when nymphing.
Til next week. . .
You will hear nothing from me until Monday, 3.29.04. I will be traveling to the Mighty Bighorn with an old friend from my former place of employment. Word is that the river is a shadow of it's former glory. It used to have an insane number of fish, many of them large by every lower '48 standard. But the drought has taken a toll, snuffing out entire age classes and changing the nature of the entymology in the system. It should still be a nice float. I'm taking my camera & old paper journal should the fishing get too slow, which these days is a low threshold for me to reach when nymphing.
Til next week. . .
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Here's another Loma post. It's amazing how much time you have to write when your kids have the freedom to explore the world instead of constantly pulling on your pantleg, demanding entertainment. No house or yard projects staring you down doesn't hurt, either.
I’m not faulting Stacy’s choice in friends. Diane is very funny, kind, and godly. She’s exemplary in maintaining real joy while raising two boys, the youngest born two weeks after their dad died suddenly of meningitis six years ago. But she doesn’t drink coffee, and doesn’t keep any around the house. That brings us back to the classic ethical dilemma dating from Attic Greece: “does one seek out friends of the highest character, regardless of their coffee consumption? Or does the consumption of coffee itself make up in character what might be lacking in humility, kindness, and humor?” Something like that. The phrase is much more eloquent in classical Greek. I’ll have to look it up.
Just for kicks, let’s see Charles Finney’s thoughts on the topic:
Of course Finney had John Wesley looking over his shoulder the whole time. In Wesley’s day this issue revolved around tea rather than the more American brew. Once Wesley gave it up and his hands stopped shaking, he devoted a great deal of ink to the topic. In Wesley’s “Letter to a Friend, Concerning Tea (NEWINGTON, December 10, 1748)” he presents essentially the same arguments as his spiritual son: tea costs money and isn’t all that healthy. Give it up, give the money saved to the poor, and live a more consistent life.
This topic is timelier than just the lack of precious black coffee this morning. For the last few months I have been walking through a biblical theology of self-denial with our adult class at church, especially as it relates to our possessions and money. If Finney and Wesley are right in their enthusiasm, then I have come down too easy on my fellow suburbanites. By the Methodists’ line of reasoning, our warp and woof of our lives have been saturated by color-fast dyes of self-interest and luxuries. Think of them all! Start with just the beverages: coffee, protein smoothies, soft-drinks, limeade, beer (even cheaper home-brews), wine (even decent $6/bottle Australian reds), and –ahem- single malts. Then foods: steaks for the grill, thin-shaved deli meats on lunch sandwiches, nearly instant frozen entrées, produce trucked in from other hemispheres, exotic cheeses (a weakness. But I’m in good company of late). How about amusements? Family DVD libraries, personal surround-sound theatres, scores of CD’s (or worse: purloined music. They don’t keep funds from other kingdom purposes, though. That’s another argument altogether, for another day).
Most American, middle-class Christians will agree that there is a level of luxury that puts a soul outside of moral living. What about owning a $90,000 car? Two? Or a 5,200 square foot house for just a retiree and his wife, complete with granite countertops and a stainless steel grill island? Dining at the nicest steak house in town once a week, washing the aged angus down with an aged bottle of red? Smoking a $15 cigar every night while sipping 15 year-old Scotch? Those would all be over the top in my current cultural milieu. Those things are not even options for most of us, but they do establish a baseline of excess: even most comfortable, middle-class Christians believe that there are levels of luxury deleterious to a viable spiritual life in the Kingdom.
Now, what about the manifold luxuries enjoyed by the rest of us, including (gasp!) good coffee? Must these be eschewed entirely if one is to follow closely Christ’s teachings? What if we only lived according to our needs, consuming calories and goods consummate with our physical and spiritual needs rather than the contrived (indeed, wicked) “needs” our culture insists we indulge? Here I don’t honestly have an answer.
Part of me thinks the Desert Fathers were right. “The soul’s intensity is strong when the pleasures of the body are weakened,” says Antony. Strip away everything from a life except the essentials for existence, and you have nothing else vying for its affections. Christ did not say, “Where your attitude toward your treasures lies, there your heart will most likely follow.” His words are best drunk straight up: your heart will inexorably drift toward your treasures. If you think Christ speaks to anything other than an immutable law, you might as well say it’s your attitude toward gravity which affects a body in flight. Conclusion: slough off the treasures and your heart has fewer forces acting upon it, and thus is that much freer to focus on Christ and his kingdom.
A life wholly committed to this mindset, though, would look pretty strange to our neighbors. Never eating meat or drinking a Coke. No TV, radio, or CD’s. No colorful sheets on a nice mattress. The thing is, most of us could move our lives a long way toward this unencumbered ideal before we began to look like counter-cultural freaks, utterly estranging all our peers. A wise dissenter should pipe up here and say, “It still comes down to attitude. We know of righteous people who are unquestionably wealthy yet praised by God. And by the same token, living a life of utter simplicity does not guarantee a life free of sin and greed.”
True. No argument here, except to say that such sentiments are usually just that: loosely held sentiments, mere platitudes that never really affect our lives and acquisitions. How do you test your attitudes? It’s easy to take a raw inventory of possessions and hold that up to a social standard: “Does my lifestyle put me outside the stream of rampant consumption the larger culture swims in? Does this free my time and resources for service and prayer?” This may indicate a healthy view of possessions and luxuries, but it more than likely puts the soul into a Pharisaical mindset. And still: how do you measure an attitude? You can’t. The only test for such disattachment to your treasures is the tangible fruits your life produces evidencing such a heart-stance. It’s one thing to defensively mumble about attitudes or play fast and loose with Christ’s words about clothing the naked and feeding the hungry; it’s quite another to take a long, sober look at your life and come away feeling the pleasure of the Master at your actions and priorities and attitudes.
I only searched Finney’s writings on a lark, to see what the enthusiast would say about my beloved black morning nectar of life. Sure enough, you can see the long shadows of his heretical legalism. Still, we could travel a long way down the road of trimming luxuries and caring for the needs of our brothers and sisters (see 2 Corinthians 8:14-15) before ending up at the Revival Tent of the foaming-mouth Charles Grandison.
Thanks to the miracle of PDF searchability, I found this voice of wisdom from the 4th century:
Ahhh, golden words from a Golden Mouth to help me sip my hot coffee in contemplative peace.
PS: You couldn't make this up - not 10 minutes after I finished writing the above essay, I broke Diane's little coffee caraffe. I was washing the dishes and picked up the caraffe by the lid. It slipped off the body, and suddenly glass was everywhere in the sink. An ominous event, no?
I’m not faulting Stacy’s choice in friends. Diane is very funny, kind, and godly. She’s exemplary in maintaining real joy while raising two boys, the youngest born two weeks after their dad died suddenly of meningitis six years ago. But she doesn’t drink coffee, and doesn’t keep any around the house. That brings us back to the classic ethical dilemma dating from Attic Greece: “does one seek out friends of the highest character, regardless of their coffee consumption? Or does the consumption of coffee itself make up in character what might be lacking in humility, kindness, and humor?” Something like that. The phrase is much more eloquent in classical Greek. I’ll have to look it up.
Just for kicks, let’s see Charles Finney’s thoughts on the topic:
Some of you may think these are little things, and that it is quite beneath the dignity of the pulpit to lecture against tea and coffee. But I tell you it is a great mistake of yours if you think these are little things, when they make the Church odious in the sight of God, by exposing her hypocrisy and lust. A little thing? See it poison the spirit of prayer! See it debase and sensualize the soul! … Hell groans from beneath, and ten thousand voices cry out from heaven, earth, and hell: “Do something to save the world!” Do it now Oh, NOW, or millions more are in hell through your neglect. And oh, tell it not in Gath, the Church, the ministry, will not deny even their lusts to save a world. Is this Christianity? What business have you to use Christ’s money for such a purpose?
Of course Finney had John Wesley looking over his shoulder the whole time. In Wesley’s day this issue revolved around tea rather than the more American brew. Once Wesley gave it up and his hands stopped shaking, he devoted a great deal of ink to the topic. In Wesley’s “Letter to a Friend, Concerning Tea (NEWINGTON, December 10, 1748)” he presents essentially the same arguments as his spiritual son: tea costs money and isn’t all that healthy. Give it up, give the money saved to the poor, and live a more consistent life.
This topic is timelier than just the lack of precious black coffee this morning. For the last few months I have been walking through a biblical theology of self-denial with our adult class at church, especially as it relates to our possessions and money. If Finney and Wesley are right in their enthusiasm, then I have come down too easy on my fellow suburbanites. By the Methodists’ line of reasoning, our warp and woof of our lives have been saturated by color-fast dyes of self-interest and luxuries. Think of them all! Start with just the beverages: coffee, protein smoothies, soft-drinks, limeade, beer (even cheaper home-brews), wine (even decent $6/bottle Australian reds), and –ahem- single malts. Then foods: steaks for the grill, thin-shaved deli meats on lunch sandwiches, nearly instant frozen entrées, produce trucked in from other hemispheres, exotic cheeses (a weakness. But I’m in good company of late). How about amusements? Family DVD libraries, personal surround-sound theatres, scores of CD’s (or worse: purloined music. They don’t keep funds from other kingdom purposes, though. That’s another argument altogether, for another day).
Most American, middle-class Christians will agree that there is a level of luxury that puts a soul outside of moral living. What about owning a $90,000 car? Two? Or a 5,200 square foot house for just a retiree and his wife, complete with granite countertops and a stainless steel grill island? Dining at the nicest steak house in town once a week, washing the aged angus down with an aged bottle of red? Smoking a $15 cigar every night while sipping 15 year-old Scotch? Those would all be over the top in my current cultural milieu. Those things are not even options for most of us, but they do establish a baseline of excess: even most comfortable, middle-class Christians believe that there are levels of luxury deleterious to a viable spiritual life in the Kingdom.
Now, what about the manifold luxuries enjoyed by the rest of us, including (gasp!) good coffee? Must these be eschewed entirely if one is to follow closely Christ’s teachings? What if we only lived according to our needs, consuming calories and goods consummate with our physical and spiritual needs rather than the contrived (indeed, wicked) “needs” our culture insists we indulge? Here I don’t honestly have an answer.
Part of me thinks the Desert Fathers were right. “The soul’s intensity is strong when the pleasures of the body are weakened,” says Antony. Strip away everything from a life except the essentials for existence, and you have nothing else vying for its affections. Christ did not say, “Where your attitude toward your treasures lies, there your heart will most likely follow.” His words are best drunk straight up: your heart will inexorably drift toward your treasures. If you think Christ speaks to anything other than an immutable law, you might as well say it’s your attitude toward gravity which affects a body in flight. Conclusion: slough off the treasures and your heart has fewer forces acting upon it, and thus is that much freer to focus on Christ and his kingdom.
A life wholly committed to this mindset, though, would look pretty strange to our neighbors. Never eating meat or drinking a Coke. No TV, radio, or CD’s. No colorful sheets on a nice mattress. The thing is, most of us could move our lives a long way toward this unencumbered ideal before we began to look like counter-cultural freaks, utterly estranging all our peers. A wise dissenter should pipe up here and say, “It still comes down to attitude. We know of righteous people who are unquestionably wealthy yet praised by God. And by the same token, living a life of utter simplicity does not guarantee a life free of sin and greed.”
True. No argument here, except to say that such sentiments are usually just that: loosely held sentiments, mere platitudes that never really affect our lives and acquisitions. How do you test your attitudes? It’s easy to take a raw inventory of possessions and hold that up to a social standard: “Does my lifestyle put me outside the stream of rampant consumption the larger culture swims in? Does this free my time and resources for service and prayer?” This may indicate a healthy view of possessions and luxuries, but it more than likely puts the soul into a Pharisaical mindset. And still: how do you measure an attitude? You can’t. The only test for such disattachment to your treasures is the tangible fruits your life produces evidencing such a heart-stance. It’s one thing to defensively mumble about attitudes or play fast and loose with Christ’s words about clothing the naked and feeding the hungry; it’s quite another to take a long, sober look at your life and come away feeling the pleasure of the Master at your actions and priorities and attitudes.
I only searched Finney’s writings on a lark, to see what the enthusiast would say about my beloved black morning nectar of life. Sure enough, you can see the long shadows of his heretical legalism. Still, we could travel a long way down the road of trimming luxuries and caring for the needs of our brothers and sisters (see 2 Corinthians 8:14-15) before ending up at the Revival Tent of the foaming-mouth Charles Grandison.
Thanks to the miracle of PDF searchability, I found this voice of wisdom from the 4th century:
Let us guard then against a want of moderation on either side, and let us take care of the health of the body, at the same time that we prune away its luxurious propensities. For wine was given us of God, not that we might be drunken, but that we might be sober; that we might be glad, not that we get ourselves pain. “Wine,” it says, “maketh glad the heart of man,” but thou makest it matter for sadness; since those who are inebriated are sullen beyond measure, and great darkness over-spreads their thoughts. It is the best medicine, when it has the best moderation to direct it.
Ahhh, golden words from a Golden Mouth to help me sip my hot coffee in contemplative peace.
PS: You couldn't make this up - not 10 minutes after I finished writing the above essay, I broke Diane's little coffee caraffe. I was washing the dishes and picked up the caraffe by the lid. It slipped off the body, and suddenly glass was everywhere in the sink. An ominous event, no?
Monday, March 22, 2004
Now, remember that the following posts are out of order. I thought about posting them to the times they were written, but that seems like so much electronic chicanery.
First, a post-script to last Monday's post: I strapped my pontoon boat onto the trunk for the drive up on Wednesday, but it wasn't on securely enough for the hammering wind gusts I had to drive through along the Front Range. The boat shifted and snapped off the antenna. Silence and meditation for the drive up, and that whole scenic drive back. I don't recall any life-changing meditations, but it wasn't unpleasant.
And now for the first Loma post. . .
I type en route to Diane’s house in rural Loma, Colorado. I am enchanted by the artifacts scattered in yards, behind sheds, in the middle of fields. Somewhere in the first draft of the Bill of Rights was a provision that all American farmers shall maintain the right to dispose of any and all agricultural implements within 17 yards of an outbuilding, but some literary minded framer objected to inserting such obvious rights into the Constitution. “We may as well include the right to smoke tobacco weed in public taverns if we are going to include laws so obviously manifest in the natural order of Providence,” he shouted from the back. Thankfully, this right of large machinery disposal is still universally enjoyed. Drive through any rural area in this country, from Oregon to Appalachia, and you will see them.
The trucks are the most fascinating. These retired workhorses of farms and ranches driven or pushed to their eternal resting spots after decades of faithful service (check out the "farm finds" on that link, especially the '40's '50's vintages). ’49 Chevy three-windows, or’52 Fords. They possess curves and character that evidences another aesthetic time when ranchers got to drive nice looking, nice sized pickups instead of the over-produced behemoths available today. Occasionally you do spot the behemoths of the yesteryear, a 3800 hay truck or, Oh! The Glory of it!: an old Dodge Power wagon. Even these carry themselves with a quiet majesty utterly lacking from today’s Professional Grade™ bruisers. These were the machines that took only a can of olive drab paint to get them ready for war against tyrants and dictators from African deserts to South Pacific tropics. Trucks of recent memory have none of the charm and character of these beasts of burden. Take every truck stamped out of steel on this continent in the three decades, smelt them down in a cauldron the size of Lake Michigan, and the pure aesthetic essence floating to the surface might fill half of a dented Pabst Blue Ribbon can.
Other than trucks you catch sight of all sorts of farm machinery: combines, rakes, balers, discs, and even classic tractors. (For my opinion on tractors, please read the above paragraph, substituting the word “tractor” for “truck” and “John Deere” for “Chevy”). The agricultural tools are hardly things of beauty, with all their belts and wheels and spines rusting through the seasons. They do, however, open a window on the how agricultural technology has changed over the last century. In the shadow of the sheds along this road you can spot horse-drawn hay rakes with steel-rimmed wheels next to tractor-pulled hay wagons looking exhausted on its four flat tires. Such glimpses of history are nearly impossible to find in the city. There we cart off old things to out-of-the-way places, like junk yards or retirement homes.
I appreciate the American agricultural communities’ commitment to preserving the aesthetic and technological history behind every shed and barn, but I have to wonder what their motives are. Do they think that one day they will get around to fixing that pickup? Will a part off that ’56 International Harvester baler come in useful for fixing the toaster? Or is it just too much trouble to have someone haul it away to a centralized location? Stacy once lamented that the machines are abandoned to rust instead of finding a home in some museum, but I noted that our country probably doesn’t need museums of farm equipment every 15 miles, each with full, identical inventories. I don’t imagine there is a market among rural families to buy postcards of their old balers, and city kids probably aren’t bugging their parents for a spring break trip to the Loma Farm Implement Museum #5: “Pleeeeeease?! They even have a virtual hay-cutting ride that ‘accurately simulates 10 hours of cutting hay on a steel-seated vintage hay rake’! Tommy got to go last year, and he got an authentic New Holland cap! One of those ones that sits way up high on your head!”
Post-script: Diane lives in the house she grew up in, now bigger with ad hoc additions (another classic trait of rural living). She says there are several old trucks behind the workshop, including a curvy Chevy. Anticipation runs high as bacon cooks.
First, a post-script to last Monday's post: I strapped my pontoon boat onto the trunk for the drive up on Wednesday, but it wasn't on securely enough for the hammering wind gusts I had to drive through along the Front Range. The boat shifted and snapped off the antenna. Silence and meditation for the drive up, and that whole scenic drive back. I don't recall any life-changing meditations, but it wasn't unpleasant.
And now for the first Loma post. . .
I type en route to Diane’s house in rural Loma, Colorado. I am enchanted by the artifacts scattered in yards, behind sheds, in the middle of fields. Somewhere in the first draft of the Bill of Rights was a provision that all American farmers shall maintain the right to dispose of any and all agricultural implements within 17 yards of an outbuilding, but some literary minded framer objected to inserting such obvious rights into the Constitution. “We may as well include the right to smoke tobacco weed in public taverns if we are going to include laws so obviously manifest in the natural order of Providence,” he shouted from the back. Thankfully, this right of large machinery disposal is still universally enjoyed. Drive through any rural area in this country, from Oregon to Appalachia, and you will see them.
The trucks are the most fascinating. These retired workhorses of farms and ranches driven or pushed to their eternal resting spots after decades of faithful service (check out the "farm finds" on that link, especially the '40's '50's vintages). ’49 Chevy three-windows, or’52 Fords. They possess curves and character that evidences another aesthetic time when ranchers got to drive nice looking, nice sized pickups instead of the over-produced behemoths available today. Occasionally you do spot the behemoths of the yesteryear, a 3800 hay truck or, Oh! The Glory of it!: an old Dodge Power wagon. Even these carry themselves with a quiet majesty utterly lacking from today’s Professional Grade™ bruisers. These were the machines that took only a can of olive drab paint to get them ready for war against tyrants and dictators from African deserts to South Pacific tropics. Trucks of recent memory have none of the charm and character of these beasts of burden. Take every truck stamped out of steel on this continent in the three decades, smelt them down in a cauldron the size of Lake Michigan, and the pure aesthetic essence floating to the surface might fill half of a dented Pabst Blue Ribbon can.
Other than trucks you catch sight of all sorts of farm machinery: combines, rakes, balers, discs, and even classic tractors. (For my opinion on tractors, please read the above paragraph, substituting the word “tractor” for “truck” and “John Deere” for “Chevy”). The agricultural tools are hardly things of beauty, with all their belts and wheels and spines rusting through the seasons. They do, however, open a window on the how agricultural technology has changed over the last century. In the shadow of the sheds along this road you can spot horse-drawn hay rakes with steel-rimmed wheels next to tractor-pulled hay wagons looking exhausted on its four flat tires. Such glimpses of history are nearly impossible to find in the city. There we cart off old things to out-of-the-way places, like junk yards or retirement homes.
I appreciate the American agricultural communities’ commitment to preserving the aesthetic and technological history behind every shed and barn, but I have to wonder what their motives are. Do they think that one day they will get around to fixing that pickup? Will a part off that ’56 International Harvester baler come in useful for fixing the toaster? Or is it just too much trouble to have someone haul it away to a centralized location? Stacy once lamented that the machines are abandoned to rust instead of finding a home in some museum, but I noted that our country probably doesn’t need museums of farm equipment every 15 miles, each with full, identical inventories. I don’t imagine there is a market among rural families to buy postcards of their old balers, and city kids probably aren’t bugging their parents for a spring break trip to the Loma Farm Implement Museum #5: “Pleeeeeease?! They even have a virtual hay-cutting ride that ‘accurately simulates 10 hours of cutting hay on a steel-seated vintage hay rake’! Tommy got to go last year, and he got an authentic New Holland cap! One of those ones that sits way up high on your head!”
Post-script: Diane lives in the house she grew up in, now bigger with ad hoc additions (another classic trait of rural living). She says there are several old trucks behind the workshop, including a curvy Chevy. Anticipation runs high as bacon cooks.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
We're back from the Western Slope. 4 days and three nights at the end of 14 1/2 Street in Loma, Colorado. I typed up a couple of things while I was sitting on the couch there. They will be posted in the next day or so. The float down Glenwood Canyon was lovely. I was the only soul on the river, and the little blue boat handled the water just fine. Water visibility was pretty low, but I did managed to hook and land an 18" rainbow trout, bright, silver, and full of vigor. (That is a Pretty Big Fish, in case you were wondering.) The dand thing hit when I wasn't expecting it, and I spilled my beer into that murky river as the fight ensued.
Yesterday afternoon I parted with the family as I picked up my car in Glenwood. She graciously let me spend the rest of the afternoon fishing my favorite spots on the Roaring Fork. I picked up a few on nymphs above Basalt, but the highlight was a smaller brown taken on a #22 black parachute. First dryfly fish of the year! The plan was then to crash at Bill's house, one our old friends from the Roaring Fork valley days, but since he wasn't made privey to the plan, he didn't feel any compunction to be at home. I toyed with the idea of banging on the door of another acquantince, but instead figured it was a nudge to head home and be with my family.
If it were a divine nudge, it wasn't the same as a wink to this blind man. I was nodding off by the time I drove out of Glenwood Canyon, so I drove up the Colorado a bit and slept in my car. If you have a 1975 300D, and you were wondering if you should sleep through cold mountain night in it: don't.
So starting at 6:10am I drove home the long way, following the Colorado River to it's headwaters. I wish I'd taken pictures of that stream at all points of our travels this week, from the wide muddy currents in Fruita to the shallow riffles near Grandby. I saw a few dozen mule deer, some electric-blue mountain bluebirds, and three wild turkeys trotting along the road. It was a gorgeous drive, reminding me at every corner why the American West still stirs something.
Yesterday afternoon I parted with the family as I picked up my car in Glenwood. She graciously let me spend the rest of the afternoon fishing my favorite spots on the Roaring Fork. I picked up a few on nymphs above Basalt, but the highlight was a smaller brown taken on a #22 black parachute. First dryfly fish of the year! The plan was then to crash at Bill's house, one our old friends from the Roaring Fork valley days, but since he wasn't made privey to the plan, he didn't feel any compunction to be at home. I toyed with the idea of banging on the door of another acquantince, but instead figured it was a nudge to head home and be with my family.
If it were a divine nudge, it wasn't the same as a wink to this blind man. I was nodding off by the time I drove out of Glenwood Canyon, so I drove up the Colorado a bit and slept in my car. If you have a 1975 300D, and you were wondering if you should sleep through cold mountain night in it: don't.
So starting at 6:10am I drove home the long way, following the Colorado River to it's headwaters. I wish I'd taken pictures of that stream at all points of our travels this week, from the wide muddy currents in Fruita to the shallow riffles near Grandby. I saw a few dozen mule deer, some electric-blue mountain bluebirds, and three wild turkeys trotting along the road. It was a gorgeous drive, reminding me at every corner why the American West still stirs something.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Blessed quiet of an early morning house, especially when the wind out in the inky world kicks over steel garbage cans and rattles shed doors. All is fine here, thank you.
The kitchen is clean, with 5 bowls of cereal set out for the children. Just add milk. I don't know if this guy intentionally created his product to make the mornings of millions of people more pleasant by giving us & our children a healthy breakfast in under 2 minutes, but Mr. Quaker Oats, I thank you for your service this morning. That said. . .
There are two things unfathomable to me,
Yea, three that confound my little head.
To create merchandizing television and call it Public and Educational,
To plant huge swaths of non-native grasses where people can't even play on it
And to coat grains with various sugars, seal them into a decorative cardboard box, and call it a good part of a balanced breakfast.
We cut our cereals. Pure sweetened cereals are little more than crunchy candy bars served with a spoon. We do sometimes eat them straight for dessert. Stacy and I have been known to pour ourselves Big Old Bowls of Cocoa Pebbles before plopping in front of a DVD. But the kids get the goods cut with whole grains, usually oats. I don't know who decided that oatmeal tastes better cooked than raw, but they were sorely mistaken. Regular oats are a bit on the chewy side when served up uncooked with cold milk, but quick oats give almost any cereal a clean, wholegrain flavor which vastly improves on the frosted character. And as is usually the case, this healthier, cleaner food is a heckalot cheaper than the Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs (tm). $.047 an ounce compared to around $.13 for the sugary stuff. One potential drawback: pouring these morning bowls for the kids can make you feel a little like a drug dealer cutting his supply with pastry flour. That may be a good thing for you, though. A little danger in the morning.
The kitchen is clean, with 5 bowls of cereal set out for the children. Just add milk. I don't know if this guy intentionally created his product to make the mornings of millions of people more pleasant by giving us & our children a healthy breakfast in under 2 minutes, but Mr. Quaker Oats, I thank you for your service this morning. That said. . .
There are two things unfathomable to me,
Yea, three that confound my little head.
To create merchandizing television and call it Public and Educational,
To plant huge swaths of non-native grasses where people can't even play on it
And to coat grains with various sugars, seal them into a decorative cardboard box, and call it a good part of a balanced breakfast.
We cut our cereals. Pure sweetened cereals are little more than crunchy candy bars served with a spoon. We do sometimes eat them straight for dessert. Stacy and I have been known to pour ourselves Big Old Bowls of Cocoa Pebbles before plopping in front of a DVD. But the kids get the goods cut with whole grains, usually oats. I don't know who decided that oatmeal tastes better cooked than raw, but they were sorely mistaken. Regular oats are a bit on the chewy side when served up uncooked with cold milk, but quick oats give almost any cereal a clean, wholegrain flavor which vastly improves on the frosted character. And as is usually the case, this healthier, cleaner food is a heckalot cheaper than the Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs (tm). $.047 an ounce compared to around $.13 for the sugary stuff. One potential drawback: pouring these morning bowls for the kids can make you feel a little like a drug dealer cutting his supply with pastry flour. That may be a good thing for you, though. A little danger in the morning.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Today's accomplishment: installed a french drain in the backyard, so I am now ready to get working on the walkway. On our way home from a rather nice family outing to a pizza joint out headlights spotted a slide next to someone's garbage, so I hopped out and carried it two blocks home. It's now clamped (temporarily) to our bunkbeds qua fort, making the furniture more officially a piece of children's equipment.
We will be heading to the Western Slope tomorrow morning to visit an old college friend. If the weather is great, maybe we can do a little hiking and finally take J.'s bb gun out of the box. If everything goes perfectly, I'll head out early in the morning to float Glenwood Canyon in my little pontoon boat. I've only floated down moving water in it once, on the Arkansas last July, and that was one of the most pleasant memories I can conjure. Though it turns out to be really, really hard to fish when you are actively floating downstream. Of course, when public lands line the river, you can always just pull over to fish. It isn't as slick as getting a good, long drift from the boat, but it's great for getting to parts of the river you would have to hike for hours to reach, if private holdings along the way don't make it impossible outright.
I'd better get to work on the walkway here before the sunlight gets any lower. It's been a gorgeous spring day, and I need to wring every ounce of work out it that can be wrung.
We will be heading to the Western Slope tomorrow morning to visit an old college friend. If the weather is great, maybe we can do a little hiking and finally take J.'s bb gun out of the box. If everything goes perfectly, I'll head out early in the morning to float Glenwood Canyon in my little pontoon boat. I've only floated down moving water in it once, on the Arkansas last July, and that was one of the most pleasant memories I can conjure. Though it turns out to be really, really hard to fish when you are actively floating downstream. Of course, when public lands line the river, you can always just pull over to fish. It isn't as slick as getting a good, long drift from the boat, but it's great for getting to parts of the river you would have to hike for hours to reach, if private holdings along the way don't make it impossible outright.
I'd better get to work on the walkway here before the sunlight gets any lower. It's been a gorgeous spring day, and I need to wring every ounce of work out it that can be wrung.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Last week I textured and painted our front room. It’s a new thing for me to work for hours with nothing demanding my focused attention. You would think that I would be meditating on all sorts of wonderful things whilst spreading mud with my little trowel: spiritual mysteries, events of my lengthening life, favorite poems. Instead, I find myself at a corner of a wall, looking back to the last corner over an hour’s work, and find that nary a single thought has entered my head.
The same thing happens when I’m working in the yard. Last November I had a truckload of mulch dumped on the street in front of our house. We will need this mulch by springtime, I thought as the mound of coarsely chopped wood formed in an instant. Now that it’s spring, and the kind people at the city of Denver have encouraged me to get it off the street, I shovel. You would be amazed at how many wheelbarrows of mulch there are in a pile 3.5’ high, 7' wide and 20’ long. You would be more amazed at the dearth of content my head generated while shoveling it all onto the four corners of our yard-in-transition (as well as the alley borders of 3 neighbors. I’m sure they won’t mind the decorative weed control, and I don’t mind getting rid of a little too much mulch). I take it back! I rehearsed about 186 times what I would say to my neighbors if they actually preferred their weeds to my gift of mulch: “Oh. I’m sorry. I assumed that you would appreciate the weed control and aesthetic improvement of this mulch. Just trying to be neighborly…What, your honor? Yes. I do understand that I dumped several cubic yards of mulch onto property that is not mine, without permission. But at the same time, said properties were obviously blighted breeding grounds for noxious weeds, which is clearly in violation of Article III, section 57-43of the Denver municipal code…”
The transition from a job in front of a computer all day, clicking and thinking and typing, to shoveling has not been without its pleasantries. I get to wear my overalls everyday. At the end of the day I survey the house or the yard and see concrete progress. But the capitalization upon this opportunity to meditate and ponder has not materialized. At times I capitulate to the barren silence by turning on the radio, usually NPR. Terry Gross (“No, I’m not a lesbian. I just really, really, really like to insert questions about homosexuality into every one of my interviews...'uh, huh. And, Secretary Powell, how to you think this interim Iraqi constitution will affect young gay shi'ites?'”) talked with former nun & religious scholar Karen Armstrong last week who mentioned that she ended up leaving the convent because she couldn’t pray. She could sew for hours and perform all of her duties, but put her into the chapel and require her to meditate on holy things: nuthin’. It reminds me of the Island of Misfit Toys. What good is a squirt gun that only squirts jam? Or a train with square wheels? Or a nun who can’t pray? Or an aspiring scholar who can’t think?
Several solutions now come to mind: first, try harder. Start the day with some meaty reading and study (which has been absent during the last week. I haven’t gotten up at my proper time of 4:25 for 9 days now), and ruminate on those ideas as I saw, shovel, and paint.
Two. Find some sort of pleasure in the physical act itself, rather than seeing it as an automatic bodily function which should leave my mind free for higher pursuits. The pain in my hands and back may provide a nice foil to the improved landscape or neatly painted trim. It may be enough to sit back and see the fruits of my labor as meditation in themselves.
Three. Put in CD’s of Stevie Ray Vaughn, the Police, and Nickel Creek, and play them loud enough so that I can hum along even if I have to cart some soil around the north end of the house. Lazy, sure. But toe-tappin' fun!
The same thing happens when I’m working in the yard. Last November I had a truckload of mulch dumped on the street in front of our house. We will need this mulch by springtime, I thought as the mound of coarsely chopped wood formed in an instant. Now that it’s spring, and the kind people at the city of Denver have encouraged me to get it off the street, I shovel. You would be amazed at how many wheelbarrows of mulch there are in a pile 3.5’ high, 7' wide and 20’ long. You would be more amazed at the dearth of content my head generated while shoveling it all onto the four corners of our yard-in-transition (as well as the alley borders of 3 neighbors. I’m sure they won’t mind the decorative weed control, and I don’t mind getting rid of a little too much mulch). I take it back! I rehearsed about 186 times what I would say to my neighbors if they actually preferred their weeds to my gift of mulch: “Oh. I’m sorry. I assumed that you would appreciate the weed control and aesthetic improvement of this mulch. Just trying to be neighborly…What, your honor? Yes. I do understand that I dumped several cubic yards of mulch onto property that is not mine, without permission. But at the same time, said properties were obviously blighted breeding grounds for noxious weeds, which is clearly in violation of Article III, section 57-43of the Denver municipal code…”
The transition from a job in front of a computer all day, clicking and thinking and typing, to shoveling has not been without its pleasantries. I get to wear my overalls everyday. At the end of the day I survey the house or the yard and see concrete progress. But the capitalization upon this opportunity to meditate and ponder has not materialized. At times I capitulate to the barren silence by turning on the radio, usually NPR. Terry Gross (“No, I’m not a lesbian. I just really, really, really like to insert questions about homosexuality into every one of my interviews...'uh, huh. And, Secretary Powell, how to you think this interim Iraqi constitution will affect young gay shi'ites?'”) talked with former nun & religious scholar Karen Armstrong last week who mentioned that she ended up leaving the convent because she couldn’t pray. She could sew for hours and perform all of her duties, but put her into the chapel and require her to meditate on holy things: nuthin’. It reminds me of the Island of Misfit Toys. What good is a squirt gun that only squirts jam? Or a train with square wheels? Or a nun who can’t pray? Or an aspiring scholar who can’t think?
Several solutions now come to mind: first, try harder. Start the day with some meaty reading and study (which has been absent during the last week. I haven’t gotten up at my proper time of 4:25 for 9 days now), and ruminate on those ideas as I saw, shovel, and paint.
Two. Find some sort of pleasure in the physical act itself, rather than seeing it as an automatic bodily function which should leave my mind free for higher pursuits. The pain in my hands and back may provide a nice foil to the improved landscape or neatly painted trim. It may be enough to sit back and see the fruits of my labor as meditation in themselves.
Three. Put in CD’s of Stevie Ray Vaughn, the Police, and Nickel Creek, and play them loud enough so that I can hum along even if I have to cart some soil around the north end of the house. Lazy, sure. But toe-tappin' fun!
Saturday, March 13, 2004
I didn’t think it would come to this. Can you imagine trying to get a job as a 73 year-old former Pentecostal pastor? I can...
“I see that you were the pastor of a Pentecostal church for 47 years. What did you enjoy most about that job?”
“Well, ma’am, there were manifold joys along the way, but I really enjoyed lettin’ go, and seeing the Holy Ghost moving amongst his people. Fire, ma’am. Nothing quite like holy fire spreading across God’s people.”
“Indeed. You probably won’t see as much Holy Ghost fire here at Starbucks, but you never know what people will do when they suck down a triple-shot skinny cap!
[Nervous laughter]
“Ok. What then did you dislike most about your old position?”
“Oh, without a doubt, that would be catching the more – ahem – ample sisters every prayer meeting when they were slain in the spirit. I could make a go of it up to my mid-sixties, but after that the ol’ back just couldn’t take it.”
“You will be happy to know that we have never had a large woman slain in the spirit at this location. I was managing the store at University and Evans a few years back. . .well, that can wait for another day. Ummmmmm. . . Tell me why you left your last church.”
“Yes. That. Well, that Mel Gibson movie, The Passion of the Christ, had just come out and people all over the place were talking about it, whether it was anti-Jew or what. I thought if we put on our prominent church marquis, ‘Jews killed Jesus,’ people would pick up their Bibles and read the Gospel accounts, and make a decision for Christ. I guess it was a little controversial, though.”
“Or maybe just a little ill-timed.
“I see that you were the pastor of a Pentecostal church for 47 years. What did you enjoy most about that job?”
“Well, ma’am, there were manifold joys along the way, but I really enjoyed lettin’ go, and seeing the Holy Ghost moving amongst his people. Fire, ma’am. Nothing quite like holy fire spreading across God’s people.”
“Indeed. You probably won’t see as much Holy Ghost fire here at Starbucks, but you never know what people will do when they suck down a triple-shot skinny cap!
[Nervous laughter]
“Ok. What then did you dislike most about your old position?”
“Oh, without a doubt, that would be catching the more – ahem – ample sisters every prayer meeting when they were slain in the spirit. I could make a go of it up to my mid-sixties, but after that the ol’ back just couldn’t take it.”
“You will be happy to know that we have never had a large woman slain in the spirit at this location. I was managing the store at University and Evans a few years back. . .well, that can wait for another day. Ummmmmm. . . Tell me why you left your last church.”
“Yes. That. Well, that Mel Gibson movie, The Passion of the Christ, had just come out and people all over the place were talking about it, whether it was anti-Jew or what. I thought if we put on our prominent church marquis, ‘Jews killed Jesus,’ people would pick up their Bibles and read the Gospel accounts, and make a decision for Christ. I guess it was a little controversial, though.”
“Or maybe just a little ill-timed.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
It has been a productive week. One of my proudest achievements: I’ve come up with something to say to all the people who ask if I’m not working. “I’ve hired myself for some full-time remodeling work around the house.” Today I worked on the walls in the family room. I was intimate with joint compound for around 11 hours, but now the walls sport a nifty knock-down texture, and all the cracks, pops, and doodles are cosmetically done away with.
We plan on being out of this house in the next 6 months, on the outside. Strange that it is only with this in view that I have tackled some of these looming projects. (Not so strange, really, if you consider that in my entire four years working on my M. Div, I turned in a total of 2 papers in early. The rest were either a wee bit late or squeaked in with seconds to spare. After the first two years of kicking myself for working like that I realized that this is how I do things. Find the motivation in either terror or the possibility of losing a lot of money). Turns out J. has inherited my Last Minute gene. He was sitting at the kitchen table until 10pm trying to finish his science fair report. I can clearly remember my folks getting on my case as I sat at a kitchen table writing about the hearts of different animals for my science fair project. He may not have my nose, but he’s got my sense of manana.
So the last week: I moved most of our huge mulch pile onto various parts of the yard (& the neighbor’s. The guy is never home, so I figured he could use a bit of nice mulch along a weedy area out back. Watch him sue me.)
I finished the top course on our little retaining wall in the front yard. That looks nice. Then I added brick edging around our entry sidewalk. That looks nice too. Inside, I finished laying the entry area tile, grouting & sealing it in due time. Then I painted a wall and applied three sponged colors on top. It was a lot of work for a wall. But now we have a cool wall to greet you when you first come in the door.
Tomorrow I’ll be priming & painting in the morning. I would really like to take advantage of the spring weather and go fishing, but there’s no way I can get away: my boss is a jerk.
We plan on being out of this house in the next 6 months, on the outside. Strange that it is only with this in view that I have tackled some of these looming projects. (Not so strange, really, if you consider that in my entire four years working on my M. Div, I turned in a total of 2 papers in early. The rest were either a wee bit late or squeaked in with seconds to spare. After the first two years of kicking myself for working like that I realized that this is how I do things. Find the motivation in either terror or the possibility of losing a lot of money). Turns out J. has inherited my Last Minute gene. He was sitting at the kitchen table until 10pm trying to finish his science fair report. I can clearly remember my folks getting on my case as I sat at a kitchen table writing about the hearts of different animals for my science fair project. He may not have my nose, but he’s got my sense of manana.
So the last week: I moved most of our huge mulch pile onto various parts of the yard (& the neighbor’s. The guy is never home, so I figured he could use a bit of nice mulch along a weedy area out back. Watch him sue me.)
I finished the top course on our little retaining wall in the front yard. That looks nice. Then I added brick edging around our entry sidewalk. That looks nice too. Inside, I finished laying the entry area tile, grouting & sealing it in due time. Then I painted a wall and applied three sponged colors on top. It was a lot of work for a wall. But now we have a cool wall to greet you when you first come in the door.
Tomorrow I’ll be priming & painting in the morning. I would really like to take advantage of the spring weather and go fishing, but there’s no way I can get away: my boss is a jerk.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
So you think you know what it means to live out your religion, do you? You think you can just read your scriptures and listen to your leaders’ teachings and live this religious life? Not so fast, lil’ pilgrim.
Strange things happen in California: the Catholic Church is acting too much like Christ and not enough like a fundamentalist, revivalistic independent Bible church. The great state of California will now use its sword to force Catholic Charities to pay for any and all prescription contraception desired by its female employees. State law requires all employers to provide such coverage in their health-care benefits, unless the entity can claim exemption due to its explicit religious nature. But it turns out that Catholic Charities “is not a religious employer because it offers such secular services as counseling, low-income housing and immigrant services to people of all faiths, without directly preaching Catholic values.”
How strange that in an age where tolerance is the only remaining virtue, a tolerant, non-preachy, faith-in-action wing of the Catholic Church (which is hardly a tolerant organization. These are the people who brought you the Council of Trent, remember?) should be stripped of its own religious identity. In California, religious convictions and practice are determined not by a given religion’s holy texts or clear doctrinal proclamations, but by some black-robed lawyers in the state capital.
Sacramento has painted a picture Magritte would be proud of: Ce n'est pas un chrétien. It is surreal to see a thoroughly secular entity buy into a sort of ghetto-spiritualized Christianity that seems at odds with what you would think non-adherants should like most about the religion. You may very well hear someone say, “Well, I’m no Mother Theresa” as a defense of an ethical lapse, because her selfless actions appear to all of us as a beautiful ideal. But when was the last time you heard someone say, “Y’know, I’m not a pietistic, parochial-minded Christian…” Never. Even people who have very little exposure to the Scriptures understand that Jesus went about doing good. By California’s definition, much of Christ’s own work would not have been considered religious since he often healed people without “directly preaching” his own values.
Jesus himself is very clear about what his holy people will do whenever they see other human beings in need:
As if the general principle of the state telling the church what its relgion encompasses weren't frightening enough, there is this specific slap in the face from the ACLU's lawyer handling the suit: “The agency’s [i.e. Catholic Charities'] religious rights do not trump its employees’ health." For decades the Church has been boldly proclaiming that contraception is harmful to human health. Whether you agree with their arguments or not (I don't), it is either arrogant or stupid to say that the Catholic Church does not have its employees' health in mind. I'm leaning toward arrogance since Crosby goes on to say this:
You are free to believe whatever silly little thing you want, just don't think you can actually put those convictions into action or not pay someone to act contrary to them.
Strange things happen in California: the Catholic Church is acting too much like Christ and not enough like a fundamentalist, revivalistic independent Bible church. The great state of California will now use its sword to force Catholic Charities to pay for any and all prescription contraception desired by its female employees. State law requires all employers to provide such coverage in their health-care benefits, unless the entity can claim exemption due to its explicit religious nature. But it turns out that Catholic Charities “is not a religious employer because it offers such secular services as counseling, low-income housing and immigrant services to people of all faiths, without directly preaching Catholic values.”
How strange that in an age where tolerance is the only remaining virtue, a tolerant, non-preachy, faith-in-action wing of the Catholic Church (which is hardly a tolerant organization. These are the people who brought you the Council of Trent, remember?) should be stripped of its own religious identity. In California, religious convictions and practice are determined not by a given religion’s holy texts or clear doctrinal proclamations, but by some black-robed lawyers in the state capital.
Sacramento has painted a picture Magritte would be proud of: Ce n'est pas un chrétien. It is surreal to see a thoroughly secular entity buy into a sort of ghetto-spiritualized Christianity that seems at odds with what you would think non-adherants should like most about the religion. You may very well hear someone say, “Well, I’m no Mother Theresa” as a defense of an ethical lapse, because her selfless actions appear to all of us as a beautiful ideal. But when was the last time you heard someone say, “Y’know, I’m not a pietistic, parochial-minded Christian…” Never. Even people who have very little exposure to the Scriptures understand that Jesus went about doing good. By California’s definition, much of Christ’s own work would not have been considered religious since he often healed people without “directly preaching” his own values.
Jesus himself is very clear about what his holy people will do whenever they see other human beings in need:
Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.' Then the righteous will answer him, saying, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?' And the King will answer them, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.'(Whole passage is here (verses 31-46))
As if the general principle of the state telling the church what its relgion encompasses weren't frightening enough, there is this specific slap in the face from the ACLU's lawyer handling the suit: “The agency’s [i.e. Catholic Charities'] religious rights do not trump its employees’ health." For decades the Church has been boldly proclaiming that contraception is harmful to human health. Whether you agree with their arguments or not (I don't), it is either arrogant or stupid to say that the Catholic Church does not have its employees' health in mind. I'm leaning toward arrogance since Crosby goes on to say this:
“Catholic Charities remains free to persuade its Catholic and non-Catholic employees not to buy or use contraception. Providing a comprehensive health plan does not interfere with Catholic Charities’ ability to oppose birth control and to convey its moral message to its adherents.”
You are free to believe whatever silly little thing you want, just don't think you can actually put those convictions into action or not pay someone to act contrary to them.
