In Pursuit of Giants: Part I

Entry 1:

Have been going on a hunt lately into the past . . . way back into the past. I've been reading some legends about giants, and have been looking for more information on them from Babylonian, Mesopotamian, and early civilization literature. So far there is little research that takes giants seriously, and most of it is labeled as folklore or children's fiction. There's a website from a guy in Texas who claims to have some pictures of giant graves and skeletons of 35' humans (that's right, not a typo), but his website has been labeled as "very cranky" by another watchdog website. Most of the websites on giants also talk about alien abduction and extreme interpretations of biblical prophecy in the next sentence.

One book at Barnes & Noble, Fingerprints of the Gods by Graham Hancock, looks at archaeological evidence connecting the Incan, Aztec, Egyptian, and Mesopotamian civilizations together, but it seems to be categorized as "marginal" history, a kind of subversive underground.

The Epic of Gilgamesh came in the mail this week. Will be reading it soon, once papers are done and a few other books and editing projects are finished. For now, signing off.

- Drake Finton, University of New Mexico, Albuquerque

Not Much to Say: The White Rabbit Speaks

End of the day, almost 11 here. Wrapping things up before heading home.

Taught another 4-hour class tonight; don't want to go home yet.

An hour drive, cold and dark, the wind blowing 60 mph. Once home, will go to bed, and then another day, full again, getting to the end of it and not knowing where it went.

So I'm stealing time. Time I don't have.

Don't have much to say, but still want to say it.

A couple days ago warm, bright with possibilities, gray was waking up.

And then strong winds came. Temperature plummeted. F2 tornadoes hit Springfield. Friends okay. No one hurt. Leaves devastation and chaos in its wake.

Today: everything cold and dead. Feeling cranky. Whistling emptiness inside, and strong wind outside. Inside/outside, weather/mood = the same. Car shakes, breaks the lines (I've never been good at staying between them. Haha).

Counting classes. 12 weeks = 35 classes = 140 hours (+/- 24-hours) = Cog in a machine = so tired = Gregor Samsa woke up to discover he was a beetle, and was late for work . . .

Rest and adventure. Fairy rings and dragon quests. Journey's end and home and hearth, a bowl of hot soup and good friends.

Rhythmic bass, a techno beat. Ethereal, female voice (haunting, melancholy, lullaby).

Shannon

Her name was Shannon. Black hair, bright blue eyes, creamy white skin, red lips, beautiful body. She tossed her long hair behind her and strutted more than walked, and the first time he saw her he was in eighth grade. She was walking down the street in front of his house, with a friend of his named Heather, and he made a mental note to ask Heather the next day who she was.

The next year Nate went to a bigger school. The school he’d gone to only went through eighth grade, and then most of his classmates went to high school in a town a few miles south of them, while the rest went to a consolidated school about ten minutes east, the school Shannon went to.

Over the summer he’d forgotten about her, and then she started coming to youth group that fall. Nate started seeing her in the halls, and in gym class. She’d start talking to him, smiling, leaning close, and he’d look into her blue eyes and get the feeling he’d fall into them, fall down deep into a cool brightness and not be able to find his way back. That and her mouth with the red lips and white teeth that were talking, but he couldn’t tell what they were saying. It felt like a free fall, a skydive, and terrified him so much that he stepped back, like clinging to the sheer face of a mountain while the wind is whipping and howling at your face, your hands, your clothes. He thought about diving in and kissing her instead, like Erik had done to Trisha when he had stuck his tongue in her mouth in the back of the bus coming home from the roller skating trip, but he didn’t know if he could stop once he started, so he clung tighter to the rock face as the howling rose higher in his ears.

His parents noticed Shannon too. She became the topic at the dinner table, her blue eyes, perfect skin, dark hair, red lips. Dad thought she was cute. Had he noticed she was cute? He should ask her out; he should ask her to be his girlfriend. Mom didn’t say much, she thought something was wrong, something off with her. But then she didn’t say much at the dinner table ever, and a thick cloud hung over most of their conversations. The more Dad mentioned her the more Nate wished he’d be left alone. Maybe that sealed it with Shannon. The more Dad mentioned he should, the more he knew he definitely wouldn’t, no matter how blue her eyes were, how perfect her body was or how nice she was.

Then came the day in the room with the wrestling mats, the weight machines, the bleachers for the wrestling team that didn’t exist. The freshmen sat here before gym class, the last class of the day. The guys would sit along one wall, the girls along the other, the couples would occupy the no-man's land space in between. Another Shannon walked across the floor and sat down beside him. Along the wall sat a group of girls, huddled close, talking, laughing, and Shannon with the dark hair and blue eyes sat staring at him, smiling.

The other Shannon sitting next to him spoke. “Do you like her? She thinks you’re hot, well, cute anyway. Did you know that?”

“Oh.”

“So,” the other Shannon said, getting right to the point, “what are you going to do? Are you gonna ask her out? Date her?”
“I don’t know,” Nate said, looking suspicious. “Why?”

“Because,” she said, “she wants to know. I don’t think you should, but it’s up to you.”

“What do you mean? What have you heard?”

“Well,” Shannon said, smiling slightly, “it’s not so much what I’ve heard. Actually, it’s what I’ve seen. You don’t know her nickname, do you?”

“No.”

“It’s,” she paused. “It’s booger. She picks her nose. And, and . . . eats it.”

“Really?”

“Fact. Well, I don’t know if she still does, but she used to, and it wasn’t that long ago. Like last year I think.”

* * *

Danny dated her instead, from another school, and hadn’t heard the “booger” story, whether it was ever true or not. Nate had gone to school with Danny, until the end of 6th grade when Danny moved to another town to live with his dad, and his mom moved to Tennessee to avoid death threats. He and Danny had played chess a few times before that at Danny’s house while his mom watched Jaws. His brothers liked WWF wrestling and Danny liked putting smaller kids in headlocks and full nelsons. His brothers had tried them on him and he liked to try them on everybody else.

Nate had gone to Danny’s birthday party in 3rd grade. Danny got swats at the party and cried. He got swats at school in 4th grade and cried. Danny told Nate in 5th grade he’d give him a dollar if he’d cut some of Dana Zorowsky’s hair. He did. She cried. They both got sent to the principal’s office. The last time they’d both gone to the office they’d gotten swats, so Nate was sure they were in for it again. That time Danny had cried too, but Nate hadn’t. Instead of swats they both had to give Dana a dollar each to pay for the hair. Nate cried.

* * *

It’s a few months after Danny started dating Shannon, and the youth group is in Indianapolis. Danny and Shannon are there, and Nate, Mark, Heather and her boyfriend, Craig and Paula, and a few others. The sun sets over the city, the lights rise electric and they decide they’re hungry. A deep dish pizza place awaits with deep booths and smoky lighting. Danny and Shannon find a booth in a corner, and begin quietly arguing. Danny gets up, goes to the restroom, and when he comes back he walks to the booth where Nate sits, and eases in across from him.

For a while they are quiet, not saying much between them. Danny stares at his hands, and Nate stares at the red-and-white checkered pattern on the table cloth, not wanting to break the silence. Danny breaks the silence instead. “I know she’s dating me,” he says, “but she really wants to date you. You’re the one she wants.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You can date her if you want to. She’s my girl right now, but you can date her if you want. I know she’ll say yes.” An uneasy silence settles between them, the image of Danny holding onto her like property, on a leash, and images of his mom getting death threats from his dad come back to him. There’s a sadness on Danny’s face, a pinched, greedy pain that squeezes at the corners of his eyes, that turns his forced smile into a grimace.

“She chose you, man. She can date who she wants.” Nate squeezes out, goes to the restroom. He has to get away. Suddenly it feels hot and close and he needs to breathe. Danny continues to sit at Nate’s table, but when Nate comes back from the restroom, Danny’s back in the booth with Shannon, his arm around her, tickling her and she's laughing. He looks up as if to say, “This is my girl. Hands off.”

* * *

A few days later they’re coming home from Indianapolis. Danny and Nate are in the back of Craig and Paula’s car, Shannon’s riding in another car with Heather. Danny and Shannon have broken up. Danny and Nate are sitting in the back seat and then Danny says something about Nate’s mom, still bitter over the breakup with Shannon. Nate starts choking him and he laughs. Paula turns around, looks over the headrest in the passenger seat and asks what’s going on in that stern voice that isn’t quite yelling but is really close.

“He said something about my mom.”

Danny laughs, but doesn’t deny it. They pull into the church parking lot which is nothing more than a few gravel parking spaces just off the main street. Nate gets out one side, Danny gets out the other, and Craig and Paula get out and go inside. Once they’re not around and it’s only the two of them standing outside, Danny steps close to Nate, then slugs him in the stomach, hard enough to knock the air out of him, then runs down the street, past his old house three houses down with his two older brothers, Jaws, WWF wrestling and full nelsons, a chess set, and a mom who had gone to Tennessee. He goes to his uncle’s who will take him to his dad’s in the other town, his dad who sells drugs under the table that no one’s supposed to know about. Somewhere inside are Craig and Paula, Shannon, Heather, Mark, and Nate's bag of belongings from the trip. Nate stands under a street light at the corner, just outside the church, in the dark, trying to catch his breath and blink out the stars and tears that are swimming at the corners of his vision, then walks home.

Get Yourself Connected

At 1am the phone rang. The last of a thunderstorm still rumbled in the distance, and I'd been woken a couple times within the last fifteen minutes by bomb dropping, earth shattering thunderclaps that jolted me awake in panic, but then I breathed a sigh of relief and was quickly lulled to sleep. Then the phone rang.

One of my friends, when he calls, usually dials at 1, 2, or 3 am, forgetting that that's usually when most of us sleep. I hadn't talked with him in a while, so the phone call was a surprise, but it was good to hear him, and I decided to fight off sleep to catch up. He told me about some things he's been up to lately and I asked questions, and then he turned it on me, "So what have you been up to?" I went blank. I haven't blogged lately, I've gone underground, swimming, drowning somewhere, in grading, traveling, reading, writing some things but never finishing. I mentioned some of this, he was good about it, but when I hung up the phone and tried to sink back into dreams, I was haunted by the thought, "What have you done?" I've been teaching 8-hour classes, and 4-hour night classes, and have read until my eyes hurt and edited more papers than I can count, yet this isn't what seems to matter right now.

"What had I done?"

So this morning I woke up when I was good and ready, put on my hiking shoes, a comfortable pair of jeans, and a green hoodie and hit the Riverwalk that runs through Lansing. The hard rain had swollen the river, and there were places where the trail was covered in a foot and a half of water. The way I usually go, toward downtown, was cut off by an impromptu river, so I took the eastern branch of the walk. I walked for an hour-and-a half until I got to MSU, walked the sidewalks on campus past dorms and huge towering brick halls. The carillon pealed a song from just beyond the trees, and I went to the Union for a burger, then the library, then got a coffee and walked an hour-and-a-half back.

There were a lot of people out. It's one of the first fairly warm days of the year and everyone wanted to be out in it, walking, jogging, biking, you name it. I breathed deep. It was good to be moving, stepping through woods, brushing past branches, stopping to chat with people with dogs, smiling at the joggers, then noticing their not as amiable boyfriends. The city looks different from this perspective, not as lonely, not as alien, and reminded me today of all the things I love best about this place and will probably miss when I'm gone.

After a hard rain, some of the debris is washed away. The sky is still overcast, the trees still bony in their skeletal frames, the grass plastered down like a limp gray head of hair, but there are red berries on some of the branches, brown and black squirrels rooting around for nuts and seeds, chasing each other with their cache-finds--almost frisky--and buds swelling at the tips of trees. Something's waking up, breathing, alive, and it's very good.

What is Love? (Baby, don't hurt me)

I’ve been surfing through blogland, and most of the bloggers I admire most have been talking a lot (I mean A LOT) about relationships, love, sex, marriage, swingers, and sometimes God in relationship to all that. Though many of them right now are spent like two lovers in post-coital bliss and are waiting in that in-between time until new energies drive them in different directions and new journeys (and new blogs), for now it’s made me pause and wonder why so much energy is being spent in blogland on discussions of love and relationships, especially in a place where we don’t see each other, don’t touch, our only interactions are our minds and words, a place to vent our psychic scream of anxieties and fears, hurts and longings that in our real lives and face-to-face conversations get hidden behind the mask of “everything’s fine. How are you?”

A friend of mine says that much of what is talked about regarding love is saddening, and maybe it’s true that there’s a lot of grief, pain, confusion, and skepticism in the ongoing discussion, and sometimes bliss, of love. It’s become a cosmic grope session, either in the sheets—reaching for the other person (or persons) to connect with, seduce, control or express something uncontainable—or out of them—wondering why some relationships don’t work while others do, (and for how long?), and whether we were meant to be with one person or not, and why something’s still missing that no relationship, no matter how good, can satisfy.

I don’t have much to say about it. Not today at any rate. Maybe I’m just as spent.
But it does make me think about our loneliness and why we keep reaching out, and why we choose to do this in a world of text and art where the connections are . . . different, nonorganic, and entirely non-sexual, at least in the traditional sense. By expanding the question beyond our most intimate relationships, friendships and families, are we trying to find answers from other voices? Or are we simply voicing our thoughts, desires and frustrations because it’s a driving impulse that we MUST continue talking about, no matter whether those thoughts are driven by hope or disillusionment? We can’t not talk about it. It provides release on some level, and maybe if nothing more, that helps.

The Persistence of Longing

The road to Sarah and Lisa’s had become overgrown over the years. He would have missed it this time too if his eyes had not stopped, and if the memory of a road had not risen up from the prairie grass, elms and oaks and faded years and drawn him into the wood.

It had been a dirt road once, and never well traveled, but wide enough for a car to pass, and sometimes two if both went very slowly and squeezed close to each other. Now it was nothing more than a foot path, and in places a weaving bike trail, going deeper in, ending who knew where.

He had been this way before, and after the first few steps his feet seemed to know where to lead him. Once on the path, he questioned how he could have forgotten this place. Had he stopped looking, stopped expecting what lie at the end of the trail, had his mind buried it deep in disappointment, waiting for nature to follow suit?

The narrowness of the road irritated him, and he got on his hands and knees and pulled out clumps of grass and small tree saplings, smacking the clods angrily against the ground, shaking loose the dirt and widening the road once again so he wouldn’t forget it next time. It was hot work, and slow. He began sweating freely. It was taboo work for a Sunday, but who would see him or think to look this way? The work was for him and him alone, he guessed, a private penance for letting the weeds grow up where footprints should have been. So he worked on because it must be done. Because it seemed the right thing to do. Because he needed this.

As he made his way through a clearing, into darker woods and around a bend, the two houses were still there, right where they should be, standing side by side, lonely sentinels huddled close together. It was the house he had left as a boy, and their house, only this time no longer abandoned, no longer owned by another man, no longer rented out and then boarded up. It stood as it once had, and light poured out from the windows.

He went around to the side door, the entrance for friends and family and never strangers or unwelcome guests, and lifted his hand to knock, but then the door opened and he didn’t need to. Brown-haired Sarah stood in the doorway, and before he could say anything she grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.

“You should have come sooner,” she said, clearing shoes from the entryway.

“I tried,” he said.

“Not hard enough.”

“But it was years.”

“A little longer. You always did quit too soon.”
“That’s because I never liked the games you would pick.” He stopped, and smiled, then looked squarely at Sarah. “But you weren’t here. You never answered my letter. The letter came back. It said you’d moved.”

“Odd,” she said.

“That you’d moved?”

“No, the letter. As I remember it was mostly about the dog.”

“No reason not to answer.” He paused. “Is Lisa . . .”

“Here,” she said, before he could finish. She smiled faintly. “She’ll be glad you’ve come.”

He tried not to seem too eager, but he brushed past her, a little too abruptly. She stepped back and let him pass, accepting why he had really come, no matter how hard he’d tried to be cordial and pretend otherwise, how hard he’d tried not to look over her shoulder or how hard he’d tried to listen to her without voicing his question. He’d come for Lisa.

Lisa stood at the sink, blond hair shorter than he’d remembered, arms buried in soap suds, but when she looked up she smiled, then quickly dried her hands on a towel and ran a hand through her hair, and turned toward him. Her stomach had become rounder, her face less defined, her hair a little duller, but none of that mattered like it used to. To him she was beautiful.

He pulled her to him and their lips met, a warm, familiar kiss. She squeezed against him for a moment, then pulled back. Her arms went slack and she pushed away. “Stop,” she said. “He’ll see.”

“Who?”

“My father.”

“Why does it matter?” He searched the blue depths in her eyes.

“It just does.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t try,” she said, and before he could bring her back she left quickly from the room. He had a moment to notice the room, the spare orderliness of it, the towel hung neat and straight next to the sink, the swept floors, the stool tucked snugly against the wall. The china in the cabinet, behind glass, in perfect symmetry. The clock above the doorway, catching the last light of the sun across its face held an empty orderliness to it all.

Sarah entered the room, and he saw her like he hadn’t before. What he had remembered was the short girl with limp brown hair, metal braces, and spotty complexion. Now the braces were gone, revealing straight, white teeth. The skin, while not remarkable, was unblemished and bore a healthy, peaceful warmth. She looked happy; she looked content.

“You never met my husband, have you?” she said simply.

“No. Who is he?”

“He’ll be along soon. His name’s John.”

“Any children?”

“One. A boy. Takes after his father.”

“Congratulations. And Lisa?”

“Never married.”

“Why not?” For the first time Sarah shot him an annoyed look, but let it pass. “Father needs her.”

“Since the divorce?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t he let her go?”

“He could, but won’t. She’s his right hand. And he’s fiercely jealous of her.”

He tried to speak, but couldn’t. A tightness formed around his eyes, and Sarah took his hand and squeezed it warmly. “Let it go,” she said, and there was a soothing gentleness in her words.

He heard the front door open then, and heavy booted steps across a wooden floor, and the booming rough voice of their father. “It’s time to go,” Sarah said, and quickly pushed him out the side door.

* * *

The road led away from the house, and he stepped onto it, following it blindly, letting one leaden foot carry him further ahead. The forest closed over the road behind him, but if he had noticed, it would not have mattered. In the distance, the light in the window from Sarah and Lisa’s house winked out, and the house became a silhouette, then faded into mist, and then the house next to it followed. The woods had grown dark, but a light shone in the distance and he picked his way along the trail, trying to head for it as best he could. While the journey in had seemed to take hours, the journey back only took minutes. He stepped out of the woods, onto a concrete paved road with a median. In the center stood a street light. He looked up at it, and beyond it he could see a few stars.

The Writing Specialist

It’s 6 pm on a Tuesday night. Also, what I’ve come to call “show time” (at least to myself). The last few students arrive, leaving behind their 9-5 jobs so they can sit through another four hours of a lecture and workshop on writing. Four hours is a long time to have to sit through anything, but especially writing, and I know better than to think the students have come to hear me talk about it because they love writing, like me, or like my voice (though I’ve been told it’s kind of soothing, much like a dentist’s voice right before they start up the drill). Many of them are wondering what they have to do to get an “A”. Some are feeling sicker than they’ve felt before a first date or big job interview, and many of them are wondering if they can do this “school thing” after being away from reading and writing and the classroom for a number of years. At home, their spouse may be waiting, their children, Survivor, or a number of more appealing alternatives.

Even I don’t like hearing myself for four hours. In fact, I don’t talk much at all. The same knots in their stomachs are also cramping my own. I can’t eat. My mouth feels dry but I can barely swallow a mouthful of water. It’s opening night and I feel like I’m on stage and want to run anywhere but here. A few things keep me here. One of them is my love for writing.

I begin with introductions, and prayer, and ask everyone to describe their enjoyment of writing, what kinds of writing they do, and one movie they like (I like movies too, so this helps me decide whether certain movies are worth seeing). Some of them say they hate writing and don’t know why they signed up for a writing intensive program, others say they really enjoy writing and are really good at it and expect an “A.” After teaching a while, I’m not sure if they’re saying this because they really do love writing or if they think that’s what I want to hear. The next few weeks will prove this as they put thoughts and words onto paper.

Usually people bring food and we have a potluck at the beginning of the night or halfway through. It feels a bit like an AA meeting, and many of my students have been to those.

In their other lives, their lives outside school, many of them are husbands or wives, moms or dads, managers, employers, sons and daughters and caretakers. Some of them are going through divorces. Some are trying to figure out how to raise their kids. Some are getting married. Others are getting ready to bury their parents. Many of my students have worked in hospitals, or prisons, are fire fighters, police officers, EMTs, veterans or social workers.
One man comes to class the first few weeks, then gets emergency orders and is shipped out to Iraq within the week. Other than the phone call telling me he is dropping the class for now, I never hear from him again and don’t know if he’s still there, is alive, or back home with his family. I think he has a young son, and maybe a baby on the way. Another woman is waiting to be shipped out soon and has to find some friends to take care of her three kids while she is overseas. She’s a single mom, going to school, and enlisted in the national guard on the weekend.

One student comes to class and announces her ex-husband was waiting for her in the driveway when she came home from school. Since then she has gotten a restraining order, but is still afraid to return home and asks us to pray for her. The next week she misses class and the week after that. The following week she calls and drops the course.

Another woman pulls me aside before class, in tears because her paper for that night isn’t done. She’s been living in a shelter the last week, lost her job, and her ex-husband has taken her oldest child until she is out of the shelter. Thanksgiving is less than a week away and she asks if she can get an extension. Of course I say yes.

We meet in banks, in business complexes, either downtown or in out of the way areas of the cities. I teach in four different cities and often my car becomes my office. In the last couple years I have logged tens of thousands of miles, have learned bits of new languages, have heard a number of books on tape, and have tripled my CD collection. Even though it’s a writing class, we don’t talk about Shakespeare, Milton, or even Faulkner, but sometimes I refer to Stephen King, John Grisham or Patricia Cornwell, Chuck Palahniuk, and even E.B. White and William Zinsser. “Writing is a conversation,” I say. “Writing is music, it has rhythm, and characters and drama, and action and personality, emotion and humor, and is above all human.” The students nod in agreement, or question this, or share their own experiences from watching Sex in the City or L.A. Law, reading the newspaper, or having conversations with their spouse about who will pick up the kids from band practice. We wrestle together, talking about, thinking about, and doing writing together.

Many of the students write about their own personal experiences. My first year teaching writing to adult students I learned a lot. I think I aged a few years in that one. Now I have a few gray hairs to prove it. We used to meet for an hour, one-on-one, to conference over their papers. I got to the point where I’d bring a box of kleenexes, sometimes for me, sometimes for them, sometimes for both of us. Some of the students wrote about getting shot, some wrote about watching their mom or dad get lost in Alzheimer’s. A few wrote about getting married or having kids. Someone wrote about losing her best friend to cancer (that was hard). Some shared how they had been abused as kids, raped, molested, or merely neglected. One in particular wrote about her miscarriage. Another told me how, when she was in high school, four girls pulled her into the back of a van and raped her. A few of them wrote about wrestling through the alcohol demons, or drugs, or coming out of a gang. Many of them as students were looking at these situations from the other side. They saw hope. They were going to kick this. Coming back to school was their way of proving it to themselves, their families, their friends, and the world.

Writing is a solitary activity; writing is a community activity. Over the next few weeks, for four hours a night we become like family. We laugh, cry, and vent our frustrations over not finding the right words, over mutual deadlines and the pressures from school and outside it. I love being in the classroom; I hate grading. I have a hard time looking at students in the eye as I pass back grades. Some have called me a hard grader. Others have called me fair. Some have even said they’ve learned a lot about writing in the process. I used to get frustrated, even angry when I talked about a writing principle in class, or spent time going over how a paper was to be formatted, only to find it not done in the actual paper. Now, on some of the harder nights, I wonder if any of it matters or if there’s any growth at all. It helps me realize how slowly I learn as well, and lessons that should be obvious to others aren’t as obvious to me. That puts things in perspective. I begin to understand why Jesus’ disciples could live with him for three years and still not understand what he was trying to tell them. I realize how we’re all slow learners in some ways.

There’s a lot that goes into teaching, and teaching writing, that I didn’t realize when I was a student and before I began teaching. A lot of it is lonely, behind-the-scenes work. Nobody told me about the hours of grading I’d be doing on my own. Some of my writing profs who had been teaching for a while also hated grading, but said I had to grade quickly, not read every word, and get at “mostly just the highlights.” Maybe that’s why we have such a difficulty with writing. I don’t spend as much time at the office as I used to, it’s hard to get work done there, at least the reading and grading, so I often grade in my living room, my bedroom, or a coffeehouse. I do like the community at the office, though, and sometimes need that just to stay sane.

The end of the night comes, the end of the course comes, and we shake hands as we say goodbye to each other. Many of the students say it was the best/worst experience they’ve had, but feel like they’ve grown and have had a world opened to them. We promise to keep in touch, though I know deep down something has come to an end. I drive home in the dark, thinking about the night—the people, the conversations, the questions, the stories—and feel both connected to something real, and also very alone.

Breaking out of the Box

Last night I dreamed that I went to a church that was religious, but not spiritual. The place was packed, and somebody asked me to play the piano, but it’s been a long time since I’ve played and I was never very good at it anyway. So I sat and listened, and waited for something to happen. The guy up front talked about everybody’s duties to keeping the kitchen clean, and greeting, and making sure communion was set up, and made a joke about some guy buying a boat who hadn’t been going for months. Everybody looked back at the guy as he was walking in and started applauding, because he gave a lot to the church.

When it came time to read from the Bible everybody started talking. I realized I had only been there five minutes, and didn’t know if I should say anything, but I was angry and stood up and said something. I don’t remember what I said. All I remember was I was angry. I felt guilty, not knowing these people, and thinking I was going about it the wrong way, and felt like I was the last person to say something like this. I’ve had this dream pretty often.

I don’t think I’m religious, or even a good person, and am aware of a lot of ways where I screw up. I’ve often felt like and defined myself as an outsider, on a lot of different levels, and even though I grew up in the church I often didn’t feel “part of the family.” Lately I go, but have often left feeling pretty bored or empty. The conversation I go for and want to have usually doesn’t happen. There are glimpses sometimes and moments when I feel like, “I need to live differently. This is bigger,” or I feel more alive. At those moments usually the person’s talking about Jesus, but a lot of times church people talk more about pop psychology or making sure we’re not like “those people out there,” or “having faith to believe everything’s going well,” which seems sometimes like putting on spiritual blinders to the harder realities of life where most of the rest of us live, and where they do too if they were willing to admit it. Wrestling in the midst of those hard realities, those are some of the stories I want to hear about, and it seems like those are the ones the Bible talks about.

I don’t see myself as religious, but want to be “spiritual” in the sense that Jesus was, reaching out to people, meeting their needs, living life in a real and adventurous way. I think if I did that and more people did that, the whole religion question would fade away.

I feel like box man though sometimes, and had a dream about that too. Writing another blog feels a little empty, and there are times when I get uncomfortable and don’t want people to get too close that I fall back into some safe and secure place, saying things I think people want to hear (I’m sorry about your loss, that’s too bad. Anything I can do to help?), and yet shutting off a big part of myself in the process.

I’ve seen that tendency, and have wanted to push beyond that and live out some of the dreams I’ve thought were good ideas, but for me especially, that’s scarier and a lot harder than talking about it and saying it’s a good idea. Maybe that’s where a lot of people in general are, and what is behind some of the religious community that turns my stomach sour. Probably it’s the same thing in me.

Here’s an example. A few months ago a friend of mine started living with me for a few months. I wanted to live in community again, had lived for years on my own, and was looking forward to not coming home to an empty house. We were good friends and the idea of being roommates for a few months seemed like a good idea to both of us. Then I came home and couldn’t find the remote, or there were dirty dishes in the sink, and a lot of them weren’t mine, or we kept different hours, and I found myself getting irritated. It was supposed to be easier, better, or something, and we were supposed to get along all the time. On one level I’m a lot more realistic than this, and the realistic side of me would step up at these moments, but honestly this was probably some of what I was thinking on the emotional side. In short, it was a lot harder actually living out community than it was talking about it.

I was afraid I’d get lost, get sucked into some of the other person’s darkness, or habits, or . . . I don’t know what exactly I was afraid of. I’ve been in my own dark places at times, and it’s scary enough that I don’t want to go back there, and when I see hints of it in someone else, I don’t just see their darkness, but see hints and edges of my own clawing at me, trying to regain some kind of a hold.

I didn’t get lost. I learned a lot and grew a lot, and so did my roommate. We fought like brothers sometimes, but it felt like we grew like brothers as well. I’m grateful for the late night talks, and sorting through things, and the ways we grew in music and movies and tennis matches and soccer games.

But back to this fear of difference. Sometimes I’m afraid of becoming friends with gay people, or African Americans, or Buddhists, or people who like to party a lot. I’ve been friends with all of them, and have worked with internationals and see myself as a pretty open-minded guy while still sticking to the core of who I am (being a Christian and wanting to follow Jesus is part of this). But I’m afraid of becoming lost, and when I feel that way I feel backed into a corner and threatened, and part of me retreats until I figure it out. I think I want to have everything figured out and fit into neat containers. I am box-man, after all. Then I have friends who come along, take a look at the boxes, and shake them up and create a mess. At first I’m upset by this, but usually the reason they got into the boxes in the first place was to see what was inside, to play, to help me see that not everything fits neatly inside the boxes.

Jesus loved all kinds of people and didn’t get lost in the midst of that. Yet our own fear (mine included) gets in the way of this, and makes us want to hang out with people who are exactly like us, that we click well with, and can relate to easily, and soon we’ve got our clubs and yuppy churches all over the place. I don’t know what holds me back, probably scared mostly, because when I do step outside of my comfort zone I usually really like it.

I wasn’t sure if I could do the whole roommate thing again. I had gotten so used to living alone I had forgotten what it would be like to live with another person 24/7. I had gotten so used to hiding parts of who I was that I wasn’t sure I wanted someone to see that. I may have to someday ask the same questions when it comes to having a wife, a family, or being a parent. When you have never been there, it looks scary and foreign on the other side, but most people who are in it say, “There are adjustments, but it’s got its perks too :)”. Maybe working more with the homeless, or immigrants, or inner city, or AIDS patients, or other areas would feel the same way, a definite stretch, but more like living than anything Boxland could offer.

First Day of Winter

First day of winter, and the darkest day of the year. He's glad he doesn't live in Alaska. Or Norway. No wonder they go to the saunas so much in those Scandinavian countries, to remember what heat and steam felt like, and maybe to appreciate the winter by comparison. But then, they have polar bear swimming clubs too.

Only four days til Christmas, and as usual, the holiday has crept up on him, as it has since he was in college. He hasn't put up a Christmas tree, or even lights this year. The last few weeks have been spent grading. Before then the weeks before Christmas were spent studying, getting ready for finals and squeezing in Christmas shopping on weekends and late at night. One year he walked out into the middle of a parade, going through town. He stopped for a moment, standing in the small crowd as reindeer and children with bells and red and green suits marched by, followed by a fat Santa. He remembered then, when he was growing up, his parents pulled records from under the record player (it even had an eight-track player) and played Bing Crosby's White Christmas and the Chipmunks' Christmas album, or Sandi Patti and others he has forgotten while cookies baked in the kitchen or he and his dad worked on unstringing the lights, testing them, then wrapping them around the Christmas tree.

They always got a fresh one, the Christmas tree, and not off a lot. There were a few tree farms just outside outside of town, and Dad would pull the saw off a nail in the garage, and they'd pile in the car and set off in search of the "perfect tree."

"It has to be full," Mom would say, and they'd spend what felt like hours in the bitter cold, deliberating, stamping their feet to stay warm, as Mom would circle the tree, sizing it up, "No, no good," then move on to the next one, and the next, and the next, until she and Dad were satisfied. Mom would hold the tree while Dad sawed back and forth at the base, but holding the tree wasn't the fun job because whoever held it would have sticky pine sap hands for the rest of the night. The tree would shiver, then bow, and finally collapse as the saw bit through the last of the wood fiber. It toppled to the ground, to be lifted on top of the roof of the car--pine needles, tree sap and all--where it would be transformed into something else, a thing of light and hanging memories of ornaments from previous years. There was Scooby Doo, and Santa, and Mickey's Christmas Carol, and turtledoves from the year his parents had married, and polar bears and bunnies and the crumbling clay ornament with the faded kindergarten picture that seemed too shabby and fragile to hang, but was never thrown away. It found its way onto the tree, each year looking more and more faded, and the tree began to sag under the weight of previous years and last year's silver and gold tinsel.

The house held a warm softness on these nights, even though the wind whistled and rattled just outside. It's sounds mingled with "The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful . . ." and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," and tales of the "Night Before Christmas," and the pile of red, green, and blue wrapped presents that formed growing mountains around the manger scene at the base of the tree.

* * *

A fat snowman and Santa Claus greet him as he crunches through the snow from the parking lot and enters the front door of the apartment complex. The gazebo in the quad is covered with snow and lights that have been strung between it and the leafless trees. A couple lamposts stand guard, and empty wooden benches and a couple metal grills, sleeping reminders of warm summer nights, green grass, flowers, and the pungent odor of sizzling meat over charcoal. He fumbles for the keys with cold, stiff hands, drops them into the snowbank, curses, then plunges his hand in to pull them out, noticing how the snow hurts his skin as it turns quickly to liquid in his palm. The key fits into the lock, the door opens, and he climbs the stairs. He's home.

Winter Days

I hate the cold. I didn't realize this until after three years of living in Michigan, driving thousands of miles a month, and not feeling warm since September. Today's one of the few days in the last couple weeks that it hasn't snowed, for which I'm thankful, but instead a bitter, "through your clothes and into your bones" kind of chill has set in. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating.

Here are some of the upsides of winter. I love waking up in the morning (if it's not still dark outside) and seeing a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, before the snowplow goes through and dingy gray tracks begin to crisscross the snow. It's also quiet, especially on warm winter nights (right around the 30 degree mark) when thick flakes fall and create a solitary world, where it's just you and a few others, watching the flakes drift down in the streetlights andChristmas lights. Thick, white blankets cover the trees, the traffic is silenced or muffled, and it's just . . . peaceful. I like those nights, and love ending those days by lighting some candles, grabbing a blanket, turning out the other lights in the house and sitting by a window with a warm drink in my hand, watching until I fall asleep.

Another thing I like about winter: skiing. Though I've only been skiing twice, I really liked it. Most of my life, however, I've lived in Illinois, and not the hilly parts of northern Illinois or southern Illinois, but the flat, windy, icy cornfield area of Illinois. Before that we lived in Indiana. On Christmas day, 2001, I went skiing with my mom and a cousin out in Boise, Idaho. We went to Bogus Basin, and waited until it was dark to go skiing. Only the lights from the cabin, the slopes, and a clear night sky lit up the night. And I remember it being bright as it reflected off the snow.

For a skiier, thinking about snow is different. The snow wasn't snow that night, but "powder" and it was something to play in, not complain about as it piled up on our cars and on the roads and stiffened our joints and axles. For the first time, we wanted more of it, and watched with excitement as it accumulated. "A couple inches of powder today? That's great? That'll make for some good skiing."

My cousin has been skiing a lot, and she taught me a couple ways to slow down or stop (very important). "Spread 'em like you want it," she said, meaning the skis, into a V-shaped position. After a couple tries, I had it down, and practiced on the bunny slope while she moved on to more challenging runs, to work on her S-curve and wipeout techniques. I'd have plenty of practice with that just on the beginner run.

One thing about the beginner slope though at Bogus Basin. It wasn't just any bunny beginner slope, but the "slope of terror!" Maybe not, but on the left side of the slope was a 10-15 foot dropoff onto the 2-lane road below that had brought us up the mountain. A few trees and some brush would have cushioned the fall if one were to get too close and go over the edge, but if the trees and the highway didn't stop your descent down the mountain, a 50-70 foot sheer drop on the other side of the road would be sure to take you to the bottom, fast. However, it didn't end there. The ground wasn't as sheer after that, but the slope only gradually became gentler, leading to the foothills and the city below.

The only reason I mention all this is because of something that happened that made me more aware of the edge of the run, the road below, and the sheer dropoff after that, in my mind's eye if not through the actual experience. I was taking a run down the slope, beginning to get a feel for small turns and speeding up and slowing down. I wasn't falling, and had only fallen once or twice that night. Below me, further down the hill, my mom was practicing some wide S-curves (back-and-forth, back-and-forth), and I heard and sensed a snowboarder further up the hill and to my right. I was going pretty straight, angling toward the edge but trying to keep a safe distance from it. I looked down at my skis to make sure they were running straight, and when I looked up, it happened. My birth mom made a wide left, crossing my path. In 20 yards, we would have impact. I began angling further to the left (and further to the edge of the cliff) to avoid her. Meanwhile, the snowboarder behind me had picked up speed, was right on my tail, and then on top of my right ski (literally). A three-way collision was quickly developing and I had to do something fast.

Here were my options:
Option 1: Hit everyone and go down in a pile.
Option 2: Bite it now, and be the only one to wipe out.
Option 3: Go over the edge of the cliff
Option 4: Shift weight hard to the left side and hope to shoot out in front of the snowboarder and Mom, and ski to safety further down the hill.

I wasn't sure I could do option 4, and Option 3 was looking like more of a possibility every second. It was then I realized where Option 3 would lead (as described earlier). Option 1 could cause some serious injury (not just to me), and Option 2 could also cause some injury (mainly to me. Did I also mention how much I don't like cold?) Biting it in the snow didn't seem like an option.

It was now or never, so I decided to try Option 4, with Option 2 as a backup to avoid Options 1 and 3, especially to avoid Option 3. I leaned hard on my left ski, somehow broke away from the snowboarder, narrowly missed my mom, and sped down the hill, sticks tucked under my arms, knees bent like I was doing time trials for the Winter Olympics. I heard shouts behind me, then let loose with one of my own. I had skied to safety.

Later, over a cup of hot chocolate, my mom said, "You did that perfectly! You didn't even seem nervous.""I was terrified," I laughed, then took another drink of hot chocolate.

* * *Now, the downsides of winter. It's dark, it's cold, and driving through blizzards is downright scary. But more about that later . . .