Fear . . . and Courage

Fear is healthy. It's wired into us, and sends adrenaline pumping through our bodies, which then helps us to either "fight or flight", or even posture (act strong) or submit (show helplessness). It warns us of dangerous situations, of risk, that we might get hurt or lose something. It shows up in different places: a fight, a job interview, asking someone out on a date, learning new things, pursuing goals and dreams.

Strength isn't the absence of fear. Strength is recognizing the fear, looking at it, but then not giving into it. If I fight this person I could feel pain, I could break bones, get a concussion, get my teeth knocked out. If I ask this girl out and she says no, I might feel stupid, my feelings could be hurt, I might feel rejected. If I go in on this business deal I might lose my retirement, lose the money I invested, might let down the family members who are depending on me. If I try out for the team or for my dream and don't make it, then what? Am I still me? How do I redefine my identity?

When we take risks, all of these things are possibilities. But often there are other possibilities as well. If I fight, I might win, or, I might get hurt but that's a small price to pay to avoid watching someone else I love get hurt. If I ask this girl out, she might turn me down, or she might say yes, and we may have a great relationship ahead. If I risk on this business deal, I might go bankrupt, or I might make millions, or at least learn something that will improve our life situation. If I pursue this dream, I might actually make it.

We fear failure. Sometimes we fear success. If I win this fight, does that make me a fighter? A bully? Can I be strong without it overtaking me? Will I know how and when to use this strength? If I date this girl and we really like each other, we might get married, have a family. Am I ready for that commitment? How will it change me? If I make millions, will I still be the same me? There are so many rich people out there who are jerks; I don't want to be one of THEM. If I fulfill my dream, will there be any other dreams out there to achieve?

We either let our fears cripple us, hold us back, or recognize what they tell us about ourselves, where we come from, how we've come to see ourselves and the world around us. When I was younger, I had teachers who said "It's never okay to fight. Fighting never solves anything." Yet on the playground it was a different story. Some things are worth fighting for, it's knowing the difference. We should fight poverty, oppression, abuse, slavery. When we don't fight these things, it is not an act of strength, but of weakness. Our fears have overtaken us, and we assume someone else will take responsibility, meaning we're too afraid to step up ourselves.

At home, my parents would get in arguments and Mom would say, "Never treat a woman like that." Sometimes the fear is, "Fighting in a relationship is always bad." And so we shy away from confrontation. Yet sometimes in the relationship, confrontation is the thing that is healthiest and most needed. When done well, it says "I care enough about you and this relationship to speak truth, even if it is hard, or even painful." It says, "I'm passionate about you, about us, and I'm willing to do the work to fix things rather than hope they'll get better or go away." There are healthy and unhealthy ways to confront, and I'm not advocating abuse, but sometimes we fear confrontation so much that we don't step up to fight for the relationship.

I grew up in the church. In addition to the flannel board Jesus with perfect hair, manicured nails, and clean clothes, my Sunday school teachers would often say, "Good Christians are nice. Turn the other cheek." The men and women would shake hands, talk about weather, how glad they were to be there, and stumble and stammer over the words to say. Everything was fine. People were blessed. There were no problems here, thank you. You don't talk about those things in church. Yet I've looked into the eyes of the men, young men and old men, and they've lost something real. They've become emasculated, they lack passion, lack honesty. I've looked at the women beside them, bitter, waiting, looking for some sign of life and shouldering responsibilities that they resent.

And then someone would come in, they couldn't take it anymore, and tears would burst open the gates of their façade that everything was put together, that everything was all right. In fact, everything wasn't. In a moment of "weakness" they would admit that their lives were broken, falling apart, that they needed God, they needed community, they needed something more than they were getting.

There would be different reactions. Some people would come alongside and simply love on the person who was hurting. They would listen without judging, yet challenge them if they needed it. Others would cluck like hens, patting the hurting person on the back, but saying that "They shouldn't feel that way," or "everything happens for a reason," or even "God has a plan." While some of those things may have been true, seeing someone else's pain and honesty was too much. They had to keep it at a distance by spouting cheap platitudes. Then there was a third group who would come alongside, offering comfort to the person who was hurting, but then later say to each other, "I knew Joe had issues. See, he's not so strong after all. It's a good thing I'm not like that."

There would also be the response of the person who had "broken down." Sometimes they would come back, a week later, somewhat embarrassed over their "emotional outburst," the mask once again firmly in place. I'm good, thanks. How are you? Yes, I think it's going to be another warm day. How about that?

For others, it was the beginning of a deeper truth, that there's a paradox in "strength through weakness." Sometimes the scariest, riskiest, and strongest thing one can do is admit they don't have it all together, that they're broken, that they need God, need community, need to be saved and the efforts they've poured in by trying to do it themselves just don't cut it. They recognized they had fears, and yet they faced them, trusting not their own strength, but in a much deeper strength, the irony of the cross.

Fear is inevitable; it warns us of danger. It confronts us in our ethics, our relationships, our life dreams, and our honesty with God. Jesus agonized in the garden, knowing the ordeal that was ahead, begging that it be taken away if there was any other possibility. Did he feel afraid? Yes. Maybe he could have walked away, the option was available, he could have hidden, yet he submitted in strength to the cross. He wasn't caught, wasn't discovered, wasn't found out, crippled by fear, or sent kicking and screaming. He went knowing the cost, the pain, the risk, and went in strength.

Tournament

Sunday, 4:15. December 7^th.

I stepped into the ring. A Hispanic man about my height stood a foot away. He was younger, faster, fifty pounds lighter, but I had seen him minutes before; he looked frightened. I didn't look into his eyes now, but at a point lower, the blue field marking his chest protector. I had visualized this moment during the prior two days, had fought down the building fear and sometimes panic, but now that the moment was here, I only felt the beating of my heart, the filling and emptying of my lungs. My head and body were encased in hard foam padding, my arms and legs covered as well. I wondered if this was how the knights felt inside all their armor. I was standing barefoot in front of a crowd of spectators who were now nothing more than noise in the back of my mind, except for the voice of my coach.

"Stay loose," he said, knowing my tendency to stiffen up when I sparred. A woman (the referee) held her hand between me and the man I was standing across from, creating a natural barrier between us. "Shijak!" she yelled, lifting her hand in the air and taking a quick step back; it had begun. The man I was fighting was fast. He kicked me twice in the chest with a combination roundhouse kick within the first few seconds. I felt the blow and hadn't been hit that hard in a long time. I tried to respond immediately with a kick of my own, but he had danced away, staying out of reach. I punched, made contact, kicked at the air, and sometimes landed a kick. Most of the time I was just a little behind, a little too slow.

The first minute ended and we went to our chairs. My coach handed me some water and told me to sit down. "You're doing well for your first tournament," he said. "He's up on you in points, but you're doing well. Now here's what I want you to do. When he comes at you with a kick I want you to raise your knee and block him. Take out his leg, take away his tool. Then, follow it with a punch and kick of your own." I nodded, trying hard to catch my breath. "You want me to block, punch, then kick?"

"Yes."

I nodded again, put my mouth guard back between my teeth and ran out to the floor. Round two would soon begin.

This time when my opponent threw a kick, I lifted my knee. Bone collided on bone, and I saw my opponent step back and wince. I charged, trying a kick of my own, but he danced out of reach. He kicked again, and again collided, and then again, and this time I saw him clearly limping. "Close the gap!" someone shouted, and "lead with a block" my coach yelled. I started a flurry, running forward, trying to kick his stomach, his chest, but the time was up. I had hesitated too long.

I lost the match on points, but knew I had won something. I hadn't given up; I had faced my fear. Later my coach said, "You got inside his head. You stayed with it, you did what I told you to do. If this had been a street fight, you would have won. If the match had gone one minute longer, you would have had him."

I'd heard the talkers. "Yeah, if I was in that situation, I would . . ." They talk about the things they would do, the way they would humiliate their opponent, dominate, and come out without a scratch. I'd never felt that way. According to David Grossman in On Killing, In the Civil War to WWII, 85% of the soldiers with weapons either didn't fire their weapons at all or misfired them, often shooting harmlessly over the heads of their opponents, assuring that they would not kill another human being. There's something deeply ingrained in us that resists harming another human being, even if our own lives are at stake. We feel less hesitation when it comes to harming or killing an animal, but for most of us we draw the line when it comes to another human being. This resistance is a good thing, most of the time.

I didn't know what I would do. I'd been in fights before, and they weren't the glamorous things that others made them out to be, at least not for me. My last fight was in high school, between me and a guy I rode the bus with, over some girl that we both liked. Anyway, we fought, and it was like two terrified animals fighting to stay alive. We threw a few punches and kicks, but it was over shortly after it started, both of us agreeing to a truce. The next day the other guy said he'd won, so I challenged him to a rematch, this time with others watching. We punched, and kicked, stepped back to let cars go by, and then punched and kicked some more, and danced around the street. The people who had come to watch both thought we'd exchanged some shots, and couldn't tell who had won. I went home and put a washcloth on my bleeding lip while my mom was giving piano lessons downstairs, sneaking by so she wouldn't see the blood, and the next day the other guy told me he was sore where I had kicked him. That was my last fight.

The day before the match I felt fear begin to rise up inside me. What would really happen? Would I be able to keep my head, would I panic, would I back off, or would I fight back? I visualized what it would look like to be in the ring. I'd trained, lost weight, become better conditioned, and felt ready to fight, win or lose. I wanted to test myself, to see if I had strength. What if I was in a real fight, on a street, or saw someone being beaten or raped? Would I continue walking, not wanting to get hurt or killed, or would I risk getting involved, jumping in and pushing past my own need for self-preservation for someone else? If someone broke into my home and attacked my wife, my kids, what would I do? Would I have courage? Would I have strength? Would I be able to overcome my fear and do what I needed to do? These were the big questions for me.

I learned something that day. I learned about strength.

I might do another tournament soon, but more than that, I'm not as afraid. I'm not afraid at work, I'm not afraid in relationships, I'm not afraid of making hard choices or possibly getting hurt. There's a heart beating inside my chest. I feel more alive.

 

Recovering, Uncovering

Living with half a heart, part of a soul,

While another carries around a piece of you.

Meanwhile walking in shadows, the world moves . . . on. Leaves fall, seasons change. The winter winds breeze their icy

breath, whispering death.

And you have to keep moving, walking dead, waiting for the intake of breath and the coming spring, or hibernate in a cocoon of spent hope.

Beauty in pain. Growth in sadness. Many are afraid of it, shy away from it, run from it.

Take a pill, hide it, mask it, shoot it up, make it go away, they say.

Or feel it, swim in it, turn the memories over like a precious stone, grow from it, appreciate it, and become wise.

Punching hands, kicking feet, hammering down blows, just to feel . . . something.

Sweat, blood, muscles ache, jaws hurt, and sweep the wound clean.

Tears rain down, screams scrape heaven with their cries.

And then silence.

No answers, but peaceful nights. Sleep. Hope. Learning to value, to see. Abandonment of pride, and past pain.

Fighting to hold it close, letting it go, dreaming of days gone by and not yet come. Will this wrestling match ever end?

Laughing again. Silent peace. Trust. Healing.

Finding our Voice (and our heart)

This summer I wrote a story based on a dream I'd had, about a dragon coming to a village seeking sanctuary, initially as a small dragonling and then quickly growing, getting out of hand, and taking on the nature of a dragon (naturally). I was dating a woman at the time, and told her the idea. "You haven't found your voice," she said. "You're trying to be someone else. Your blogs are real, I can here you there, but not here."

I lost my voice. Somewhere along the way I stopped being alive. My closest friends have said I haven't been alive or real for a long time. "You have to start living again."

Here's where I lost it:

My job teaching in Michigan. I lived in one city, had an office an hour away, and taught in four different cities. I met students for six weeks, four hours a night, then drove home in the dark. No sooner had we met than we were saying goodbye. Again, and again . . . and again. After a while I disconnected, graded piles of papers in coffeehouses, drank more than I ever have in my life, and worked out hard just to feel something.

My friends' divorce. He was my brother. I was living at their house when they divorced. I watched as a "family" I knew fell apart before my eyes. I pulled back, isolated, didn't share what I was feeling and buried myself in trying to do well at my new job teaching. I lived out of the office, sometimes literally, sleeping overnight in the lazyboy.

My family. We were on the Oregon coast in a gift shop. I was in high school, my brothers were 5-7 years old. My aunt saw that my stepmom had bought my brothers gifts, and yet something for me was conspicuously absent. "Aren't you going to get Clifford something," my aunt asked.

"No," my stepmom replied. "He doesn't need it." My aunt was furious. She came to me and told me the conversation. I replied, "It's okay." I had gotten used to it. I no longer expected it.

Relationships. I can sweep a woman off her feet, I just don't have anywhere to take her. I pay attention, listen, meet her needs, and get lost in the process. I lose or forget who I am.

 

How I get it back:

Boise. I lived with my aunt and uncle for six months. My aunt (same aunt) confronted me. "It does matter what you think."

Martial arts. I'm physical, and passionate. Martial arts is something I do because I like to. I like to push my body to the limits (I've thrown up in class). I do it because I want to. I may teach at a college, but in class I'm just another student.

Riding a motorcycle. I'm learning to ride, and loving it. I don't care if some say it can be dangerous. The freedom is worth it.

Being honest. Some things do make me angry. I'm more honest now, but getting better. When my girlfriend became too controlling I told her. We almost broke up that night. Maybe we should have then.

Going skydiving. I've talked about it. It's time.

I want to go to Ireland. I want to visit, and maybe live there. I love going to Irish pubs and listening to music, or Irish fests. I love to dance when the music is compelling. I love music that gets inside your blood, makes you feel, makes you want to weep and sing at the same time.

I want to stand up against injustice. When the woman I was dating was dismissed from her job, I caved. Could I have said something? Should I? I might have lost my job, but I wouldn't have lost myself. Sometimes I've stood up, and gotten pounded down. It's a risk, but so is not being alive.

 

My girlfriend once asked if I was okay with wearing costumes to movies. "Isn't it weird? You wear a cloak. Don't you think that's weird."

"Yep," I said, smiling.

"Don't you worry about what people will think?"

"No. You worry too much about what people will think."

"I have to, and you should too."

"Why?"

"Well, because what other people think is important!"

"Is it?"

An Attempt at (Bad) Poetry

I told you that the world was before you, that you were free.

You looked at me with hope, with fear, and doubted if I wanted you.

I looked at you with joy, and saw you stretching your clipped wings.

It was just us two, and the world was crashing down around us, but for a while we were happy.

You asked me if I was lonely, and I said I was alone.

We loved, we fought, we clung to each other and pushed each other away until our world sometimes felt like a cage.

The door was always open. Seeing you fly through it into the open world has hurt more than you'll know.

The world is before you, and you're free.

Death of a Stoic

Sometimes we don't say what we feel to the people we care about until it's too late. And then they're gone, and we stuff it.

Bury it deep, we say, send it to the elephant bone graveyard, we say, alongside the donkey jawbones, and Yurik's skull (alas, I knew him well), hoping the maggots swallow down our fears. Pass the bottle and let's take a swim in the sea of forgetfulness. There are too many goodbyes, too many sorrows, too many disappointments, sometimes early, sometimes late, and so we say, "That's how it is; that's life. Better just accept it." We avoid funerals, avoid tearfilled goodbyes, avoid moving the last sofa onto the moving van.

And then sometimes someone notices the chink in the armor, behind the hard exterior, the face of stone, the laughter and jokes, and strange disappearances before the end of the night. There's the child weeping in the corner, afraid that someone will see their tears.

Is There Anybody Out There? Is There Anybody Listening?

If anyone still checks this, I've been on a writing hiatus (you already noticed). I may resume. I've been writing, but it's gone underground for a while. All the best . . .

Great song by the way (points to title).

Cheers,
The Madman Upstairs (think the Madwoman in the Attic, The Madman in Nietsche, Mad thoughts in the brain, or apartment dwellers who live on the top floors of buildings and you'd be on target, at least some of the time).

Scene: (the kitchen)

He wanted to hit her. They were both standing in the kitchen, Marilyn stood two feet back from him, her eyes growing wide as they looked just past his shoulder. John turned his head, following her line of sight to his own right fist, cocked back by his ear.

It had happened so fast. He had never thought he could bring himself to this moment. He had thought about hitting his stepmom, had wanted to, but when the moment actually came it had happened as if he were standing outside his body, and something else had automatically pulled the strings. In physics, there was potential energy, energy not yet released but pregnant with ability, and kinetic energy, energy in motion. He was more than these laws, more than a machine, and in this moment he had a choice: potential or actual energy?

Marilyn stepped back, then ran across the room, standing behind John’s father, and continued to glare at John with those large, saucer eyes. John lowered his fist; his breathing came rapidly.

“Do you have a problem?” John’s dad said.
“You ate Andrew’s hotdog!” Marilyn squeaked, from over Harold’s shoulder.“What? What are you talking about?” John said, shaking his head and taking a step forward.
Marilyn moved out from behind the wall of John’s dad. “You took Andrew’s hotdog,” she continued. “You knew we were saving it for him and you deliberately ate it.”
“I didn’t,” John said. “If I’d have known it was his I wouldn’t have eaten it. I was hungry. I didn’t know it belonged to anyone.”
“You did it out of spite,” his father said.
“This is ridiculous,” John said, walking away.
“Do you have a problem?” his dad said again.
John turned again to face them both. “No. No, I don’t.” He turned away, looking over his shoulder so Marilyn wouldn’t take a running leap again at the back of his legs, and left the house.



Before Andrew had been born, John and his parents had gotten in an argument over a trip they would be taking the next day. John had forgotten they were going on a trip and asked where they were heading. "You already know," his dad had said, but no, John told him he didn't.
"You're being smart," Marilyn said. "You do too know."
"I Do NOT," John said, exasperated that he should know something that he didn't.
"Don't get fresh," his dad joined in, and John was asked again where they were going. When he claimed he didn't have any idea, they told him to think, but nothing came to mind, so they marched him upstairs, lathered his tongue with soap, and forced him to swallow it. They next day they drove to Joplin, Missouri, and John promised he would know the answers to more questions.


John walked around to the back of the house, opened the door, fumbled for the light switch, and pulled the leash off the nail where it usually hung next to the door. Closing the door behind him, he walked across the yard, past the kitchen, out near the garden to a small kennel with four posts surrounded by chicken wire.

Pebbles began wagging her tail wildly before John had even reached the gate of her pen.
"What are you so happy about?" he mumbled, leaning down to lift the latch and catch Pebble's collar as she made a mad scramble for the opening. She licked his hand, and he couldn't help but smile softly. "You're a stupid dog," he said, rubbing her head behind the ears. He slipped the leash onto her collar and they were away, walking down the street to the end where it would meet the country road, and from there wherever it took them.

They were walking, Pebbles on a mission to sniff every hydrant and tree along the way, John settling into the swishing silence and warmth of walking. It always made him feel better, every step taking him farther from the house, the road opening up as they passed houses on the right and left, and then open fields. He imagined what it would be like to keep following the road, heading west, with fields of corn and soybeans on his left and his right, following where the sun led, and the clouds. He could go anywhere. He could leave this town and the life he knew, his family and the kids at school and start over. Someday, he promised, it would be different. He would find his mother, he would be somebody different.

Quick Note

I have two IDS lectures coming up this week, and played ultimate frisbee this afternoon at the park. On Friday I went to Chicago on a field trip to the Oriental Institute, and got to swing by Powell's. It sounds boring, but I always love a trip to Chicago and the chance to see things from Egypt, the Assyrians, Hittites, Sumerians, and more.

I'm reading a series by Susan Cooper. She's an incredible writer.

I'm struck by how lonely of a place Lincoln can be. When I was here as a student, it was a constant struggle. Now, as a professor, it seems to be a constant companion as well, but I see other people around me struggling with it too. It's in the air, maybe in the cornfields and soybean fields. I haven't seen it many other places where I've been, but it's all pervasive sometimes.

Loneliness we can learn to live with. It's what we often do to medicate loneliness that can be death. Could there be such a thing as a spirit of loneliness, a force that hovers over certain places, derailing community and peace and feelings of belonging? Regardless, a lot of students have talked about the struggle, and wrestling with suicide, pornography, alcohol and drug abuse, an almost unhealthy fascination with sex and relationships, and it makes me realize it's not just an individual feeling. What is it about this place that breeds loneliness? Is it the size of the town (it IS small)? Is it being away at college? Is it a distraction that takes place on a larger than life, spiritual level? Or is it the sense that here people are supposed to have it all together, there shouldn't be any mistakes or flaws, and so we feel isolated in our brokenness, in our struggles, in our desire to be more than who we are today, or in our apathy and hopelessness that things will ever be other than they are right now.

The Calling

From the four winds they came. Many of them had been outcasts in their own clans and families. There was a thief, a number of orphans, vagabonds, pirates, slaves, fishermen, and a few murderers. But they had come, this motley crew, to the gathering. No one could quite explain it, they'd felt compelled, a voice like a whisper on the wind, and then a sudden longing to head to the center of the Four Lands. Some had traveled days, weeks, even months, but they all arrived on Midsummer's Day. Like a flock of ravens, they had come together as a band of warriors.

Elwin Ravenblack was among them. She had stolen away from onboard the ship, killed the guard with a knife she'd tucked in her boot for weeks, slit his throat from behind as he'd entered her cell to rape her. She stuffed his body in an empty feedbag, lowered it down in the water by a rope, then cut it free. May the waters take it where they would, she would soon be free. She slipped undetected from shadow to shadow onboard the ship, catlike, then lowered herself overboard, hand under hand down the anchor until she slipped quietly into the water, and swam across the bay to mainland. Her arms and legs ached from their lack of use, and her lungs burned from the exertion and salt water, but she continued on. It was a death quest, but a death she preferred to the living, waking death she had experienced the last six years.

She made it. Gasping and sobbing freely for the first time in years, Elwin Ravenblack kneeled on the shore as the tide washed over her shaking arms and legs. She would have to keep moving soon, but for now she gave herself over to the rising swell of emotions that had been captivated for years. Anger, joy, relief, and sadness and loss flooded through her body, gripping and shaking her until she felt like she would explode. She wept for her family, her childhood, the abuse the shipmates had taken out on her body, and she wept for her freedom. She could begin again, and in this place where sand and sea, air and water met, she could be whole.

The following weeks she had made her way further inland, an unspoken sense leading her to the next town, and then beyond. She'd stowed away in barns, raided pantries, and kept to the shadows, daring herself to travel only at night. The pursuit had lasted for two weeks, as she knew it would, and then had been called off. The men would return to the ships to fish, trade, or pirate other vessels. She no longer cared.

On Midsummer's morning she came to the valley, surrounded by mountains and tall pine trees, and in the center of the valley, a lake. She had traveled through the night, compelled to move faster, to not let her body rest, and as the sun rose and cast beams across the water, she found a shelter underneath the pines, and slept.

Strange

This morning I left the chapel to go teach my 8am class (yes, my office is in a chapel), and as I was heading to the door I saw something on top of it; I thought it was a wreath. As I got closer I saw a dead bird hanging, its feet against the glass, its neck hanging down, broken, its eyes a dull blue and lifeless. I wondered if someone had put it there, but then figured the bird had probably flown into the glass door, broken its neck, and died. No portents, I hope, only a murder most fowl.

The Word and the Wind

There were words in the wind.

For those who could hear them, they spoke compellingly, softly, insistently; sometimes clear, sometimes just beyond reach, they were always there. They rustled through the leaves in autumn, blew across prairie grasses, howled over desert sands. They rattled and sighed as they left the bodies and bones of the old ones, or sparked life into the wails of newborn babies. The words were active, creative, breathing life still into the world, guided by the thought and will of the Word speaker.

The darkness was also present. It cast its clawing, fearful shadow across the lands. In it was the utter silence of the crypt, the hollow, empty places buried far below the ground in caverns where the air is stale and cold, and mountains of granite press down from above. It was the lonely, suffocating silence in the middle of the night when all one's fears come to life.

Words. Breath. Life. Silence and darkness. Death.

Few had the power to hear the words on the wind; even fewer had the power to breathe it in, focus it, comprehend it, and breathe it out again as the language of power, of growth, of life. But the words were calling Will. They had a purpose for him, and others from different places and times, but he didn't know it yet.

Will Oakman (A Ravenblack story)

Will Oakman had always dreamed of adventure.

As an orphan, he imagined what his parents must be like, maybe a king and queen of a distant country, or perhaps his father had been a proud warrior. It made the hours mucking the stable go faster, as his sweat mixed in with the straw and dung below him. After the barn there would be feeding the chickens, pigeons and sheep, the washing inside, of laundry and dishes, and sweeping the front porch. The days seemed endless, and the nights too short. A family had taken him in when he was four, so he had not spent much time in the orphanage, but there at least he had been surrounded by others like him, boys and girls whose parentage lay shrouded in as much mystery as his own.

Late at night, as his muscles ached heavily and he found his head buzzing between this world and the world of sleep, he saw images, heard voices, and wondered again where he'd come from. The bigger question: Why had he been left behind? If his parents had been nobility, had he been kidnapped, stolen away from his crib in the dead of night and held for ransom, or had his parents died of grief when they'd found he was gone? Or if his father had been a warrior, perhaps he had been cut down in battle, intending to come back one day for his son, but never getting the chance.

Then there was his education. The family he stayed with saw it as their duty that he be educated, though often with the harsh rigor that felt little better than cleaning the barn. On these days his body didn't ache, but his mind felt sodden with memorization drills and grammar. On warm days the schoolmasters would let the students have a break to stretch their legs, to play outside, to practice sports. While the break from his studies was a welcome relief, Will soon found that the other kids saw him differently, kept him apart, and so his breaks were spent wandering the fields behind the schoolhouse until the bell clamored that it was time for more drills to begin. He dreamed of one day being free.

And then strange things began happening. He had grown used to the solitude of his thoughts and long stretches wandering across fields and through woods. The company of these lonely haunts were preferable to the sounds of jeering schoolmates or the crying, squabbling children at the farmhouse. The quiet in the lanes and woods was welcome. He began to move with as much stealth as a blowing leaf, and found he could mask his footsteps to a soft pad, quiet enough to not even disturb the old and brittle branches that lay strewn across the paths. In the distance he saw a deer, a young buck no older than a couple summers, its antlers not yet to their full maturity. It stopped, lifted its head, and stared at Will. Will stood still, then sat down, folding his legs close to him, and waited.

High overhead birds flew in a V-formation, then broke in two, one group branching from south to east. The second group changed course, fell in line, and soon they were in V-formation again. The wind blew gently through branches around him, whispering, words bubbling to the surface of Will's consciousness, then bursting before he could catch them. And still he waited. Will began to hear his breathing, and slowed it to match the sound of the wind in the branches. Behind him, out of sight, Will could hear the deer's hooves, moving hesitantly, pausing, edging closer. Will closed his eyes. He sensed a presence, peace, as if a giant were standing close to him, about to speak, yet there was no one there. He stayed still a moment longer, before opening his eyes again, and heard the quiet, its subtlety and nuances as tangibly as if it were speech. And this was only the beginning.

Tolkien, Lewis, and more

When I was in second grade I began reading the Chronicles of Narnia. The way it happened, I had helped my stepmom clean the house and when I came home from school the next Monday, Mom had bought me a book as "payment." It was a pretty nifty strategy on her part, associating books with rewards, otherwise it might have been chocolate, and I'd be diabetic, or money and I'd be a penny pinching stockbroker on Wall Street. Instead, I'm poorer and a little thinner, but have an office lined with books . . . and fell in love with Lewis's work and fantasy literature in general.

Through second grade I worked my way through the Chronicles of Narnia, getting bogged down in the Dawn Treader (Voyage of the Dawn Plodder?), but then finding that Silver Chair was my favorite book of the series (though some critics say this one has the most disjointed plot and moves the slowest.) While I was going through the Chronicles, a professor came to our house to visit and found out I'd been reading the Chronicles of Narnia. "Really?" he said. "Well, you should read the Hobbit." Soon after I'd finished the Last Battle, and Narnia and the wardrobe were behind me (though not without a sadness and a longing for more), a copy of The Hobbit showed up in my room one Monday after my parents had gone shopping.

I remember staying up late to read The Hobbit after it was long past time to go to bed. My folks was leave the door to my room cracked, with a light on in the hallway, and light would spill across my pillow. The steps to the bedrooms in our house creaked, so I usually had ample warning when my dad was coming to see if I had fallen asleep yet. One night I had gotten so engrossed reading about Bilbo taking on the spiders in Mirkwood forest that I looked up to see my dad looking at me through the crack in the door, clearing his throat. I tried to shove the book under my pillow like I had done other times, but it was too late--I was caught.

Dad came in and sat by the bed, and tried to cough so he could suppress a laugh. "We encouraged you to read," Dad said, "and we're glad that you do, but you also need to get some sleep. Reading in the dark like this will hurt your eyes." Dad was angry, but not too angry, and I think he was also a little pleased that I was breaking the rules by reading and not doing drugs like other third graders.

Seeing how much I was getting into fantasy literature, my stepmom took another tack. "We like that you're reading," she said, "but you need to read more than just fantasy." The next week she bought me a book on Paracelsus (I think), and then later one on Erasmus, and encouraged me to read histories, biographies, whatever I could get my hands on. My dad had also encouraged me in first grade to start reading the Bible. I also got hooked reading about ancient cultures, especially the Egyptians and "lost cultures."

At the public school we had a librarian named Mrs. West who would read to us once a week when we'd come to the library to check out books. Usually it was just a time when the boys would kick each other in the groin to see if we'd flinch. Mrs. West had short, white hair, was tall and fairly thin, but had sharp eyes and an even sharper wit, and could read stories better than most people I knew. She was attractive in a lean, sharp way, like a tree or a bird.

She seemed to take a liking to me. I told her I'd read Lewis and Tolkien, and asked conspiratorially if she had any other books like that, and she said, "I have just the thing." She introduced me to Lloyd Alexander's Prydain Chronicles (a fantasy set in a Welsh-like world) and Madeleine L'Engle's Time trilogy (now a quintet), and I also read about black-and-white horror movies and became fascinated with monsters. When I asked to borrow a copy of Shakespeare's plays when I was in seventh grade, I think she beamed and teared up at the same time. I looked into it because I'd met another professor, John, who thought I should beging reading Shakespeare. (honestly I started the Merchant of Venice, and couldn't understand the play script, so put it down after a few pages. It wouldn't be until my sophomore year that I'd be reintroduced to Shakespeare when we'd go to Purdue to see Romeo and Juliet, and I'd be talking with the girl I had a crush on all through high school, Tracy.)

John had recommended other fantasy books to me, and I'd read Piers Anthony's Xanth novels, then went to the town library to read David Eddings' Mallorean and Belgariad, and began reading Celtic, Greek and Norse mythology, Arthurian legends, Robin Hood, and Nathaniel Hawthorne (The House of the Seven Gables, though since I hadn't read The Scarlet Letter yet, I was lost.) I also discovered Isaac Asimov's Foundation series and Frank Herbert's Dune.

My hunger for books and stories was insatiable. We lived in a town of 800, and my parents let very few friends from school come over to the house, or vice versa. One time my friend Jay was going to come stay at my house when my stepmom said, "He can't. I'm doing laundry today." She'd put me off the whole week on the decision, then backed out at the last minute. We also traveled a lot during the summer, and on the long roadtrips I would read a book, since I didn't have any brothers yet to share the backseat with. Fantasy literature was a way to escape the town, escape my parents, and escape my lack of close friendships with other kids my age. I longed for an adventure, a quest, to go rescue some beautiful girl so she could see how brave, and not how shy, I was.

The original Chronicles and Lord of the Rings still sit on my shelves, now in my office next to hundreds, if not 1000+ other books. They're worn, discolored, and well used (I've read them over 7-8 times each, of those copies alone) but I still have them with me. I've read a lot in general, have written papers and will soon teach a class on these books, but still come back to them, reminders of an early love and a desire to experience the world, and they sit on my shelf, carrying hints of rainy fall nights, or winters with a blanket and a book and something hot to drink, or lazy summer days either outside or in my room, dreaming of being a hero, of adventure, of danger, and of a quest big enough to drop everything else just to pursue it.

Frank

I never blogged about Frank; or Boston.

In April our campus closed down for a week and students, faculty and staff scattered in different directions. It wasn't Spring Break, but a working week, a week we call E-3 around here. Sort of an "in the field" or practical experience. Some went to England, Romania, Montana, Colorado, and others stayed right in our own backyard of Lincoln. My group went to New England.

Since it was my first year teaching, I was going to co-lead our group and it was going to be small. I was actually following the lead of another guy, who had to back out the week before we left because of a family emergency. It was the right thing for him to do, and none of us begrudged him staying, we only grieved for him and his family and missed the expertise he would have been bringing on the trip. So a couple days before we were to leave, I was moved from co-leader with little responsibility to leader of the group (four other students) heading to work with a campus ministry in Boston. I'd never done this before, but felt a lot of peace about it. I've traveled a lot, often by myself, and feel like a "leaf on the wind" in these moments. It's a surreal experience, you have to expect the unexpected because you don't know what will happen or who you'll meet, and yet these seem to be some incredible times of growth for me.

We flew into New Hampshire, had one of the roughest landings I've experienced, battling wind shear the whole way (I could feel the plane being rocked side to side. It felt like we were driving fast down an old, hilly country road with no shocks), but landed safely.

I need to back up for a minute. In Dorchester, a suburb of Boston, there had been a shooting a week before. It had happened in broad daylight and was the news all over Boston and beyond. It had been bad enough that the guardian angels had been sent in the day before we came to add extra protection in the area. When we arrived in Boston that night, our liaison from the college said, "Whatever you do, don't go to Dorchester." The next day we met with our project leader who said, "Tomorrow we're going to Dorchester."

What happened in Dorchester will be maybe another story, but not the one I want to tell today, other than to say there was another shooting the day before we went to Dorchester a couple blocks from where we ended up working. But what I really want to talk about is Frank.

We went to Park Street Church in Boston on a Sunday night. We had already been in Boston a few days, and were exhausted from a variety of events. I even had to struggle with whether we would go or not, but we did.

A little background about Park Street Church. Founded in 1809, Park Street Church is close to the Boston Commons, is a conservative congregational church, and has been involved in social issues since its inception (including a speech against slavery by William Lloyd Garrison in 1829. A balcony facing the corner of the street allows for public speaking). It's a hot spot for 20 somethings and college students in Boston, and we had gone that night to see what they were all about and see how Park Street connected with the larger college and campus life of Boston. After the service I spoke with a guy from the Middle east who was going to grad school (at Harvard?). We left after most of the rest of the people had cleared out, and made our way out into the Boston night, on our way to Mike's, a popular pastry shop on the north side.

At the bottom of the stairs was a man wearing layers of clothes, wraps around his arms, a thick beard and deeply leathered face with his hand out. Others were filing past, the rest of our group had walked ahead down the street, and I turned to go as well, but then stopped. I couldn't do it. I often get uncomfortable when seeing a stereotypical "homeless" person on the street. I wonder what he wants, whether he'll ask me for money, if he really needs something or is trying to scam me. Most of the time I feel angry.

This night, I was torn. I felt the irony of a man standing outside a church, a place that is well known for reaching out to the needs of the community, and walking by and doing nothing. I stopped. "Can I help you?" I asked, expecting him to ask for money.

"They won't let me in," he said.

"Who won't?"

"They won't." He pointed to ushers who were now closing the doors of the church. "I just wanted a Bible and they won't let me in," he said. I was stunned. I also didn't have a Bible with me. It was the last thing I expected him to say.

By this time, the students I was with had stopped, and were walking back toward me. The man and I continued to talk. David stepped up, "I have a Bible. You can have this one." He handed the man a small, leather bound pocket Bible. The man took it.

"Will you bless it?" he said.

"We can pray for you," I said, and we closed in. "What's your name?"

"Frank." And then Frank began to pray one of the most profound prayers I've ever heard in my life. He prayed for himself, for warmth, for protection, for forgiveness, and he prayed for us, for Boston, for the people walking by us, and then he began singing the song "We Shall Overcome" as tears came to his eyes and he rocked back and forth. When he was done we were left speechless, not sure what to do or say. I asked him again if he needed anything else, and he said no, so we said our goodbyes and quietly shuffled off into the night, absorbed in our thoughts, wondering what had just happened.

Beginning of school, Greeks and more

Today started with a 30 mile bike ride around 6am. I met Jonathan and Roger, led the way to Elkhart, and then we took Route 66 headed for Lincoln. Roger got a flat tire, but Jonathan (I think he's always prepared) had the gear needed to fix the flat. Roger had called his wife to pick him up, so we waited about 25 minutes, then Jonathan and I kept riding and Roger passed us about ten minutes later in a truck with his wife. I guess she found him. :)

Freshmen moved into the dorms today, and I realize it's finally official--school has begun (at least it will next Tuesday). There's a morbid game on campus to see what kind of serial killer professors would be if they were in fact serial killers, and I was told that I would probably write things in my journal. Not true, but Bethany likes telling this story (Colonol Mustard, in the Conservatory, with a revolver. For me, it's a journal because I teach writing and English. Not a game I hope to continue.)

So the last year I've been reading and lecturing on the Greeks for one of my classes, and have gone to knowing very little about the Greeks to developing a growing interest and fascination with anything I can find out about them, especially when it comes to the mythology, Greek religion, and their literature, art, and architecture. I'm especially interested to know more about the Minoans (lived in modern day Crete) and the Mycenaeans. Since this is mostly what I lecture on, the interest follows necessity. I even got to go to Greece this summer and visit Corinth, Mycenae, Epidaurus, Delphi, and Athens (and we passed Thebes, but there was no sphinx, and no incestual relationships that I know of.)

Before I go further talking about the Greeks, I want to give some work background. I hate spending too much time alone, so when I'm reading in my office and have sat too long without seeing another person, I head down the hall to visit Brian. Brian's the history prof, and we lecture in two classes together, and he's been my mentor the last year. I tell him something I just found out about the Greeks, or ask him a question about whether their could have been giants, or why snakes are depicted so much in Greek art, or if there could be a connection between the Nephilim referred to in Genesis and the Greek gods. Brian generally likes more alone time than I do, but he puts up with my questions and general rambling patiently (most of the time), then approaches the question from a historical perspective, which means a more skeptical one.*

*(In Corinth we looked at sculptures of the Amazons (tribes of female warriors) together and he said they couldn't have possibly existed. I actually got angry and walked away for a while, feeling like he was always shooting down the possibilities and questions. Later I addressed him and he said, "the Amazons were known for cutting off a breast so they could shoot arrows better. In the ancient world, without sterilization and our knowledge of medicine, they would have gotten an infection and died." My mind jumped to wondering about the possibility of cauterization with a hot poker or fire, but my hurt ego was soothed by the fact that he had explained his theory, rather than just saying I was wrong.)

So here's the big difference between Brian's perspective and mine. Brian is a well trained historian, so he looks for facts, checks accounts, looks at holes. I grew up reading fantasy literature and became an English major. When I look at a situation, I ask "what if?" I like to think of possibilities and a story, which sometimes takes me far away from reality. Brian often helps ground me, and me, maybe I expand his possibilities in small ways, or just force him to develop greater capacities of patience with people who ask dumb questions.

For example, what if the Red Sea crossing actually happened, or, say, there actually WERE giants at one time? How would that change the way we look at our history, and by extension, our own lives? A number of people look at the Red Sea and say, I've never seen it happen, it couldn't have happened. But there are grooves on the west and east sides of the Red Sea where a million people could have passed and left their imprint in the desert, there are stone boundary markers around a mountain in modern day Saudi Arabia that fit more accurately the Sinai site than the one people go visit today, and there are images of bulls on those boundary stones.

It's still hard to imagine how the Greeks living in the 8th century BC or even 5th century BC would have seen their world or envisioned it, especially coming from a 21st century perspective. In the 8th century, the Greeks were coming out of a 400 year Dark Age, where writing had ceased and there had been a gap in what they knew about their history. They saw the walls of Mycenae (the stone above the Lion's Gate alone weighs 120 tons and sits over ten feet from the ground) and believed that only giants could have built these "Cyclopean walls." How exactly they did get this massive stone (lintel) up to rest on equally massive posts is still unknown (there is no evidence of gears, pulleys, or tackle) but one possibility is they used a long earth ramp built up level to the top of the posts, used animals and human labor to drag it (much like the building projects in Egypt), and then dug away the dirt ramp.

The question is, how do we reconstruct the past, especially when all we have are the stories, fragments and shards that cover only small slices of life? Could there have been giants constructing the walls? Maybe, though the gold death masks reveal faces that are just as human as you and I, if not a little stylized.

I'd like to write more about concepts of heroes (Greek and present), and may wrestle with other lecture questions online. It actually may save Brian from my frequent visits, so he will probably be grateful if I keep the conversation here.

Waves or particles?

My last post froze up on me when I was trying to upload some pictures, and I lost everything. Needless to say, I haven't blogged much. Grrr, technology.

Ever see What the Bleep Do We Know? It's more documentary than film about quantum physics and the way the world is so much different than we picture it to be. Our paradigms (ways we see the world. Assumptions we make) are ways of constructing what we know about reality so we can live and operate in a world and have it make sense to us. The world is flat. The world is round. Obviously, some of these paradigms change as we realize the old model we used isn't big enough. It doesn't mean it's wrong, it just means that it doesn't hold or explain everything that we come to experience in real life, so we have to change it.

Some of my paradigms are changing, and when they're in process, it's hard to figure things out. It's fluid. Only when things start to settle and we have some distance to look back do we begin to see where things have shaken out and what the landscape now looks like.

So here are some updates for those who read (and I hope to become better at responding):
1. Grief
I went through three months of pretty intense grief. I was bitter; I was angry, and this time it was mostly at God. It was good I didn't write publicly. Most of it wasn't stuff I'd like to share, and so I didn't. I needed to work through it alone, mostly, though there were key people and conversations at key times that really helped me out (some of you know who you are). I read Job. I read Psalms. I read C.S. Lewis's A Grief Observed and found fellow commiserators as well as a common journey: the journey is often made alone, there are some common feelings, but then there's movement toward either acceptance or renewed hope, joy, or something along the lines of renewed faith and a greater realization.

2. Taekwondo
I started back to taekwondo in June after a 14 year absence, and packing on 30 pounds. Most people think the things we do are either nuts or dangerous, or at the very least extreme. We train in 92-94 degree heat for an hour and a half. I've passed out three times, thrown up once (hurled shamelessly at the back of the class), and yesterday we had a training where we had to block a knife attack (a real knife). One of the girls missed and cut her wrist (and was immediately sent to the back to wash and bandage it). I have much less sympathy for excuses. I ended up losing 10+ pounds, have gotten leaner and more muscular, and move differently. I like being in my own skin. Students often complain about making it to 8am classes, or turning in late papers. There's something to be said for discipline and doing the things that are hard. If you can breathe enough to say you can't, you can keep going. It's a matter of changing mindset. No excuses.

3. House
I'm looking at buying my first house. Not ready to write about it yet. More to come later, maybe.

4. Relationships
A big experimental testing ground right now. Everything I thought should work, doesn't. Most things that shouldn't seem to work, do. Rather than complaining about it, now I'm observing it in the real world, learning about it, using it.

5. Faith
I still believe, but like C.S. Lewis says in A Grief Observed, "My house of cards came crashing down and I saw what was left. Will I rebuild another house of cards, or will it be something different?" Not a verbatim quote, so don't quote me, but that's the gist. All I can say is I started reading the Bible again, though that didn't come easily, started praying again, even harder, and took communion after a month long absence. I don't imagine this means much to those who don't believe, but for someone who grew up with faith, has had seasons of doubt, but has come back, this feels significant. Every thinking Christian seems to admit that they doubt. Does it make faith less reliable, or just allow a place for some honest wrestling? For me, I think it's the latter.

Waves or particles? Depends on what you're looking for as to what you'll end up seeing.

John

I got up this morning to do a project helping John hang drywall. I would be driving and John didn't have a license, so I'd need to pick him up. I picked up some sandwiches and Gatorade at the IGA a couple blocks from my house, then drove across town and made it to John's at a couple minutes after 7.

John has a small house. A camper is parked in the back and there was a bike laying in the front lawn. The door was open but the screen door was closed, so I got out of the car, walked up the sidewalk, and knocked. I heard voices inside. John came to the door and told me to come in for a few minutes.

"Are you ready to go?" I asked. "Do you need to load up some tools?"
"Are we taking the van?"
"No. My car." John's eyes were glazed and I could tell he'd already been drinking or had started the night before.
"What tools do I need?"
"I don't know. Mark said you'd know what tools you'd need."
"Okay, give me five minutes. We'll pick up a 12-pack on the way."
I looked at him, registering his body movements, the unsteady shuffle and sway and thought about our drywall project ahead, standing on ladders, handing up 30+ pound sheets of drywall, and just shook my head.
"Don't tell me what to do," he said, then paused. "Well, I'm taking at least one anyway."

I then noticed John's friend who was sitting on a couch to my left. "John's an alcoholic," he said. "So am I. You okay with that?"
"Okay," I said. I turned back to John. "I'll go out to my car and give you some time to get things together,"
"My name's Rick," the other guy said, and shook my hand. "Can you feel that?" he asked.
"No," I said, not sure what he meant.
"Energy. A strong grip." I didn't feel either, but pulled my hand out of his.

I called Mark. "John's drunk. What do you think?"
"I'll be over in just a minute." In the meantime John had grabbed a pitcher of tea and toolbelt, and gotten in the passenger side of the car. "Let's do this," he said. Rick followed closely behind.
"Let's wait here for a minute till Mark comes I said."
"I'm not going to go to work today, Rick."
"What do you mean?" he said. "Sure you will."
"No. No, he's called the cops because of my heroin."

Mark arrived soon after, John was taken off the job, and went into the house and began playing his electric guitar, badly. He had once been one of the best drywallers in the business, and had been sober for a six month stretch recently, and some of the old skills had come back. I felt guilty and angry. I didn't want John working drunk, but hated to see him lose the job. I felt angry that John blamed me.

I haven't seen much of John's world, and have only experienced it around me, not directly lived in it. I lived above a couple bars in Lincoln when I was in college, heard the songs sung on the street at 2am after closing time. I lived next door to a prostitute in Springfield, and saw her men come and go or was awakened in the middle of the night when the windows were open. I was awakened one night to knocks on my door and two kids were standing outside, asking me to call the cops because their dad was upstairs with a cord around his neck on the balcony, and they were afraid he'd jump.

No conclusions, just thinking out loud for now.

Committees (grrr!)

School starts in a month, but I've already been having dreams about heading back. Last night I dreamed that I was stuck in a committee to decide our writing textbook for the next year, which isn't too much of a stretch. The dream was full of elements of real committee meetings. The main question up for debate was whether we should use the current text or whether it was too offensive because of the language. In real life, this question comes up all the time. I'm not one to usually get on the censorship bandwagon, in fact I was making the argument that we gain by hearing the perspectives of those we don't agree with (or who don't agree with us) as much, or more, than hearing from the perspectives we already buy into.

"Cliff, what's the definition of madness?" the retired prof asked whom I was now replacing.

"Um, doing the same things yet expecting different results." I thought this was the right answer, but she turned to someone else, who rattled off a definition that was verbatim something she had said and she nodded. I thought, Socratic questions are good teaching tools, but they also feel like a setup.

"Lunchtime!" someone said, while plates of sandwiches and desserts were wheeled in. The meeting fell into a state of chaos for a few minutes as everyone grabbed sandwiches, some eyeing them with piggy eyes, and I thought we'd have some reprieve from the endless debate over textbooks. Instead, it was going to be a "working lunch" where we would eat AND talk at the same time. Whoever thought that a working lunch was a good idea needs to be shot. Just when you think, "Good, a break. I don't have to listen to Donnegal drone on, at least for the next thirty minutes," think again.

During the lunch, other colleagues were pulling out papers and surveys, questionnaires and research statistics over why we should adopt one book over another. I slid down further in my seat, feeling unprepared other than the feeling that the meeting was pointless in the first place.
As someone read a paper I was actually interested in, people around the room began sliding their seats back, squeaking them across the floor to signal they were done eating, but the chorus that sounded like a cross between whining, out of tune violins and nose whistles drowned out what the presenter was trying to say, and he was sitting at my table. I held up my hands, "Wait, wait a minute," I said. "Can you stop and then reread that again? I had a hard time hearing you." Others in the room stared at me, aghast that I could be so rude and ask him to stop. No one was really listening to his paper anyway, were they? Thankfully, the dream ended.

At this point, I feel underprepared. I dislike committee meetings and retreats, especially when the retreats don't usually ever leave campus, and any "free time" or mealtime is filled with more talking, or pointless "teambuilding" exercises. I don't feel like I have a cause, while others seem ready to fight and die for their textbook or idea. Sometimes I wonder if I'm in the wrong area, and feel the death of a thousand cuts.

Trouble writing

I've had a hard time writing this summer, or wanting to spend time in the office. At the same time, I've been struggling with my faith and also an overall sense of purpose. The two, for me anyway, have always seemed to go hand in hand. When I'm in tune spiritually, I also tend to write a lot, there's an overflow of ideas and a sense of purpose and that what goes on in my life and in the world matters. In the last year there have been a number of transitions and a few relationship blows that have impacted me more than I knew. For some, they would right more in these situations. For me, it was just the opposite.

First, blogging. When I began blogging it was in the midst of a community of guys who mostly knew each other, but as we began writing we came to realize how little we had actually known each other, and it was eye opening, cleansing, and refreshing to see the things the others were thinking about, dreaming about, or struggling with. Sometimes narcissism crept in (and I'm not sure it's ever totally absent from public writing), but mostly it was a good thing. Others came to the site and we began to realize there's a whole blogging world out there, and we were reading others and being read, and the community was beyond us.

But there's something about writing your thoughts down and having friends and anonymous strangers commenting and dialogging with what you've written. My friend Enemy has talked through this as well: on the one hand there's the affirmation and the strokes of someone noticing what you've written (we want this), and at the same time there's pressure, the voice that says "Now you have to have someone's approval. What if they don't like where you're going with the story? What if they don't like what you've written? What if they STOP reading?" It's no longer personal, but public, and unlike books, the reviews come right away.

In the midst of it, I've wondered if I have anything to say. I've felt paralyzed, sick of the narcissism in my own writing and in the blogging world in general, though I've also experienced the healing and community of hearing from others and sharing with them (a positive aspect of blogging). You come to realize that in a world of 6 billion people (and thousands of bloggers) one voice is small in the crowd.

So I've wanted to begin to tell a story that's not just my story, but our story. The thing about Tolkien, Lewis, Rowling, Brooks, Herbert and others is that they create an entire world and invite readers into that world. In the midst they find the author's world, but find so much more. They find bits and pieces of themselves, how people are, how they should be, comments on politics and social structures and the epic questions of good and evil and ethics and the struggles of growing up, making good choices, or facing our fears. And they do this in ways that no lecture or sermon could: they show rather than tell. They comment on the world around us by having us look at a reflection, a mirror, doppelganger, or through the back door.

I've gone from living in a small town to big cities, to a small town once again, yet there are stories here if one knows how to look for them. There's a friend of mine who has a growing brain tumor. He had surgery a couple weeks ago, but the growth has come back, fast. I saw him yesterday, realizing it may be one of the last times I see him. He was a friend of my parents, and has since become a good friend to me, and it hurt talking with him, seeing his weakness, seeing that we both knew the time may be short.

There are the 14-year old guys I take taekwondo with. I went to one of the guy's birthday parties on Saturday, took him some pellets for his air soft gun, and was glad I went. There's going to church and seeing a girl I care about, yet not being able to talk with her since we broke up. There's going to the park to watch people and deer and birds in the woods, or, on a creepy note, to have been stalked/checked out by a guy (doubly creepy since I'm not gay and his interest made me feel uncomfortable). There's the guy who mows lawns and rides through town on his bike, the men and women who hang out at the Arcade (restaurant) on Saturday mornings to drink coffee and catch up on gossip, there's spreading mulch in a garden with friends, there's the demolition derby and Nascar racing on Saturday nights that the people in town go crazy over. There's the nursing home in town that has become a multi-state operation, the prison just outside of town, two private colleges, hundreds of bars and churches. There are good cops and corrupt cops in town, good politicians and corrupt ones.

I don't know what this next year will be like, but I'd like to start writing again.