Social Space: Selling a Dream

I was working with a student in China and the question came up, what is the significance of the rise of coffee consumption in the developed world? I talked primarily about Starbucks.

1. It's not that drinking coffee wasn't around before 1971, or even 1982 when Howard Schultz started working at Starbucks. You could refill your mug from the coffeepot in the break room or *gasp* bring your mug from home. You could even go through the McDonald's drive-thru (misspelled!). But it didn't have the mermaid logo. It didn't scream, "I'm trendy and urban" like an iPhone and a cup of Starbucks Venti, or latte, or doppio. Nothing says, "I'm overworked and doing important work so I need this cup of coffee" like a Starbucks (unless it's a baby diaper bag). The cup = fashion statement. It's part of the urban uniform.

2. All those Italian names aren't on accident. We like exotic European words (Bread du jour suddenly makes bread made today sound totally "fresh"). Schultz liked the atmosphere of the Italian coffee houses where people could hang out. In short, it was the social space. In the developing world, you don't need to "create" social space. On my first trip out of country to the Dominican, it was elbows to knees people. I stopped thinking about the fact that someone was constantly touching me whenever we traveled somewhere (10-12 in a 6 passenger vehicle . . . that's the way to go). It's only in the developed world where people are starved for community and social space (it's been Starbucks' and Facebook's "coin of trade," not the coffee or the Likes (or even Bejeweled)).

Significance of coffee consumption in the developed world? Not the caffeine, not just the status, but an idea of "here's where you hang out." (or at least where you can be seen with your headphones and laptop while you work on your latest e-book).

Memory

Memory

I spent the morning in some much needed solitude, reading, and then going through old boxes and files of papers. For years, I’ve kept notes, ideas for stories, and pictures—in random boxes—promising myself that one day I would go through them and organize them. Often, those days have not come and the pile of scraps and notes has accumulated over the years. In recent months, however, I’ve been able to turn over a new leaf and have begun purging old papers. My wife would agree that it is about time: there are at least half a dozen boxes with these random scraps and memorabilia, half of which I don’t remember where they come from.

As I unload a box, dead faces look up at me, photographs of friends and family members who are now gone, or are changed. The world has moved on, and some of these photographs are of twenty or thirty year old memories. Some of the faces are familiar, though in the pictures they are fresher, less careworn by time and stresses of living, having families, working, and paying bills.

For me, going through these boxes is an exercise in grief. The once present is now past. Do I feel some relief in downsizing and getting rid of these odd papers, emails, or notes that are now disconnected? Yes . . . somewhat. Yet with the relief, I’m also transported again to the room or town where and when I wrote the ideas down. I’ve captured a moment that will disappear again once I throw this last piece away.

Many of these things I wrote when I was single, living in cities where I knew no one, hoping that someday I would be seen: by family, by friends, etc., and these pieces were a lifeline so I could remember what I had been thinking and doing when there was no one there to notice. And there’s something else. I’ve realized more recently that my family’s heritage of Alzheimer’s has haunted my steps more than I would have admitted when I was younger. I write things down so that I don’t forget, and I’m afraid of forgetting even the smallest things.

Writing is these things to me. Some people take pictures that they can look at years later. I write. It’s a way to remember, to be seen, to create and think out loud, even if in a vacuum. If you’re reading this, maybe it is these things for you as well.

I’ve realized that years have gone by since I’ve written in the Madman world, and now I write with a wife in the next room, a son taking a nap, and life has become a bit fuller. And these things I hope to remember.

The Power of Habit

When I was in second grade I came home from school on a Monday and found a copy of C.S. Lewis' The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe on my bed. It was reward for helping clean and vacuum around the house over the weekend. I began reading it--devoured it, actually--and became a reader and began an adventure into Narnia and Middle earth that would stick with me for over thirty years. I now have over 2000 books and often joke to writing classes that I have taught that I'm glad that the reward wasn't chocolate.

That's the power of reward. That's the power of habit.

A friend of mine recommended The Power of Habit for our entrepreneur/business group, and I picked up a copy at Barnes and Noble on Tuesday. I began reading it right away.

What I've found so far has been pretty amazing.

First, our brains have the ability to store and relegate things we do repetitively to the arena of habit. We don't think about driving a car, brushing our teeth, or even going to the gym (or the TV). It's a way to maximize our "brain space" to do other things, things that require more attention (such as writing blogs). We do these habits almost instinctively, and once something becomes a habit, it never entirely goes away.

But (and here's the good news) our habits can be changed. Most of why we do what we do depends on a loop that Duhigg calls the Cue-Routine-Reward loop. The cue is the desire or need, the reward is the satisfaction or good feeling at the end, the routine is how we get there. This could apply to cleaning a bed and then feeling the satisfaction over a clean room, having a cup of coffee and feeling more alert afterwards, running five miles and feeling the euphoria, or having a drink at a party and feeling more accepted in a group. Some of our routines can be good (exercising, cleaning), while others can be damaging (excessive drinking, smoking, overeating).

For me, understanding the Cue-Routine-Reward loop is important. It's important to understand our desires and the rewards that meet those. Are we lonely? Are we wanting a feeling of accomplishment? Of validation? To belong in relationship? These are all real needs. The question is, How do we meet them? What routine/habit will we do to give us the "reward" we seek?

I loved being affirmed for cleaning the house. I didn't get a lot of affirmation growing up, and this was one area where I did. The book on my bed symbolized that affirmation, and so a powerful bond was created between buying a book and the feeling of affirmation or well being that was connected to it. I remember later, when I was in college, having a longing for experiences, for relationships, for connectedness and would head to Barnes & Noble and browse the rows of books. I loved the smell of them, the new look, the crisp covers and unbent pages. I loved the purchase of a paperback and the possibility of enjoyment I would feel as I read it. The only problem was, I only read a third of the books I bought. The reward wasn't in the reading, but in the having.

Understanding this Cue-Routine-Reward loop can create new habits. For example, I wasn't making much progress on writing a book until I made a goal of 1000 words a day. The reward for writing an entire book seemed too daunting, too far away, but the reward for writing 1000 words was much more doable. Also, when I graded papers I picked 3-5 papers to grade, and then I would take a break, rewarding myself with a walk, or checking email. My wife and I have "fallen into" the habit of spending our nights watching TV. We come home at the end of the day exhausted, and don't have a lot of energy for anything taxing. Now that the weather is getting warmer, we may try replacing TV time with walks around the subdivision so we can create new habits.

The power of habit and the Cue-Routine-Reward loop isn't entirely a new concept. Ephesians 4:28 says: "Anyone who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work, doing something useful with their own hands, that they may have something to share with those in need" (NIV). There's a rush to stealing, even a reward. It goes beyond the physical "I have something in my possession I didn't have before because I need it" (Winona Ryder's stealing $5000 worth of clothes in 2001 is a good example). There's an emotional/psychological reward. It's the reward of not being caught. While the stealing habit loop is destructive, it can be replaced, but not eliminated. In the Ephesians passage, the habit of stealing is being replaced with the habit of sharing what you have with others in need, and that, too, can be a rush (reward).

I'm still glad that the reward as a child was books and not chocolate, but I've become more aware of the habits I have, why I have them, and which ones I want to keep and which ones I want to change. Wish me well on this journey, and I wish the same for you.

What I've learned by writing a book

Everyone wants to write a book.

In the last ten years I've met a number of people who have told me that they wanted to write a book or were going to write a book or had ideas to write a book.

Most of them have left it at that.

Usually, when it comes to writers, there are two camps: those who are writing and those who aren't (but are talking about it).

However, this year I've met a handful of people who not only talked about writing a book, but have written one, or two, or a series. . .

Some of the books are really good: good plot, good characters, good story arc, and some of them are pretty rough. In the past, publishing houses and agents have served as the gate keepers, making sure the story idea is a good one, that the grammar is correct, that character development, plot, conflict, and story arc are all up to snuff. They've also made it highly competitive and difficult to get recognized.

With e-publishing and self publishing it has become easier to publish, but with the opening of the gates it has meant that everyone who wants to publish a book CAN, whether they SHOULD or NOT. Right now the writing/publishing world seems to be in transition, where a lot of things are up for grabs. I think there will be a resettling, where other publishing companies will emerge beyond the big six, and there will once again be gate keepers, weeding out the stories that still need development.

That said, I still believe in the writing process, that there's a lot that happens in the PROCESS of writing that is hugely important. This last year, I jumped in and stopped talking about writing a book, and finally did it.

Here's what I learned by writing a 70,000 word book:
1. Eat a bite at a time.
Before, whenever I would sit down to write, the idea of a book seemed daunting. How do you write 200-300 pages, or more? I would usually get about 50 pages into a story and then lose interest, or have it stall out. The one exception was in grad school I wrote an 80 page thesis. I broke it into five sections: an intro, three chapters, and a conclusion. When I went on to teach writing to adult students I encouraged them to write a 15-25 page paper in four weeks by writing three 5-7 page papers. Each of those 5-7 page papers had four sections. "Easy, right?" I said. They agreed. After the initial shock, many of them came to me and said, "I had a hard time stopping once I got started. That really worked!"

Teaching it is one thing. Doing it is another.

When I taught freshman composition I encouraged students to write one page a day for the next year. "How many pages will you have after that?" I asked.
"Three hundred sixty-five?" someone ventured.
"Exactly. And that's about two books," I said. Immediately the lights turned on and some of them got excited. Two weeks later few of them had gotten started with the one-page-a-day challenge, but the idea still stuck.

For me, it was 1000 words. I realized I could write 1000 words a day pretty easily and it wouldn't take too much of my day. I could draft it out in an hour to an hour-and-a-half. It wasn't always pretty, but it gave me something to shoot for. Every day. Or, for variety, 6000 words a week. I didn't always hit these goals, but I learned to not beat myself up for it either. Progress was progress, whether it was 2,000 or 7,000 words a week. The point was, I was moving forward.

2. Drafts are messy.
I taught this hundreds of times, and yet I still had a hard time allowing myself the freedom to make mistakes. "No one's going to read this crap," some voice, I think on my left shoulder, would say. "You want to be a writer? So does everyone else!" another voice said. Somehow I'd get to a point where I'd sit down one day and feel like whatever I wrote was never going to be any good, especially right out of the gate. In those moments, I had to write anyway. I'd shoot for 1000 words a day or 6,000 a week. It could be the worst combination of words imaginable, but out of it I'd have something to work with. Even if it was a sentence.

It's still a learning process, and now that I'm revising there are more lessons to learn. But more on that later.
In the meantime, I'm finding that writing has become a more consistent habit, I'm enjoying it more, and am learning a lot within a community of other writers.

I hope that you are encouraged to keep writing as well.

Fantasy vs. Science Fiction

"Fantasy looks at a nostalgic past, while science fiction looks at a future that could be."
--Michael Drout, "Of Sorcerers and Men" (Barnes and Noble series) 2006.

My friend Eric loves reading Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, loves playing World War II or Civil War games, but admits that he doesn't like science fiction. "I don't know why I don't connect with it," he says. "Science fiction can be optimistic, but a lot of what I'm familiar with is dystopian. I liked (Philip K. Dick's) Blade Runner okay, and it's not like I couldn't watch Star Trek when I was a kid (it was available, at least the original), but I've always connected with fantasy more. Even with mysteries, I'd rather read an older mystery, like a Brother Cadfael mystery or Dorothy Sayers, than a modern one."

I suggested that he liked fantasy and older war games because of their nostalgia rather than an optimistic, humanistic view of the future. "No, I don't think that's it," he said. As a kid, Eric grew up in the South side of Chicago. Out his front door was the city, but out the back was an old cemetery with flat headstones, surrounded by prairie grass and beyond that, the woods. "I would imagine that I could go out the door, walk through the grass, into the woods, and enter another world," he said. The view from the back of the house seemed like he was looking out over an English countryside. Even today, he favors English gardens as his favorite kind of landscape.

For me, my introduction to fantasy and science fiction was different. When I was in second grade, I came home from school one day to find a new copy of C.S. Lewis' The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe on my bed. I had helped with chores around the house over the weekend, and my reward was a book. Soon I was entering the world of Narnia, like so many other young children have, and, like the wardrobe, was discovering a world that was much bigger on the inside than what first appearances led me to believe. Soon I was reading the rest of the Chronicles, and then began reading The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings.

My journey into fantasy literature continued, with Lloyd Alexander's The Chronicles of Prydain and later David Eddings, Piers Anthony, Terry Brooks, and others, but I also began reading science fiction, mainly Isaac Asimov (The Foundation series is still my favorite). Along the way I also read mythology (Celtic, Norse, Greek, Robin Hood, Arthurian), classics (Nathaniel Hawthorne, Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, Dickens, Moby Dick), but fantasy remained my favorite.

Do I resonate with fantasy because I long for the past rather than feel optimistic about the future? Is it a reflection of my worldview, where I am prone to believe in miracles, supernatural forces, the imaginative, and to some degree, "magic"? Am I cynical about humanity, disbelieve the inevitable progress of humanity, or are my reasons something other than philosophical?

For Eric, many of his connections seemed to come from strong experiences from his childhood. For me, I could argue the same (at least the evidence seems to be there). Books were a kind of reward for work (I'm glad to this day that it wasn't a bar of chocolate on the bed). In addition, we had just moved to a small town in Indiana from a college town in Illinois. I had said goodbye to my best friend and two neighbor girls I played with, and I hadn't made many friends yet in Indiana. I was also an only child (my half brothers wouldn't be born until I was 10 and 12). In Narnia, Middle Earth, the Four Lands, Xanth, or other places, I could escape the loneliness of my childhood for a while and imagine I was being swept up in an adventure, with a group of companions, making heroic decisions that would determine the fate of the world. Pretty high stakes. Pretty significant.

So my question is this: Why do others identify with fantasy, science fiction, mystery, or history? Is it for philosophical reasons, intellectual reasons, or is it something more personal?

The Departure

    The last three weeks they had gotten no sales. In the countryside, tractors tilled the earth; to the west of town, a chemical plant poured fumes into the air and pumped waste deep underground. At night its lights glowed like an alien insect of glinting metal and light. Years before it had fouled the water, until everyone in town had to pump in their water from miles away.

    David Westron sat on his bed in the hotel room, his home away from home, staring out the window to the emptied parking lot just outside. The morning was still cool, but within a few hours waves of heat would rise off the asphalt, and the air would shimmer and bake the grass at the edges of the lot. Hunter Thomas sat in a chair nearby, writing something in his journal. The silence stretched between them. Both were spent, both had little to say after three weeks of knocking on doors, finding no one home, or worse, condescending smiles and nods that ended in sage predictions of "times being tough." Those left in the town who had not fallen to the plague were convinced that they were immune, that they would beat it, even though six in ten in the town had already succumbed. Or worse, a farmer or businessman would nod in sad resignation, knowing it was just a matter of time until the disease came knocking on their door, too.

The bed creaked beneath David. The springs were uneven and pushed into his back and sides during the night, and the blankets were rough and had a strong chemical smell. He had grown used to it over the last couple years on the road, sleeping in hard beds in strange towns across central Illinois.

At first it had been new and exciting, a sense of adventure as he and Hunter moved from town to town, arriving on a Monday morning, hanging four shirts and three pairs of pants each on hangers, tucking away pajamas and books and toothbrushes and shaving kits into dresser drawers and bathroom corners, and then driving out into the country, or into whatever town they were staying in, knocking on doors, selling their wares. By Thursday they would reverse the process, pulling out the clothes from dressers, the shaving kits, the dirty pants where mud and paw prints and rain had splattered them, and where sweat and rain and coffee had stained the shirts, stuffing them into suitcases that they would place back in the trunks of their cars, to go back to their other life, sometimes having met success, other times coming home empty handed.

It was now nearly two years since the beginning. The July heat had shimmered off the golden fields baking in the sun, the rain and thunder had rolled across the plains more times than they could count, drenching them as they slogged across a muddy field to another farmhouse, or waited for the rain to pass on a quiet country road. The snow had come, and the ice and the freezing cold, and the dark nights, and the wandering aimlessly beside icy rivers to gas stations where they could warm themselves with a cup of coffee.

But then they had their dreams to keep them warm. Someday this would all be worth it. The houses with the large fields and long driveways would be theirs. They would escape the dark nights and cold days of winter by taking trips to Cancun, the Caribbean, or to their vacation homes in Europe. One more sale, and then another, it was just the beginning of building their dreams and opening a life they had never known and leaving behind the bondage and fear they had known.

There were the beautiful moments as well: the clean smell of the world after a spring rain, the beauty of a giant buck standing in the middle of the woods, challenging anyone it saw before it stamped and blew and sprang nimbly off the road into the deep forest, the surprising moments of hospitality and kindness and friendship in the homes of strangers.

Hunter closed his journal, and turned toward David, casting a brief smile before it fell away into grim melancholy. "Well, anything to talk about?"

"No," David said, "guess not."

Hunter leaned forward and rose from his chair, grabbing a clipboard, business kit, and notes. "Well, that's it then," he said. "Good hunting."

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.