Emily Dickenson used to talk about something she called "circumference." People disagree about what exactly she meant, but basically, she was talking about human limitations. Emily described circumference like a giant bubble that surrounds the earth. She said people try to reach out of the earth--for God or dreams or whatever--and collide with the bubble.
For the past four months, I've had a lot of time off. When I heard that at the beginning of those four months how much free time I was going to have, I was ecstatic. My mind raced, thinking up a million different goals I could pursue. Looking back, however, although I've done some interesting and some useful stuff, I'm mostly amazed at how little I've done. All the free days have blown by in a constantly accelerating blur. My motivation has atrophied like a desicated plant. The ambitions that popped into my head at the beginning of the last four months have been obscured by time, like sunlight obscured by a fog.
Emily had it right. We humans are always hitting our heads on an invisible wall that keeps us just out of reach of something. We see far, but we can never seem to walk nearly as far as we see. It's like the adage about eyes bigger than stomaches--our dreams are bigger than our arms, and we can never seem to quite hold them down.
20 April 2009
02 March 2009
Leo
I was eleven years old beside my buddy, Scooter. We sat in the back of the church, where the cool kids sat. The Sunday evening service was winding down, and the two of us were like exposed wiring, sparking shocks in the dim prayer closet of mass bowed heads. We passed notes, played with the rubber lining pulled from communion cup receptacles, and made faces at each other between whispered comments. The thrill was the only attraction to our rebellion--we weren't bad kids. That night our squirmy impiety crescendoed to a level neither of us was familiar or comfortable with. Our stifled giggles turned into bolts of laughter. Our surreptitious glances at each other escalated into gruesome pantomime. Neither of us felt good about what we were doing, but we each did it anyway, impressed by the other guy's daring and creative mockery of the sacred environment. Surrounded by closed eyes and folded hands, we thought ourselves impervious, removed, and untouchable.
We both felt a sudden weight on our shoulder. Two hands--large, bony, and worn with decades of manual labor--grasped us firmly and pinned us to the back of the pew. We stiffened and turned to see only the top of a head thinly covered with wisps of white hair. A deep voice rumbled the seat beneath us as Leo, an old and respected layman, prayed at a volume we were certain the whole sanctuary could distinctly hear.
"Dear, God," the rumble shook, "bless these boys. Make them strong men of God. Keep them faithful to your Word. Help them to be obedient to their parents. Bless them someday with good jobs and good wives."
He went on for some time. We could feel his strong fingers gripping our deltoids with the sinewy power of a man who had worked with his hands his whole life. Yet the grip trembled. In all their power, the fingers had a tremor that matched a tremble in the old man's voice. It was a quiver of sincerity and old fashioned fear of God. Leo was praying for us with all he had: head, voice, and hands. And the shake in his fingers was matched by a shake in the hearts of Scooter and me. When Leo finished praying, he gave both our shoulders a firm and gentle squeeze and sat back in his pew. Scooter and I both turned around, our faces flaring with blushes. "Thank you," was all we could say. Leo faintly smiled at us from behind moist eyes. I quickly turned away, realizing that my own eyes were wet too.
We didn't fool around for the rest of the service. We were mortified at having been caught, we were confused by the old man's method of correcting us, and we sensed that we had both inherited something special, not unlike the Sunday school lessons of the patriarchs laying hands on sons and grandsons. We both sat quiet with our hands in our lap, working hard to store up the memory of the old man's blessing. We didn't talk to each other again that night, except once, when Scooter leaned over to me and said in a hoarse whisper, "That was really cool."
"Ya," I managed to croak back.
We both felt a sudden weight on our shoulder. Two hands--large, bony, and worn with decades of manual labor--grasped us firmly and pinned us to the back of the pew. We stiffened and turned to see only the top of a head thinly covered with wisps of white hair. A deep voice rumbled the seat beneath us as Leo, an old and respected layman, prayed at a volume we were certain the whole sanctuary could distinctly hear.
"Dear, God," the rumble shook, "bless these boys. Make them strong men of God. Keep them faithful to your Word. Help them to be obedient to their parents. Bless them someday with good jobs and good wives."
He went on for some time. We could feel his strong fingers gripping our deltoids with the sinewy power of a man who had worked with his hands his whole life. Yet the grip trembled. In all their power, the fingers had a tremor that matched a tremble in the old man's voice. It was a quiver of sincerity and old fashioned fear of God. Leo was praying for us with all he had: head, voice, and hands. And the shake in his fingers was matched by a shake in the hearts of Scooter and me. When Leo finished praying, he gave both our shoulders a firm and gentle squeeze and sat back in his pew. Scooter and I both turned around, our faces flaring with blushes. "Thank you," was all we could say. Leo faintly smiled at us from behind moist eyes. I quickly turned away, realizing that my own eyes were wet too.
We didn't fool around for the rest of the service. We were mortified at having been caught, we were confused by the old man's method of correcting us, and we sensed that we had both inherited something special, not unlike the Sunday school lessons of the patriarchs laying hands on sons and grandsons. We both sat quiet with our hands in our lap, working hard to store up the memory of the old man's blessing. We didn't talk to each other again that night, except once, when Scooter leaned over to me and said in a hoarse whisper, "That was really cool."
"Ya," I managed to croak back.
18 February 2009
Wee Hours Writing
I have a good excuse for the long delay since my last post. Thanks to the inspiration of my friend Caleb, I've started writing a book.
Caleb has been reading to me out of the novel he's been writing for the past year. About once a week, Caleb and I meet for coffee. Caleb will read a new chapter almost every time, and slowly, he's taking me through the book. I've decided to take my own shot at writing a novel.
I've always wanted to try writing a book, but when I've thought about it the actual event was inevitably in the indeterminate future. After listening to Caleb for a while, I felt a strong urge to attempt a novel myself. I thought about plot lines and characters for about a two weeks. Then I tried to get started on the actual writing, but I found that making time was an issue. My excuses evaporated when an acquaintance told a story about her writer friend. The writer friend had decided that he wanted to finish a book, and knew the only way he could was to get up at 5:30 every morning and write before he went to work. As soon as I heard the story, I knew I was going to have to do something similar.
I woke up the following morning at a 5:45--no alarm, no plan--just a sudden sense of opportunity that woke me up all by itself. I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes and realized that if I didn't get up and write, the book was never going to take shape. So I did, and I've been doing it every morning for over a week. We'll see if it sticks. The coffee definitely helps.
Caleb has been reading to me out of the novel he's been writing for the past year. About once a week, Caleb and I meet for coffee. Caleb will read a new chapter almost every time, and slowly, he's taking me through the book. I've decided to take my own shot at writing a novel.
I've always wanted to try writing a book, but when I've thought about it the actual event was inevitably in the indeterminate future. After listening to Caleb for a while, I felt a strong urge to attempt a novel myself. I thought about plot lines and characters for about a two weeks. Then I tried to get started on the actual writing, but I found that making time was an issue. My excuses evaporated when an acquaintance told a story about her writer friend. The writer friend had decided that he wanted to finish a book, and knew the only way he could was to get up at 5:30 every morning and write before he went to work. As soon as I heard the story, I knew I was going to have to do something similar.
I woke up the following morning at a 5:45--no alarm, no plan--just a sudden sense of opportunity that woke me up all by itself. I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes and realized that if I didn't get up and write, the book was never going to take shape. So I did, and I've been doing it every morning for over a week. We'll see if it sticks. The coffee definitely helps.
03 February 2009
Mrs. Dogwalker
My house is downtown on a cul-de-sac. The only cars that drive by the front door are on their way in or out of a parking space. The only real traffic that passes the house front is either pedestrian or bicycle. Until I moved into this house, I never would have guessed that so many people in Salem either bike or walk to work. Every weekday morning, droves pass by my doorstep, accompanied by the whoosh of rapidly-moving slacks. Soon after I took up residence, I heard a statistic on the radio: Salem is in the top ten bike-friendly cities in the nation, with over 15,000 people riding a bike to work. I believe it--I think I've almost hit about half of them while backing out of my carport.
The people walking or biking by my house are all different. Many of them are secure, middle-class citizens on their way downtown to their state job. Quite a few are college students, walking two blocks south to Willamette University. And not few of them are neighborhood characters: homeless men lugging bags filled with cans, the halfway house rehab guys from a block north, or my personal favorite, Mrs. Dogwalker.
I don't know where Mrs. Dogwalker lives, but I'm pretty sure it's nearby. I don't see her every day, but I'm pretty sure she is out for a walk at least once in every twenty-four hour period. I call her Mrs. Dogwalker because she is always accompanied by her German Shepherd. The first time I noticed her, I actually heard Mrs. Dogwalker before I saw her. I was walking down the stairs in my house, and I heard beautiful female voice outside near the sidewalk. The voice was speaking coaxingly and with deep feeling to someone else. I didn't hear much of the conversation, but I caught a bit about dealing with anxiety, post-traumatic stress, and some other terminology from clinical psychology. I assumed that the woman with the voice was counselling someone else. When I looked through the window, however, I saw a haggard, shabbily dressed woman in her seventies talking to a dog. I listened a while longer, and heard the woman tell the dog in her calm, soothing voice everything that the dog needed to know to regain his mental health. She was very thorough and persistent, but most off all, she filled her words with a depth of feeling that communicated real concern for her pet's mental well-being.
I've watched Mrs. Dogwalker for a long while. I haven't had the courage to strike up a conversation yet. She seems uncomfortable when she sees other people. And I suppose perhaps, she's a little nervous that her dog might embarrass her in public.
The people walking or biking by my house are all different. Many of them are secure, middle-class citizens on their way downtown to their state job. Quite a few are college students, walking two blocks south to Willamette University. And not few of them are neighborhood characters: homeless men lugging bags filled with cans, the halfway house rehab guys from a block north, or my personal favorite, Mrs. Dogwalker.
I don't know where Mrs. Dogwalker lives, but I'm pretty sure it's nearby. I don't see her every day, but I'm pretty sure she is out for a walk at least once in every twenty-four hour period. I call her Mrs. Dogwalker because she is always accompanied by her German Shepherd. The first time I noticed her, I actually heard Mrs. Dogwalker before I saw her. I was walking down the stairs in my house, and I heard beautiful female voice outside near the sidewalk. The voice was speaking coaxingly and with deep feeling to someone else. I didn't hear much of the conversation, but I caught a bit about dealing with anxiety, post-traumatic stress, and some other terminology from clinical psychology. I assumed that the woman with the voice was counselling someone else. When I looked through the window, however, I saw a haggard, shabbily dressed woman in her seventies talking to a dog. I listened a while longer, and heard the woman tell the dog in her calm, soothing voice everything that the dog needed to know to regain his mental health. She was very thorough and persistent, but most off all, she filled her words with a depth of feeling that communicated real concern for her pet's mental well-being.
I've watched Mrs. Dogwalker for a long while. I haven't had the courage to strike up a conversation yet. She seems uncomfortable when she sees other people. And I suppose perhaps, she's a little nervous that her dog might embarrass her in public.
23 January 2009
Rufus
Struggling through a week of sickness does horrors to one's writing ability. After finally delivering the knock-out punch to a cold that had me pressed into a corner for far too long, I continue to deal with fatigue. It didn't help that this week was the first time I worked for more than two days in a row for over a month. The mornings were as cold as a frozen water spicket. I didn't warm up until lunchtime. My energy level was dismal--after about two hours of work, my weary joints screamed at me to take them home.
I'm posting this with chagrin. The date of my last post, January 13th, is staring at me with bloodshot eyes. If I cover the date with left hand, however, I can continue to type with my right hand without distraction. This may take a while.
Rufus announced our coming before we arrived. Driving up the rural road to the house, we heard his barking. His voice was deep, rumbling, and full of canine menace. As we pulled into the driveway, Rufus circled our van like a shark circling a raft of shipwreck victims--the house was our land, and we knew we had to leave the vessel and cross the surf of driveway gravel to get to safety. We stepped out of the van and braced for confrontation. Rufus stood his ground, arching his back and bellowing warning to the sky.
"Shut up, Rufus."
Aaron saved us. He was working on the remodel too, and having been there for several days, he already knew that Rufus was a coward.
"Rufus, shut your mouth."
Rufus hung his head and ran behind the house.
"He's not going to bite you," Aaron said.
We nodded in agreement. We could see that Rufus had given up for the moment.
As we began working on the house, Rufus eyed us from the outskirts of the building. Poking his head in random doors and windows, he'd make angry faces and put on a show of bristling his back hair. His back hair was abundant. I'm not sure what breed Rufus is, but as near as I can guess, he is half Labrador and half buffalo. Bison fur has a strange way of matting in dirty, brown clumps that gradually fall off buffalo hides. Rufus had this same kind of hair--it tangled in wiry patches that sagged away from his skin. Elsewhere, his coat was long and shiny. On his scruff the hair stood spiked and thick like a wolf's.
Rufus didn't trust me. Eventually he summoned the courage to pace the open half of the house and inspect us as we worked. He never stood still. Rufus was always in motion--he'd walk past me as if on a definite mission, but I'd catch his sidelong looks as he passed. I could tell he was sizing me up, trying to determine if I was really friend or foe. Once or twice I reached for a tool from my belt just as Rufus walked by. He jumped to one side, and stared at me wild-eyed. It was as if I were a gunslinger from the old west who had just reached for my six-shooter. Then Rufus would calm down and continue walking, but still keeping one eye on me as he did.
After we had been working for several hours and had grown accustomed to Rufus's nervous pacing, I noticed he was carrying something in his mouth. It was a small rubber tire, taken from a toy truck or a hand cart. Rufus repeatedly walked by me with the tire in his mouth, slowed his pace as he passed and looked askance at me, and continued stalking the house. Eventually it occurred to me that the tire was Rufus's toy. As he passed by me again, I reached out and took the tire from Rufus's mouth. He turned his head away as I did this, putting up a weak show of resistance. As soon as I brandished the tire in the air, Rufus changed. The hulking buffalo-dog became a puppy. He spread his legs, stretched his back with his head to the ground, wagged his tail like a high-speed windshield wiper, and perked up his ears to triple their normal height. I threw the tire, and away Rufus ran, but he didn't do what I expected next. He didn't bring back the tire and beg me to throw it again. He resumed pacing the house, tire in mouth, and looked at me suspiciously.
A little later, Rufus approached me without his tire. He put his head next to my knee. I reached out my hand and he didn't flinch. I patted him. He seemed to like it because he pressed his ear against my knee a little harder. I scratched behind his ears and smoothed the jagged hair of his nape. Eventually I stopped and resumed my work. Rufus looked up at me, and a hurt expression spread his face.
"Sorry, Rufus. I need to work now."
Rufus turned away and seemed to sigh. I watched him leave, and then looked down at my work. When I looked up again, I saw Rufus walking out of my house carrying my water bottle in his mouth.
"Hey!" I yelled. "Put that back!"
I sprang after Rufus, but he was too quick. He turned around as I sprang, saw me coming, and ran away just as my hand was closing around the bottle. Rufus ran to the far side of the house, sat down, and began munching on the cap that firmly shut the water bottle. I gave up chasing him and resumed my work. When I looked up after a few minutes, I saw that Rufus had succeeded in removing the cap from the bottle, had taken the mouth of the bottle into his teeth, and was attempting to drink my water. I stared incredulously as a dog proceeded to guzzle my Aquafina. Rufus was interrupted by Aaron, who saw the dog and took the water away from him.
"Is this yours?" Aaron asked after coming inside the house and holding up my water bottle.
"Yes," I said. "But I don't want it now."
"Watch out for Rufus," Aaron said. "He'll steal any kind of drink he can. His favorite is coffee."
Rufus had entered the house behind Aaron. He looked from Aaron to me.
"You're a bad dog, Rufus," said Aaron.
Rufus hung his head and shuffled over to me. He put his head against me knee.
"No," I said. "You stole my water. You're not my friend anymore."
Rufus walked away without looking at me.
I later found out that Rufus stole more than just drinks. The following morning my father and I returned to the house to continue our work. Rufus didn't bark at when we arrived--or at least, not as much. He seemed inured to our presence and contented himself with barking at the other subcontractors who arrived at the job. Rufus approached me with his tire more than once, and deciding that I ought to forgive him, I threw it for him several times. Eventually, Rufus persuaded me to pet him. This was the real test of my forgiveness. Would I pat him on the head again, he asked as he looked up at me with hopeful eyes. I gave in. Again I patted him, scratched his ears, and smoothed his scruff. Again I was forced to tell him that I was done petting him, again he looked at me with pain, and again, as he walked away, he robbed me.
"Hey," said my father, "isn't that your hat?"
Rufus had swiped my winter hat off of nearby box as he walked away.
"Stop!" my father shouted, lunging after Rufus. "Put that back!"
Either my father was faster than I, or Rufus was more intimidated. He froze in his tracks, and my father retrieved my hat. This time, Rufus didn't bother apologizing. He just kept walking towards the door and went outside.
But eventually, he was back, asking for forgiveness. I was foolish enough to grant it.
"Put that down! Stop!"
This time it was my gloves that Rufus had taken. We'd gone through the whole routine again, and my father had caught him red-pawed. Rufus dropped the glove from his mouth in disgust. I caught his eye as he stomped outside. His face quivered with guilt.
I decided that I couldn't take any more chances. I put everything that Rufus could take into the van and shut the door. Rufus returned to my side asking for affection, and I gave it to him. He seemed to look around and be disappointed when he realized that I had nothing left to steal. Even if I had, and even if he did, I'm pretty sure I would have forgiven him again. Something about this whole ordeal is very familiar. The predictibility of Rufus's behavior initially struck me as funny, but then I started to think about myself. How many times have I been guilty of the same stupid, selfish actions? And every time, I end up going to somebody and saying I'm sorry. It's embarrassing, but if I didn't, I'd be all alone. And where would I be without someone to forgive me?
I'm posting this with chagrin. The date of my last post, January 13th, is staring at me with bloodshot eyes. If I cover the date with left hand, however, I can continue to type with my right hand without distraction. This may take a while.
Rufus announced our coming before we arrived. Driving up the rural road to the house, we heard his barking. His voice was deep, rumbling, and full of canine menace. As we pulled into the driveway, Rufus circled our van like a shark circling a raft of shipwreck victims--the house was our land, and we knew we had to leave the vessel and cross the surf of driveway gravel to get to safety. We stepped out of the van and braced for confrontation. Rufus stood his ground, arching his back and bellowing warning to the sky.
"Shut up, Rufus."
Aaron saved us. He was working on the remodel too, and having been there for several days, he already knew that Rufus was a coward.
"Rufus, shut your mouth."
Rufus hung his head and ran behind the house.
"He's not going to bite you," Aaron said.
We nodded in agreement. We could see that Rufus had given up for the moment.
As we began working on the house, Rufus eyed us from the outskirts of the building. Poking his head in random doors and windows, he'd make angry faces and put on a show of bristling his back hair. His back hair was abundant. I'm not sure what breed Rufus is, but as near as I can guess, he is half Labrador and half buffalo. Bison fur has a strange way of matting in dirty, brown clumps that gradually fall off buffalo hides. Rufus had this same kind of hair--it tangled in wiry patches that sagged away from his skin. Elsewhere, his coat was long and shiny. On his scruff the hair stood spiked and thick like a wolf's.
Rufus didn't trust me. Eventually he summoned the courage to pace the open half of the house and inspect us as we worked. He never stood still. Rufus was always in motion--he'd walk past me as if on a definite mission, but I'd catch his sidelong looks as he passed. I could tell he was sizing me up, trying to determine if I was really friend or foe. Once or twice I reached for a tool from my belt just as Rufus walked by. He jumped to one side, and stared at me wild-eyed. It was as if I were a gunslinger from the old west who had just reached for my six-shooter. Then Rufus would calm down and continue walking, but still keeping one eye on me as he did.
After we had been working for several hours and had grown accustomed to Rufus's nervous pacing, I noticed he was carrying something in his mouth. It was a small rubber tire, taken from a toy truck or a hand cart. Rufus repeatedly walked by me with the tire in his mouth, slowed his pace as he passed and looked askance at me, and continued stalking the house. Eventually it occurred to me that the tire was Rufus's toy. As he passed by me again, I reached out and took the tire from Rufus's mouth. He turned his head away as I did this, putting up a weak show of resistance. As soon as I brandished the tire in the air, Rufus changed. The hulking buffalo-dog became a puppy. He spread his legs, stretched his back with his head to the ground, wagged his tail like a high-speed windshield wiper, and perked up his ears to triple their normal height. I threw the tire, and away Rufus ran, but he didn't do what I expected next. He didn't bring back the tire and beg me to throw it again. He resumed pacing the house, tire in mouth, and looked at me suspiciously.
A little later, Rufus approached me without his tire. He put his head next to my knee. I reached out my hand and he didn't flinch. I patted him. He seemed to like it because he pressed his ear against my knee a little harder. I scratched behind his ears and smoothed the jagged hair of his nape. Eventually I stopped and resumed my work. Rufus looked up at me, and a hurt expression spread his face.
"Sorry, Rufus. I need to work now."
Rufus turned away and seemed to sigh. I watched him leave, and then looked down at my work. When I looked up again, I saw Rufus walking out of my house carrying my water bottle in his mouth.
"Hey!" I yelled. "Put that back!"
I sprang after Rufus, but he was too quick. He turned around as I sprang, saw me coming, and ran away just as my hand was closing around the bottle. Rufus ran to the far side of the house, sat down, and began munching on the cap that firmly shut the water bottle. I gave up chasing him and resumed my work. When I looked up after a few minutes, I saw that Rufus had succeeded in removing the cap from the bottle, had taken the mouth of the bottle into his teeth, and was attempting to drink my water. I stared incredulously as a dog proceeded to guzzle my Aquafina. Rufus was interrupted by Aaron, who saw the dog and took the water away from him.
"Is this yours?" Aaron asked after coming inside the house and holding up my water bottle.
"Yes," I said. "But I don't want it now."
"Watch out for Rufus," Aaron said. "He'll steal any kind of drink he can. His favorite is coffee."
Rufus had entered the house behind Aaron. He looked from Aaron to me.
"You're a bad dog, Rufus," said Aaron.
Rufus hung his head and shuffled over to me. He put his head against me knee.
"No," I said. "You stole my water. You're not my friend anymore."
Rufus walked away without looking at me.
I later found out that Rufus stole more than just drinks. The following morning my father and I returned to the house to continue our work. Rufus didn't bark at when we arrived--or at least, not as much. He seemed inured to our presence and contented himself with barking at the other subcontractors who arrived at the job. Rufus approached me with his tire more than once, and deciding that I ought to forgive him, I threw it for him several times. Eventually, Rufus persuaded me to pet him. This was the real test of my forgiveness. Would I pat him on the head again, he asked as he looked up at me with hopeful eyes. I gave in. Again I patted him, scratched his ears, and smoothed his scruff. Again I was forced to tell him that I was done petting him, again he looked at me with pain, and again, as he walked away, he robbed me.
"Hey," said my father, "isn't that your hat?"
Rufus had swiped my winter hat off of nearby box as he walked away.
"Stop!" my father shouted, lunging after Rufus. "Put that back!"
Either my father was faster than I, or Rufus was more intimidated. He froze in his tracks, and my father retrieved my hat. This time, Rufus didn't bother apologizing. He just kept walking towards the door and went outside.
But eventually, he was back, asking for forgiveness. I was foolish enough to grant it.
"Put that down! Stop!"
This time it was my gloves that Rufus had taken. We'd gone through the whole routine again, and my father had caught him red-pawed. Rufus dropped the glove from his mouth in disgust. I caught his eye as he stomped outside. His face quivered with guilt.
I decided that I couldn't take any more chances. I put everything that Rufus could take into the van and shut the door. Rufus returned to my side asking for affection, and I gave it to him. He seemed to look around and be disappointed when he realized that I had nothing left to steal. Even if I had, and even if he did, I'm pretty sure I would have forgiven him again. Something about this whole ordeal is very familiar. The predictibility of Rufus's behavior initially struck me as funny, but then I started to think about myself. How many times have I been guilty of the same stupid, selfish actions? And every time, I end up going to somebody and saying I'm sorry. It's embarrassing, but if I didn't, I'd be all alone. And where would I be without someone to forgive me?
13 January 2009
Fortunately Falling
Yesterday, I worked for the first time in a week. The slow economy still has construction in a choke-hold, and lately I'm lucky if I put in more than half time. I'm always amazed at how every activity, whether rooted in work or leisure, has its unique draw on energy. Stamina for work weakens over a period of unemployment, just like the tough skin on my hands. I found myself tired yesterday after three hours of work. My body wasn't really weary--I was tired in my mind because of the unfamiliarity of my own job.
The free time I've enjoyed on the days off has been welcome. I've read more, written more, and goofed off more. Initially, the extra time struck me as a rare opportunity to get things done: applications for graduate school, projects around the house, the correspondence course I started four years ago and never finished. Over time, however, the urgency of these tasks and the chance to finish them seemed less important. As I've grown accustomed to the late mornings with coffee and a video game, the easy lunches when my wife comes home and we munch on quesadillas, or the long afternoons of lolling on the sofa with a blanket and an aimless web-browser, I seem to have lost the drive to accomplish the things I was most excited to do when this sabbatical of a winter still loomed on the horizon.
Back in November, before the daily grind had slowed to a halt, I would spend the spare brain cells during my days thinking about what I would do with extra free time. Like tendrils on a burgeoning flower, my thoughts would branch and shoot and turn back on themselves as I pondered all the creative possibilities. Now I have that free time. And now I seem less interested and less motivated to spend it well.
On the way home from work yesterday, as I rode in the truck with heavy legs and a sore neck, I felt a familiar yet long absent feeling. It was that old desire to create. The same swelling, expanding desire to do something full of my own imagination, something that would make me and the world around me richer. All the many days that I had spent dinking around the house had failed to inspire me. Those had been the best time to act, yet had done the least to inspire me.
Theologians of old threw around the expression felix culpa, fortunate fall. They believed that the expulsion from paradise was a good thing. Some even went so far as to say that God knew mankind was too ungrateful to appreciate the goodness of life without a bit of bad mixed in. I'm enough of a Romantic that I suppose I'll always be dissatisfied with my circumstances. I'll always be thinking about the proverbial grass on the other side of the proverbial hill. But part of me wonders if something wired into all of us prevents us from appreciating all the good that surrounds us unless we're a bit uncomfortable. I'm pondering the words of another old theologian, a guy from Tarsus. He said he'd learned the secret of being content in every situation. Maybe he was content because he knew that every situation had some good and some bad. And maybe he thought that's the way it's supposed to be, at least for now.
The free time I've enjoyed on the days off has been welcome. I've read more, written more, and goofed off more. Initially, the extra time struck me as a rare opportunity to get things done: applications for graduate school, projects around the house, the correspondence course I started four years ago and never finished. Over time, however, the urgency of these tasks and the chance to finish them seemed less important. As I've grown accustomed to the late mornings with coffee and a video game, the easy lunches when my wife comes home and we munch on quesadillas, or the long afternoons of lolling on the sofa with a blanket and an aimless web-browser, I seem to have lost the drive to accomplish the things I was most excited to do when this sabbatical of a winter still loomed on the horizon.
Back in November, before the daily grind had slowed to a halt, I would spend the spare brain cells during my days thinking about what I would do with extra free time. Like tendrils on a burgeoning flower, my thoughts would branch and shoot and turn back on themselves as I pondered all the creative possibilities. Now I have that free time. And now I seem less interested and less motivated to spend it well.
On the way home from work yesterday, as I rode in the truck with heavy legs and a sore neck, I felt a familiar yet long absent feeling. It was that old desire to create. The same swelling, expanding desire to do something full of my own imagination, something that would make me and the world around me richer. All the many days that I had spent dinking around the house had failed to inspire me. Those had been the best time to act, yet had done the least to inspire me.
Theologians of old threw around the expression felix culpa, fortunate fall. They believed that the expulsion from paradise was a good thing. Some even went so far as to say that God knew mankind was too ungrateful to appreciate the goodness of life without a bit of bad mixed in. I'm enough of a Romantic that I suppose I'll always be dissatisfied with my circumstances. I'll always be thinking about the proverbial grass on the other side of the proverbial hill. But part of me wonders if something wired into all of us prevents us from appreciating all the good that surrounds us unless we're a bit uncomfortable. I'm pondering the words of another old theologian, a guy from Tarsus. He said he'd learned the secret of being content in every situation. Maybe he was content because he knew that every situation had some good and some bad. And maybe he thought that's the way it's supposed to be, at least for now.
08 January 2009
Needled by a Tree
Today I took down the Christmas tree. I hadn't watered it for over a week, so the needles were dry and turning brown. The patches of turning color started in the center of the tree and spiralled out, like swirled chocolate in a pudding cake. I knelt in the scattered pine needles beside the tree and untwisted the bolts that held the trunk in place. Eight bolts in total--a perfect amount for tweaking the tree during set-up, an annoying excess when putting things away. As I removed the pressure from the tree trunk, a sweet odor rose to my nose, as if the tree were exhaling in relief.
Sap covered the bolt heads where they had gripped the tree, and deep wounds gouged the trunk. I lifted the tree from the tree stand and carried it out to the porch. The tree was lighter and thinner than when I had brought it into the house. My wife and I may have gained weight over the holidays--evidently the tree hadn't. I glanced at the corner where the tree had stood, and marveled at the stark nudity. The tree had perfectly filled the corner. Now an entire half of our living room looked as skewed as the one-eyed cat I saw this morning. Grabbing the bow-saw I had borrowed from my father, I stepped outside, hoisted the tree to my shoulder, and took it behind the house.
After laying the tree on the ground, I began sawing it to pieces. I felt a bit like Procrustes, shortening the limbs of the guests who didn't fit his bed. The fragrance of the tree increased as I sawed. The trunk and limbs weren't so young that the sawing was difficult, but the tree clearly wasn't dead either. It was a tree in its prime, and I was cutting it up and throwing the segments into the yard recycling can. As I picked up the boughs and tossed them into the receptacle, they brushed onto my hands a bit of sap that won't come off. Once I'd thrown the entire tree into the can, I closed the lid and walked away, feeling the tree-blood on my palms. And I find myself hoping that some of my skin rubbed off onto the tree.
Sap covered the bolt heads where they had gripped the tree, and deep wounds gouged the trunk. I lifted the tree from the tree stand and carried it out to the porch. The tree was lighter and thinner than when I had brought it into the house. My wife and I may have gained weight over the holidays--evidently the tree hadn't. I glanced at the corner where the tree had stood, and marveled at the stark nudity. The tree had perfectly filled the corner. Now an entire half of our living room looked as skewed as the one-eyed cat I saw this morning. Grabbing the bow-saw I had borrowed from my father, I stepped outside, hoisted the tree to my shoulder, and took it behind the house.
After laying the tree on the ground, I began sawing it to pieces. I felt a bit like Procrustes, shortening the limbs of the guests who didn't fit his bed. The fragrance of the tree increased as I sawed. The trunk and limbs weren't so young that the sawing was difficult, but the tree clearly wasn't dead either. It was a tree in its prime, and I was cutting it up and throwing the segments into the yard recycling can. As I picked up the boughs and tossed them into the receptacle, they brushed onto my hands a bit of sap that won't come off. Once I'd thrown the entire tree into the can, I closed the lid and walked away, feeling the tree-blood on my palms. And I find myself hoping that some of my skin rubbed off onto the tree.
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