Holy cow. Look at the cobwebs in here. What is this place? It seems to be... some kind of storage or ...dumping ground...or something. Oh, look -- there's something written on the wall over here. Give me your library card. Maybe I can scrape some of the dust and residue off to see what it says. Hm. "Thoreau". Weird. Where have I heard that name before? And what's with all these old mirrors? Wait. Wait. Just a second. I know where I am. Um, I have to go now or else I'll be trapped for hours in a dangerous reflective room, and I'll never get the house clean for the company that will be here in four hours.
But. Maybe I could just clean out some of these cobwebs while I'm here.
No. No. I've got to go. But maybe I can come back in a few days when everyone's gone. I can clean out then.
Man. This place looks like my garage.
All right. Really. I've got to get out now, or I'll never get out.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Off the Shelf
By J. Paulson
Do you think city people
Need poetry more than
Country ones?
In the country,
Poems grow green
And wild
Are breathed in
With the jasmine
And crocus
Are felt underfoot
Between fingers
Behind the knee
Are whispered eye to eye
Hand to hand
Mouth to ear
City ears are preoccupied
Hands in pocket
Eye to shoes
City people read poems
Preserved in books
Like canned beans
Out loud in coffeehouses
Missionaries’ slides
Of far off lands
“Look at the wildflower petals;” and
“Here’s the taste of plums
From the tree”
Do you think city people
Need poetry more than
Country ones?
In the country,
Poems grow green
And wild
Are breathed in
With the jasmine
And crocus
Are felt underfoot
Between fingers
Behind the knee
Are whispered eye to eye
Hand to hand
Mouth to ear
City ears are preoccupied
Hands in pocket
Eye to shoes
City people read poems
Preserved in books
Like canned beans
Out loud in coffeehouses
Missionaries’ slides
Of far off lands
“Look at the wildflower petals;” and
“Here’s the taste of plums
From the tree”
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Thoreau Schmoreau
In order for this post to make sense, you must have already read my other posting, Thoreau's Nightmare. (next one down)
Our airconditioning is out. I realize I don't want to live overly simply. I like airconditioning in 97 degree weather. I like heat in winter. The couch is quite comfortable. Maybe we don't have too many coffee cups after all. I think I can live with all the other plastic drivel if we just get this airconditioning fixed.
And why was Thoreau dusting stones anyway? That guy needed to get a job. Until I have airconditioning, I won't say otherwise. No wonder nobody bought his book. He even had to self-publish. He once said, "I have a library of 900 books, and I wrote 700 of them." Well, what do you expect if you tell people to live that simply and there is no airconditioning? People can't be reasonable when there is no airconditioning. It's too hot to think.
The ceiling fans are doing a great job of blowing hot air around. Kind of like Thoreau, I imagine. Telling people he--a writer--was farming because he wanted to make the earth say 'beans' instead of 'grass'. What kind of an answer is that? And once he said that he lost a horse, a turtle dove and a bay hound. And a person--a quite reasonable person--asked what he meant by that and Thoreau said, "Haven't you?" like it was some kind of answer. Nothin' but hot air. I'da slapped him.
I'm calling the aircondition people first thing in the morning; I don't care what it costs. Get me some cold air. I'm sweating in my underwear.
Our airconditioning is out. I realize I don't want to live overly simply. I like airconditioning in 97 degree weather. I like heat in winter. The couch is quite comfortable. Maybe we don't have too many coffee cups after all. I think I can live with all the other plastic drivel if we just get this airconditioning fixed.
And why was Thoreau dusting stones anyway? That guy needed to get a job. Until I have airconditioning, I won't say otherwise. No wonder nobody bought his book. He even had to self-publish. He once said, "I have a library of 900 books, and I wrote 700 of them." Well, what do you expect if you tell people to live that simply and there is no airconditioning? People can't be reasonable when there is no airconditioning. It's too hot to think.
The ceiling fans are doing a great job of blowing hot air around. Kind of like Thoreau, I imagine. Telling people he--a writer--was farming because he wanted to make the earth say 'beans' instead of 'grass'. What kind of an answer is that? And once he said that he lost a horse, a turtle dove and a bay hound. And a person--a quite reasonable person--asked what he meant by that and Thoreau said, "Haven't you?" like it was some kind of answer. Nothin' but hot air. I'da slapped him.
I'm calling the aircondition people first thing in the morning; I don't care what it costs. Get me some cold air. I'm sweating in my underwear.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Thoreau's Nightmare
We are in the unhappy process of trying to sell a house. Since our little girl arrived three years ago, we’ve thought about selling the house in a casual way. All of our neighbors had changed three times or so in the last seven years, and each time the house sold for an unbelievable increase. Finally, when our little boy showed up last year, we thought we’d give it a try. We put it on the market seemingly days after the whole housing industry went to the toilet.
I love this house and its big, big back yard, which is part of what makes selling it an unhappy process. The thing is, when it was just the two of us, it was perfect. It could not be better. When the little girl was born, we combined the office/library with the music room. When the little boy was born, we moved our bedroom into the office/library/music room. All three rooms were now true bedrooms. And since our house has no hallways (a design I consider to be brilliant), all rooms (including dining room, kitchen, and sunroom) branch off the living room. This means that if two little children are sleeping, we can’t watch TV or listen to music out in the living room. So, we have put a little TV and DVD player and a receiver in the bedroom/office/library/music room. The stack of AV equipment over the computer desk reaches the ceiling. We watch in bed.
So we have outgrown the house with people. But with people come things. The kids acquire and outgrow clothes at a dizzying pace. Kids come with equipment, too. Pack ‘n’ Plays, car seats, strollers, crib, big girl bed, diaper tables, rocking chairs, dressers, shelves, shelves, shelves.
I once had a dream. The natural resources of the world were being harvested by giant combines that mowed them down and sprayed them into the back of giant dump trucks. The dump trucks backed up to factories and released their loads. Out of the other end, a spigot on the factory poured manufactured goods into a store called “All-Mart”. Citizens raced to the store, filled up carts with plastic drivel and trucked them to their houses. It was a lot of work that required a lot of people, but the people managed to be effective. The houses were on a two-dimensional flow chart, and funnel-like slides jutted out the bottom of the houses, joined together to form one massive pipe, and ended in a big pit of the earth. The houses acted like giant coffee filters as they took in the pristine goods and then spit them out seconds later as useless rot into the waste pipe. It was a very efficient system. It was a like a monster that was eating itself.
Anyway, we cut the waste funnel off at our house. Instead, we store it all in the garage. We can’t park in the garage, and we have rarely been able to do so for seven years.
Let me digress for a minute to tell the history of this garage.
August 2001 We move into the house. The garage acts as a holding place while we unpack.
September 2001 We put a fence around three sides of the garage and pen our two dogs there. Garage is cleaned out and we park in it.
October 2001 We realize that there is a good part of the day in which there is no shade around the fenced sides of the garage. Dogs are hot. We extend the fence to enclose the side door. Garage becomes a two-car doghouse.
November 2001 Car gets scratched. Car moves out. One dog is given away (after freaking out a neighbor.) We get a new dog to help keep up the doghouse.
March 2002 Police come after new dog nips neighbor. New dog leaves. The faithful Australian Shepherd remains in her mansion.
Summer of 2002 Rats discover dog food and bird seed in garage. We don’t know about it because we never go in there anymore.
Spring of 2003 We discover rat colony after finding one drowned in the dog’s water bucket. Begin warfare. (There’s a-whole-nother story for a-whole-nother time here.)
October 2004 Little girl born.
August 2005 Australian Shepherd goes to live on a farm. Spend two weeks cleaning out piles of dog hair and seven dried rat carcasses that I had not found previously. (There’s another story here…later, though).
September 2005 Park in garage.
May 2006 Kitchen floods and must be completely redone. Garage becomes work zone. Extra cabinets are stored in garage until we decide if we are going to move or sell them. Also, little girl begins outgrowing clothes, toys, and paraphernalia, which is stacked in garage until a yard sale can be formed. Can no longer park in garage.
October 2006 Little boy born. Garage piles grow vertically and laterally. Cabinets are buried.
Spring 2007 We think about moving. We shuffle anything we can live without (i.e. board games, portfolios, exersaucers) to the garage so that we can show the house. Can no longer walk in garage. Must use complicated system of rappelling ropes and pulleys to navigate interior. Begin to contemplate arson. (OK, that’s a joke. I mean, I did have wishes of it burning, but I would never do it. If it burns somehow, it wasn’t me. I can just see this blog showing up in court.)
David Thoreau. He figured it out. He moved to Walden in his late 20’s and built a simple house. One room, one table, a bed, and three chairs. When he totaled up all of his possessions to penny, he owned $28.12½ worth of necessities. In general, he did not count monetary value. He considered an object’s true value—“the amount of what I call life that must be exchanged for it,” he wrote, and “My greatest skill has been to want but little.” He ate simple, plain food that was probably low in cholesterol. He had three beautiful stones on his desk, but they kept gathering dust. He penned, “I found, however, that I had to dust them each day—while the furniture of my mind was still undusted.” So he threw them out. He believed that it takes a while for clothes to really fit a person’s body, and he felt sorry for well-to-do people that threw their clothes away before they could get comfortable.
Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity.
How do I—with so much—feel jealous of someone with so little? Oh how the pendulum swings! I know that if I lived like Thoreau did, I would probably have the same reaction that he did. After two years at Walden, Thoreau began to feel restless with his experiment. Perhaps because he became so fully recharged after all his days of watching fish swim or ants fight or grass grow that he was ready to become fully productive.
Moderation in all things? A little balance?
OK. I tend to exaggerate. Our house is not as bad as all that. I am really not living in a landfill. That’s just a picture of the frustration I have with the excesses. And many of those things were necessary to begin with. I mean, I can’t just say, “All right kids. We’re not buying you anymore clothes that you will outgrow.” And, honestly, 99% of those clothes were given to us. I should be overflowing with gratefulness. The kitchen cabinets were given to us, too, and they are very nice! Why do I complain?
Things I Want to Keep
1. The kids.
2. The coffeemaker.
3. All of our musical instruments.
4. The computers.
5. Our pots and pans. I really like our pots and pans.
6. Books and scrapbooks.
7. The riding lawn mower. I push-mowed this acre of wet grass for 5 years, and I’m done with that. Besides, the riding mower is just so fun.
Things With Which I Have No Quarrel
1. The tools. They are useful.
2. The devices that play music. I enjoy music.
3. The spice racks.
4. The bed.
5. The table and chairs.
6. Some of the coffee cups.
Things That I Wish Could Evaporate
1. Everything in the computer desk.
2. Everything under the computer desk.
3. Everything on the computer desk.
4. Everything behind the computer desk.
5. Everything under the bed.
6. Everything in the garage.
7. Everything in the basement.
8. Clocks.
Of course, if we sold the house and bought something bigger than this 1200 square foot paradise, we could fit all these trinkets into nooks and crannies and all would be well.
I love this house and its big, big back yard, which is part of what makes selling it an unhappy process. The thing is, when it was just the two of us, it was perfect. It could not be better. When the little girl was born, we combined the office/library with the music room. When the little boy was born, we moved our bedroom into the office/library/music room. All three rooms were now true bedrooms. And since our house has no hallways (a design I consider to be brilliant), all rooms (including dining room, kitchen, and sunroom) branch off the living room. This means that if two little children are sleeping, we can’t watch TV or listen to music out in the living room. So, we have put a little TV and DVD player and a receiver in the bedroom/office/library/music room. The stack of AV equipment over the computer desk reaches the ceiling. We watch in bed.
So we have outgrown the house with people. But with people come things. The kids acquire and outgrow clothes at a dizzying pace. Kids come with equipment, too. Pack ‘n’ Plays, car seats, strollers, crib, big girl bed, diaper tables, rocking chairs, dressers, shelves, shelves, shelves.
I once had a dream. The natural resources of the world were being harvested by giant combines that mowed them down and sprayed them into the back of giant dump trucks. The dump trucks backed up to factories and released their loads. Out of the other end, a spigot on the factory poured manufactured goods into a store called “All-Mart”. Citizens raced to the store, filled up carts with plastic drivel and trucked them to their houses. It was a lot of work that required a lot of people, but the people managed to be effective. The houses were on a two-dimensional flow chart, and funnel-like slides jutted out the bottom of the houses, joined together to form one massive pipe, and ended in a big pit of the earth. The houses acted like giant coffee filters as they took in the pristine goods and then spit them out seconds later as useless rot into the waste pipe. It was a very efficient system. It was a like a monster that was eating itself.
Anyway, we cut the waste funnel off at our house. Instead, we store it all in the garage. We can’t park in the garage, and we have rarely been able to do so for seven years.
Let me digress for a minute to tell the history of this garage.
August 2001 We move into the house. The garage acts as a holding place while we unpack.
September 2001 We put a fence around three sides of the garage and pen our two dogs there. Garage is cleaned out and we park in it.
October 2001 We realize that there is a good part of the day in which there is no shade around the fenced sides of the garage. Dogs are hot. We extend the fence to enclose the side door. Garage becomes a two-car doghouse.
November 2001 Car gets scratched. Car moves out. One dog is given away (after freaking out a neighbor.) We get a new dog to help keep up the doghouse.
March 2002 Police come after new dog nips neighbor. New dog leaves. The faithful Australian Shepherd remains in her mansion.
Summer of 2002 Rats discover dog food and bird seed in garage. We don’t know about it because we never go in there anymore.
Spring of 2003 We discover rat colony after finding one drowned in the dog’s water bucket. Begin warfare. (There’s a-whole-nother story for a-whole-nother time here.)
October 2004 Little girl born.
August 2005 Australian Shepherd goes to live on a farm. Spend two weeks cleaning out piles of dog hair and seven dried rat carcasses that I had not found previously. (There’s another story here…later, though).
September 2005 Park in garage.
May 2006 Kitchen floods and must be completely redone. Garage becomes work zone. Extra cabinets are stored in garage until we decide if we are going to move or sell them. Also, little girl begins outgrowing clothes, toys, and paraphernalia, which is stacked in garage until a yard sale can be formed. Can no longer park in garage.
October 2006 Little boy born. Garage piles grow vertically and laterally. Cabinets are buried.
Spring 2007 We think about moving. We shuffle anything we can live without (i.e. board games, portfolios, exersaucers) to the garage so that we can show the house. Can no longer walk in garage. Must use complicated system of rappelling ropes and pulleys to navigate interior. Begin to contemplate arson. (OK, that’s a joke. I mean, I did have wishes of it burning, but I would never do it. If it burns somehow, it wasn’t me. I can just see this blog showing up in court.)
David Thoreau. He figured it out. He moved to Walden in his late 20’s and built a simple house. One room, one table, a bed, and three chairs. When he totaled up all of his possessions to penny, he owned $28.12½ worth of necessities. In general, he did not count monetary value. He considered an object’s true value—“the amount of what I call life that must be exchanged for it,” he wrote, and “My greatest skill has been to want but little.” He ate simple, plain food that was probably low in cholesterol. He had three beautiful stones on his desk, but they kept gathering dust. He penned, “I found, however, that I had to dust them each day—while the furniture of my mind was still undusted.” So he threw them out. He believed that it takes a while for clothes to really fit a person’s body, and he felt sorry for well-to-do people that threw their clothes away before they could get comfortable.
Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity.
How do I—with so much—feel jealous of someone with so little? Oh how the pendulum swings! I know that if I lived like Thoreau did, I would probably have the same reaction that he did. After two years at Walden, Thoreau began to feel restless with his experiment. Perhaps because he became so fully recharged after all his days of watching fish swim or ants fight or grass grow that he was ready to become fully productive.
Moderation in all things? A little balance?
OK. I tend to exaggerate. Our house is not as bad as all that. I am really not living in a landfill. That’s just a picture of the frustration I have with the excesses. And many of those things were necessary to begin with. I mean, I can’t just say, “All right kids. We’re not buying you anymore clothes that you will outgrow.” And, honestly, 99% of those clothes were given to us. I should be overflowing with gratefulness. The kitchen cabinets were given to us, too, and they are very nice! Why do I complain?
Things I Want to Keep
1. The kids.
2. The coffeemaker.
3. All of our musical instruments.
4. The computers.
5. Our pots and pans. I really like our pots and pans.
6. Books and scrapbooks.
7. The riding lawn mower. I push-mowed this acre of wet grass for 5 years, and I’m done with that. Besides, the riding mower is just so fun.
Things With Which I Have No Quarrel
1. The tools. They are useful.
2. The devices that play music. I enjoy music.
3. The spice racks.
4. The bed.
5. The table and chairs.
6. Some of the coffee cups.
Things That I Wish Could Evaporate
1. Everything in the computer desk.
2. Everything under the computer desk.
3. Everything on the computer desk.
4. Everything behind the computer desk.
5. Everything under the bed.
6. Everything in the garage.
7. Everything in the basement.
8. Clocks.
Of course, if we sold the house and bought something bigger than this 1200 square foot paradise, we could fit all these trinkets into nooks and crannies and all would be well.
Monday, August 20, 2007
A Bit Much, Really
“What are we here for?” It was not an existential question.
Dr. Du Plooy asked me this after I’d waited for thirty minutes in a waiting room and thirty more in an examination room. Dr. Du Plooy is from South Africa and he wears square-tipped snakeskin boots. Seven years ago when I took a job with Hamilton County Schools and received my insurance card, I was told to pick a primary health physician. I flipped through the insurance directory and wondered how you simply pick a primary health physician you’ve never met. As the names of medical practitioners rolled past in columns, a new decision presented itself. Do I want a man doctor or a woman doctor? It’s an odd business, the repair and handling of people’s bodies, but then so is the business of building people’s capacity to think, function in society, and lead full lives in which I engage daily with my students. Considering the types of examinations I will inevitably have to undergo, do I want a man or a woman to perform those examinations?
Neither, when it comes down to it. For the same and different reasons.
Then I saw the name Dr. Du Plooy. I wrote it on my form. That is a great name.
In seven years, I’ve never been to see him, although my wife had. She likes his accent. And now, here I sat on a giant roll of tissue paper, my finger bookmarking my page in Becoming a Literacy Leader and Dr. Du Plooy asking my reason for being here.
“Well, I brought a list,” I said. “I haven’t been to see a doctor in 15 years, except for walk-in clinics when I have a sinus infection.”
“Those aren’t real doctors,” he said. “They don’t count.” See? I like this guy. We have the same philosophy on walk-in clinics. They are places where you announce your self-diagnosis for $80 so that you can get a legal prescription. It’s a beautiful system. I would go to Dr. Du Plooy for that because the co-pay is cheaper, but it’s hard to get in on the day that you need the drugs.
I told him my suspicions and ailments, some of which I’d rather not mention here, which probably gives enough context to narrow them down for you. After the plethora of examinations, I felt like apologizing to him.
Anyway. It turns out some things are no big deal, while the dry skin on my ear seems to be a bit of a concern. Now I have to go see another doctor about that. And, my cholesterol is really high. 251. It’s not supposed to be above 190. There’s a grandmother that teaches across the hall from me and her cholesterol is 134. I know she plays tennis about twice a week, plus she jogs every morning, and she eats good food. I mean “good” in every sense of the word…good tasting, good for you…it’s probably got better morals than most people I know.
My beautiful and amazing wife, she did research. She loves to research. If anyone was born at the right time to appreciate the internet, it is my wife. She initially panics about my cholesterol, which I love her for. Then, she outlines my diet for the next six months.
Dr. Du Plooy asked me this after I’d waited for thirty minutes in a waiting room and thirty more in an examination room. Dr. Du Plooy is from South Africa and he wears square-tipped snakeskin boots. Seven years ago when I took a job with Hamilton County Schools and received my insurance card, I was told to pick a primary health physician. I flipped through the insurance directory and wondered how you simply pick a primary health physician you’ve never met. As the names of medical practitioners rolled past in columns, a new decision presented itself. Do I want a man doctor or a woman doctor? It’s an odd business, the repair and handling of people’s bodies, but then so is the business of building people’s capacity to think, function in society, and lead full lives in which I engage daily with my students. Considering the types of examinations I will inevitably have to undergo, do I want a man or a woman to perform those examinations?
Neither, when it comes down to it. For the same and different reasons.
Then I saw the name Dr. Du Plooy. I wrote it on my form. That is a great name.
In seven years, I’ve never been to see him, although my wife had. She likes his accent. And now, here I sat on a giant roll of tissue paper, my finger bookmarking my page in Becoming a Literacy Leader and Dr. Du Plooy asking my reason for being here.
“Well, I brought a list,” I said. “I haven’t been to see a doctor in 15 years, except for walk-in clinics when I have a sinus infection.”
“Those aren’t real doctors,” he said. “They don’t count.” See? I like this guy. We have the same philosophy on walk-in clinics. They are places where you announce your self-diagnosis for $80 so that you can get a legal prescription. It’s a beautiful system. I would go to Dr. Du Plooy for that because the co-pay is cheaper, but it’s hard to get in on the day that you need the drugs.
I told him my suspicions and ailments, some of which I’d rather not mention here, which probably gives enough context to narrow them down for you. After the plethora of examinations, I felt like apologizing to him.
Anyway. It turns out some things are no big deal, while the dry skin on my ear seems to be a bit of a concern. Now I have to go see another doctor about that. And, my cholesterol is really high. 251. It’s not supposed to be above 190. There’s a grandmother that teaches across the hall from me and her cholesterol is 134. I know she plays tennis about twice a week, plus she jogs every morning, and she eats good food. I mean “good” in every sense of the word…good tasting, good for you…it’s probably got better morals than most people I know.
My beautiful and amazing wife, she did research. She loves to research. If anyone was born at the right time to appreciate the internet, it is my wife. She initially panics about my cholesterol, which I love her for. Then, she outlines my diet for the next six months.
Green and orange vegetables, fresh.
Fruits, fresh.
Some chicken,
fish twice a week,
oatmeal every morning,
green tea,
whole grain breads if I eat bread.
Olive oil on everything.
Lots of garlic and omega-3s.
Black beans (which I love!)
No butter,
no red meat,
no hamburgers,
no sugar,
no trans fats,
and obviously nothing that lists cholesterol on the nutrition chart.
If my Bi-Lo—my favorite place—only sold foods I could eat, they could fit it all in a 1922 Ford delivery truck. Most of it is in the produce section. (And I love the produce section).
So what? I’m not even suffering. Although, I may have to start exercising, too, which might induce an inclination to complain, but I doubt it. And if it was intolerable to eat this way, I would do it. The PE teacher at our school says, “If you don’t take care of your body, where will you live?” It’s a simple decision.
Well, I have nothing to report yet. I don’t get my cholesterol retested for another seven weeks. But, since I learned about my cholesterol, I have eaten well. The very next meal I ate—Thursday night—was a cholesterol-reducing meal, and I have not failed to eat right for 10 meals in a row. And really, I’m not suffering. (Check out the comments for recipes we’ve tried and loved.) Delicate and Fancy Chicken, Lemon Coat Chicken, Spicy Chicken, Chicken Ratatouille, and Cioppino.
Plus we’ve had curry rice, black beans, hummus, Triscuits, steamed broccoli, raw carrots, plums, apples, lots of blueberries, Cherrios, and oatmeal. Marcy cooked up a chicken using ginger and rosemary from our herb garden, and it was savory…succulent, even.
So I’m eating right all of a sudden. But, it does make one think, what are we here for? When a person who knows about the mechanics of bodies says that yours is in a bit of self-inflicted danger, it elicits certain thoughts:
1. Well, no one lives forever. When your time is up, your time is up
2. Wait! If your time is up because of cholesterol and you change the cholesterol variable, might not your “time” change?
3. Of course, you could always die from other causes—car accidents, aneurism, lightning, plane crash, random violence, deadly virus…I haven’t even touched the tip of the iceberg here. (Speaking of icebergs, sinking boats…)
4. OK, carpe diem, then, as always.
5. I don’t feel like going to work today.
6. I’ve always wanted to write good poetry, instead of the bad tripe I spawn in moments of inspiration. They say to create art, one must suffer. Perhaps this is my chance to really suffer.
6b. This isn’t suffering. I don’t crave suffering, really, and this definitely is not it. Is art worth suffering? Other people’s art is worth other people’s suffering, sure, but do I want to be a martyr for art? Not really. Although, I would really like to write something really good…
7. Am I spending whatever “time” I’ve got well? Back to the existential…
I can’t really say if I’m spending my time well, but here is one thing I can say: I’m enjoying most of it. I love spending time with my family. You should hear my daughter make up stories or sing songs she’s learned. When she starts a conversation in the car, all I can think is, “I’m glad I was in the car when she said that.” I tell her she is precious, and she says in her two-year-old voice, “I am precious. What is precious, Daddy?” My little boy makes the happiest noises and has the most charming smile. And he smiles at everything. Of course, my daughter is stubborn, and my son only wants to pull the washbasin on his head or pull poisonous substances out from under the kitchen sink instead of playing with toys. But, when I am wresting the basin stand from his hands for the dozenth time, or trying to convince her to eat one bite of dinner—as tired as I am—I am so glad for it. I always have been. And what choice is there but to choose between loving and cherishing what I have or wearing myself out on it? I choose both.
And then there’s Marcy. If you’ve read any other part of this blog, then you have seen my inability to describe the Rocky Mountains or flying through a cloud. How then can I describe Marcy? I can tell you she is funny, smart, clever, determined, caring, compassionate, intentional, loving, curious, deep, light, concerned, honest. But you won’t know her. Nine years in, I barely know her. I long to know her.
I watch her and try to learn about God. If He created her, then He must be all those things that she is and more, but more so. Can a creation surpass its creator?
So far away from Dr. Du Plooy’s office we are now. Cholesterol really didn’t spark this conversation. These are the thoughts I have every day, but it seems too burdensome to say these things in response to, “Hello! How are you? How’s your family?” So, I use my cholesterol as an excuse to unload these thoughts. Hey, it’s got to be good for something.
My friend put up some poems on her blog. One, The Happiest Day, illustrates so well my greatest fear—that I will reach the end of my life looking for happiness and then realize that I probably had it in my hands and chose to ignore it. I choose—even when it is work to do so—to enjoy and relish my day. And what else? To “fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.” This, I could do better.
Really. If I can change my diet so quickly, why not this?
Saturday, August 18, 2007
The Best Room Ever
I had never seen clouds like these or from this perspective. I was in a 60-passenger jet slightly above the cloud version of the Rocky Mountains. They were gargantuan, and the plane was a broad-tailed hummingbird flitting about them. As with the Rockies, words fail me.
Although the cumulonimbus clouds were generally below us, huge grey-white walls jutted up in front of us so high that our miniscule plane seemed to be only at the foot of a new mountain. The pilot had announced we were traveling over 400 miles per hour, yet it felt as though we merely hovered about the crags of cottony cliffs, the scale was so great.
Slowly, our hummingbird floated about, but then something must have startled it, for as we neared the towering Cliffs of Oblivion, we darted in quickly with impressive dexterity and speed. Once inside the pillowy wall, all bearings drained quickly away. Were we moving or not? When the plane banked to the left, it was difficult to tell if we stopped banking or if we simply kept rolling over. I gripped my seat and noticed the lady across the aisle simultaneously did the same. We both laughed a short, quiet, nervous laugh.
We would burst into inner cloud chambers—small rooms in which we could see cloud walls, ceiling, and floor before piercing the opposite wall. One chamber, though, was simply massive. The room itself was bigger than I even imagined clouds could be. The plane emerged from one wall to find itself floating in this cavern of white, surrounded at a distance by cloud. This room was also different in that a shaft of sun had forced its way in from the upper left, reflecting off the crystal clouds, emphasizing stalactite- and stalagmite-like formations. I was momentarily surprised that the sun was not below us, shining up. We hovered about in the room for a full minute or two, and I thought that this is the safest place there is. No one could find you here. How exotic this is, I thought. Of all the people who have ever lived on the face of the earth, how many have experienced this? Call me Icarus.
It reminded me of the astronauts a little. How many humans have been in space? Twelve actually walked on the moon. Of the earth’s population throughout history, what decimal point of a percentage is that? Isn’t that why people want to meet astronauts? To hear something new and novel and profound? What a responsibility that must be for them. I’ve heard that Neil Armstrong is quiet, introspective, and private, and that people resent him for that—for not being a more public figure after his historic and unique experience. But, really, how would you describe it? I can’t even capture an experience in the Rockies or in these clouds. One astronaut, when asked what the moon was like, said, “It was really great.”
Greater than this cavern, I thought.
Then we fell. Hard.
I don’t know how far the first drop was, but when the wings slammed down on a mass of air, it rattled our bones. After a few seconds, the pilot reminded us to keep our seatbelts on—that this turbulence would probably last until Chicago. Gone was the paved skyway, and now onto the country, washboard, potholed road.
I guess the turbulence shook the novelty out of me. All I wanted to do was land. I began to feel very overheated and began to sweat. The gray-whiteness all around me was making me sick. We could be doing summersaults, I thought, and then became convinced of the very thing. Suddenly, raindrops began appearing on my window, and watching their path across the Plexiglas reminded me of the raindrops on a car window, and my comportment was restored. Seconds later, we slipped out of the cloud, seemingly inches above the runway, and rolled onto the land.
I’m glad that’s over, I thought. But then I thought back to the crystal cavern of cloud. It was really great.
Although the cumulonimbus clouds were generally below us, huge grey-white walls jutted up in front of us so high that our miniscule plane seemed to be only at the foot of a new mountain. The pilot had announced we were traveling over 400 miles per hour, yet it felt as though we merely hovered about the crags of cottony cliffs, the scale was so great.
Slowly, our hummingbird floated about, but then something must have startled it, for as we neared the towering Cliffs of Oblivion, we darted in quickly with impressive dexterity and speed. Once inside the pillowy wall, all bearings drained quickly away. Were we moving or not? When the plane banked to the left, it was difficult to tell if we stopped banking or if we simply kept rolling over. I gripped my seat and noticed the lady across the aisle simultaneously did the same. We both laughed a short, quiet, nervous laugh.
We would burst into inner cloud chambers—small rooms in which we could see cloud walls, ceiling, and floor before piercing the opposite wall. One chamber, though, was simply massive. The room itself was bigger than I even imagined clouds could be. The plane emerged from one wall to find itself floating in this cavern of white, surrounded at a distance by cloud. This room was also different in that a shaft of sun had forced its way in from the upper left, reflecting off the crystal clouds, emphasizing stalactite- and stalagmite-like formations. I was momentarily surprised that the sun was not below us, shining up. We hovered about in the room for a full minute or two, and I thought that this is the safest place there is. No one could find you here. How exotic this is, I thought. Of all the people who have ever lived on the face of the earth, how many have experienced this? Call me Icarus.
It reminded me of the astronauts a little. How many humans have been in space? Twelve actually walked on the moon. Of the earth’s population throughout history, what decimal point of a percentage is that? Isn’t that why people want to meet astronauts? To hear something new and novel and profound? What a responsibility that must be for them. I’ve heard that Neil Armstrong is quiet, introspective, and private, and that people resent him for that—for not being a more public figure after his historic and unique experience. But, really, how would you describe it? I can’t even capture an experience in the Rockies or in these clouds. One astronaut, when asked what the moon was like, said, “It was really great.”
Greater than this cavern, I thought.
Then we fell. Hard.
I don’t know how far the first drop was, but when the wings slammed down on a mass of air, it rattled our bones. After a few seconds, the pilot reminded us to keep our seatbelts on—that this turbulence would probably last until Chicago. Gone was the paved skyway, and now onto the country, washboard, potholed road.
I guess the turbulence shook the novelty out of me. All I wanted to do was land. I began to feel very overheated and began to sweat. The gray-whiteness all around me was making me sick. We could be doing summersaults, I thought, and then became convinced of the very thing. Suddenly, raindrops began appearing on my window, and watching their path across the Plexiglas reminded me of the raindrops on a car window, and my comportment was restored. Seconds later, we slipped out of the cloud, seemingly inches above the runway, and rolled onto the land.
I’m glad that’s over, I thought. But then I thought back to the crystal cavern of cloud. It was really great.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Professional Development (in every sense of the term)
At a professional development conference recently, I had the opportunity to attend a session led by a woman from the US Department of Education. She is one of about 50 advisors to Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings concerning educational policy and legislation. She was here to gain teacher input concerning No Child Left Behind and to tell us some of the changes that may be in effect as the NCLB law is reauthorized in the near future.
Many people have significant issues with the accountability system. I don't think the law is perfect, but I am not ready to discard an imperfect reform for a return to a completely broken educational system. Special education teachers seem to have more issues with the law than anyone else, and (I think) they have the most justification for their complaints.
At this session, I was so proud to be a teacher in the room. The other participants voiced their concerns in clear, calm, and professional terms. The session leader listened to the concerns, compared them to concerns from other states, and explained when federal legislation was the root of the issue and when it was really a state implementation problem. (She did this so we would know which legislators to contact for advocacy.) The most exciting part came when she explained the changes that were coming about in the law due to previous teacher input. I believe most teachers left more in favor with the law.
Except one.
One woman sat in the corner with her needle work and ... I'm not sure what verb to use here. It was more than complaining. She was loud and very rude. She actually hurled insults at the presenter. She would hold the group hostage with long, rambling tirades that made little to no sense and scoffed at every response from the presenter. She looked stupid. She embarrassed herself--even if she doesn't know it--and she embarrassed this profession. What other profession would tolerate such behavior? My third graders behave better than that!
This woman came for professional development? It may be time to start developing more professionalism in this profession. Some teachers really shoot our profession in the foot as they insist on talking during faculty meetings and conferences, coming late to events, dressing in lackadaisical ways, and upholding a culture of negativity. While there has been a general shift towards professional learning communities in schools, there are some tenacious weeds still among us.
With so many products on the market for educators (including an antacid I recently saw designed specifically for teachers, whatever that means), I’m thinking about making a new “weed” killer. Except, it won’t be a spray with which we shoot persistently negative “teachers”. It will be like a health elixir that strengthens tendencies of grace and humility while inoculating against whininess and rudeness. It will drive people to shun incompetence and instill a deep desire for collaboration. Those that refuse to drink the elixir will either breathe it in from the other teachers that become intoxicated with it, or else they will slink away when they realized their attitude is futile.
I can’t tell you what good it does me to have these fantasies!
As a para-postscript, let me discuss some of this elixir’s vital ingredients: grace and humility. Actually, first let me describe what these ingredients are not. Being gracious does not mean being a doormat. Humility does not mean thinking poorly of oneself. Being gracious means treating people better than they deserve to be treated. Imagine a world of gracious people—on the road, in the grocery store, in the workroom, in the faculty meeting, in front of students. Humility is not false modesty. It is simply not thinking of yourself; it is thinking of others first and foremost. What if we all only thought of the people around us and strove to meet their needs and also treated them better than they deserve? Of course, I think we could add a few spices to this elixir: Humor, self-reflection, collaboration, professionalism, and cinnamon.
I think it should be coffee flavored.
Many people have significant issues with the accountability system. I don't think the law is perfect, but I am not ready to discard an imperfect reform for a return to a completely broken educational system. Special education teachers seem to have more issues with the law than anyone else, and (I think) they have the most justification for their complaints.
At this session, I was so proud to be a teacher in the room. The other participants voiced their concerns in clear, calm, and professional terms. The session leader listened to the concerns, compared them to concerns from other states, and explained when federal legislation was the root of the issue and when it was really a state implementation problem. (She did this so we would know which legislators to contact for advocacy.) The most exciting part came when she explained the changes that were coming about in the law due to previous teacher input. I believe most teachers left more in favor with the law.
Except one.
One woman sat in the corner with her needle work and ... I'm not sure what verb to use here. It was more than complaining. She was loud and very rude. She actually hurled insults at the presenter. She would hold the group hostage with long, rambling tirades that made little to no sense and scoffed at every response from the presenter. She looked stupid. She embarrassed herself--even if she doesn't know it--and she embarrassed this profession. What other profession would tolerate such behavior? My third graders behave better than that!
This woman came for professional development? It may be time to start developing more professionalism in this profession. Some teachers really shoot our profession in the foot as they insist on talking during faculty meetings and conferences, coming late to events, dressing in lackadaisical ways, and upholding a culture of negativity. While there has been a general shift towards professional learning communities in schools, there are some tenacious weeds still among us.
With so many products on the market for educators (including an antacid I recently saw designed specifically for teachers, whatever that means), I’m thinking about making a new “weed” killer. Except, it won’t be a spray with which we shoot persistently negative “teachers”. It will be like a health elixir that strengthens tendencies of grace and humility while inoculating against whininess and rudeness. It will drive people to shun incompetence and instill a deep desire for collaboration. Those that refuse to drink the elixir will either breathe it in from the other teachers that become intoxicated with it, or else they will slink away when they realized their attitude is futile.
I can’t tell you what good it does me to have these fantasies!
As a para-postscript, let me discuss some of this elixir’s vital ingredients: grace and humility. Actually, first let me describe what these ingredients are not. Being gracious does not mean being a doormat. Humility does not mean thinking poorly of oneself. Being gracious means treating people better than they deserve to be treated. Imagine a world of gracious people—on the road, in the grocery store, in the workroom, in the faculty meeting, in front of students. Humility is not false modesty. It is simply not thinking of yourself; it is thinking of others first and foremost. What if we all only thought of the people around us and strove to meet their needs and also treated them better than they deserve? Of course, I think we could add a few spices to this elixir: Humor, self-reflection, collaboration, professionalism, and cinnamon.
I think it should be coffee flavored.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Rocky Mountain High
"I feel so clean." This from the seventh passenger crammed next to me in the back of a seven-passenger minivan. She continued, "I feel so healed. I feel so terrified."
We were high up in the Rocky Mountains--above the tree line where the air was clear albeit sparse. Moments before I had been kneeling with my face down low and my fingers palpating the ground so that my first experience with tundra could make as much sense as possible. Many visitors attempted to take in the mountains and elk by peering into 1 inch LCD screens on the back of digital media—not an easy task, I imagine.
I personally was not in need of healing prior to making the ascent, but I knew what the woman meant. The natural education we received was bone deep. It was enormous and powerful; severe and protective; indefinable.
Although I lack the ability to describe sufficiently what I perceived and thought, let me give some hazy impressions in contrast with some westward-expansion era art I saw while here in the Rockies. In these two-hundred-year old paintings of the west--Rockies included--the land is always very prominent, imposing, and majestic. People in the paintings are small and insignificant, often lacking much detail. That is how it feels to crawl across these landscapes. They are so massive--more than any picture can relate--and it is difficult to feel big enough to claim any ownership of it. Also in the paintings--American Progress comes to mind--the west is portrayed under furious storm clouds. Usually there is a break in the storm depicted by a brilliant sun and blue sky bursting forth from the east as civilization blows in. That is not how it feels in the Rockies. On the contrary (from my brief sampling,) l know the sky as clear and the air fresh. The storms of barbarity are clearly over the cities, developments, and subdivisions.
We made the descent in relative silence. On the ascent, everyone had talked about hobbies, movies, and work until someone had pointed out the beauty of the earth slipping past our windows at thirty miles per hour. Then we had scrambled and clawed to find adequate language to express the experience. The word "awesome" was uttered, but it seemed so inadequate. The more I think about it though, "awesome" is the right word. Perhaps we have raddled the word with misuse, but l think of the word the way Melville would have employed it...the way he did when he wrote, "this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath".
The conversation after the descent was different, quiet, humbled. The passengers talked of spouses and longings and the importance of compassion.
Healed? Cleaned? Perhaps to a degree. Me, I felt impressed--not only in an amazed sort of way, but in an impacted sort of way. The Rockies, it seems, pressed their shape into me a little. I'm sure if I had more time, that indelible mark would be a deeper and more affective dent in me than it is. I would like it to be.
--Thanks to Laura for the initial quotes and Mark (of Estes Park) for the art education
We were high up in the Rocky Mountains--above the tree line where the air was clear albeit sparse. Moments before I had been kneeling with my face down low and my fingers palpating the ground so that my first experience with tundra could make as much sense as possible. Many visitors attempted to take in the mountains and elk by peering into 1 inch LCD screens on the back of digital media—not an easy task, I imagine.
I personally was not in need of healing prior to making the ascent, but I knew what the woman meant. The natural education we received was bone deep. It was enormous and powerful; severe and protective; indefinable.
Although I lack the ability to describe sufficiently what I perceived and thought, let me give some hazy impressions in contrast with some westward-expansion era art I saw while here in the Rockies. In these two-hundred-year old paintings of the west--Rockies included--the land is always very prominent, imposing, and majestic. People in the paintings are small and insignificant, often lacking much detail. That is how it feels to crawl across these landscapes. They are so massive--more than any picture can relate--and it is difficult to feel big enough to claim any ownership of it. Also in the paintings--American Progress comes to mind--the west is portrayed under furious storm clouds. Usually there is a break in the storm depicted by a brilliant sun and blue sky bursting forth from the east as civilization blows in. That is not how it feels in the Rockies. On the contrary (from my brief sampling,) l know the sky as clear and the air fresh. The storms of barbarity are clearly over the cities, developments, and subdivisions.
We made the descent in relative silence. On the ascent, everyone had talked about hobbies, movies, and work until someone had pointed out the beauty of the earth slipping past our windows at thirty miles per hour. Then we had scrambled and clawed to find adequate language to express the experience. The word "awesome" was uttered, but it seemed so inadequate. The more I think about it though, "awesome" is the right word. Perhaps we have raddled the word with misuse, but l think of the word the way Melville would have employed it...the way he did when he wrote, "this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath".
The conversation after the descent was different, quiet, humbled. The passengers talked of spouses and longings and the importance of compassion.
Healed? Cleaned? Perhaps to a degree. Me, I felt impressed--not only in an amazed sort of way, but in an impacted sort of way. The Rockies, it seems, pressed their shape into me a little. I'm sure if I had more time, that indelible mark would be a deeper and more affective dent in me than it is. I would like it to be.
--Thanks to Laura for the initial quotes and Mark (of Estes Park) for the art education
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Spelling Bee
From the way I see it, the Spelling Bee is a good way to discourage 90% of each classroom from being excited about spelling as we send 10% of each classroom off to compete with all the other ten percents. Then, in the school wide spelling bee, you have the unique opportunity to make 9 out of the 10 best spellers in the school go home crying.
Today was our school spelling bee for 2nd and 3rd graders. It left me wondering, “What are Spelling Bees supposed to do? Can someone tell me again?”
I am an amazingly good speller, as was my father before me, as was his mother before him. I am terrible at Spelling Bees, as was my father before me. I don’t know about his mother on that one. In 4th, 5th, and 6th grade, I always did well on the spelling bees, but made ridiculous errors near the end. In 7th grade, I was determined to win—not because I wanted the “gold” bee on a trophy, but because my teacher said she had never had a spelling bee winner in her three years of teaching. And, I was relatively in love with her. This would be my way to be her hero. I told her I would win the spelling bee for her.
In the classroom preliminaries, my first word was “park”.
“Park,” I said. “P-R-A-K. Park.” She corrected me, and I was immediately embarrassed. But, then she threw it out and gave me a new word. She was giving me a break! She liked me! That was my only mistake. After that, I was careful and ended up representing our class against 28 other contestants in 7th grade. Out of a grade level of nearly 1,000 students, I was pretty proud.
My dad came to watch the spelling bee contest, held in our spacious school library. I sailed through my first two words, as did everyone else. My third word was “historical”.
“Historical.” I took a deep breath; this would be easy. “H-I-S,” I breathed quickly. “T-O-R-I-C-A-L.” I sat down smugly. But, I was called back up. The word was judged to be incorrect. I challenged it. They played back the tape. I had started so quickly that the only thing anyone heard—including the tape recorder—was “H-S…T-O-R-I-C-A-L.” The “I” was absent; even I had to admit it.
My romantic prospects went down the drain. I sat next to my teacher for a few moments, and she offered no consolation. Then I asked if I could sit with my dad, and she said that would be OK.
After the Spelling Bee, dad said, “You know, in my seventh grade spelling bee, I went out on the word ‘park’. I spelled it P-R-A-K.”
Today was our school spelling bee for 2nd and 3rd graders. It left me wondering, “What are Spelling Bees supposed to do? Can someone tell me again?”
I am an amazingly good speller, as was my father before me, as was his mother before him. I am terrible at Spelling Bees, as was my father before me. I don’t know about his mother on that one. In 4th, 5th, and 6th grade, I always did well on the spelling bees, but made ridiculous errors near the end. In 7th grade, I was determined to win—not because I wanted the “gold” bee on a trophy, but because my teacher said she had never had a spelling bee winner in her three years of teaching. And, I was relatively in love with her. This would be my way to be her hero. I told her I would win the spelling bee for her.
In the classroom preliminaries, my first word was “park”.
“Park,” I said. “P-R-A-K. Park.” She corrected me, and I was immediately embarrassed. But, then she threw it out and gave me a new word. She was giving me a break! She liked me! That was my only mistake. After that, I was careful and ended up representing our class against 28 other contestants in 7th grade. Out of a grade level of nearly 1,000 students, I was pretty proud.
My dad came to watch the spelling bee contest, held in our spacious school library. I sailed through my first two words, as did everyone else. My third word was “historical”.
“Historical.” I took a deep breath; this would be easy. “H-I-S,” I breathed quickly. “T-O-R-I-C-A-L.” I sat down smugly. But, I was called back up. The word was judged to be incorrect. I challenged it. They played back the tape. I had started so quickly that the only thing anyone heard—including the tape recorder—was “H-S…T-O-R-I-C-A-L.” The “I” was absent; even I had to admit it.
My romantic prospects went down the drain. I sat next to my teacher for a few moments, and she offered no consolation. Then I asked if I could sit with my dad, and she said that would be OK.
After the Spelling Bee, dad said, “You know, in my seventh grade spelling bee, I went out on the word ‘park’. I spelled it P-R-A-K.”
Friday, January 05, 2007
The Calm After the Storm
January is in, and the whirlwind of December has receded. In an earlier post, I cited some wisdom found in Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, and I am compelled to do so again. Particularly, I am reminded of Mole when he said:
“After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.”
Mole's view complements Ma Ingall’s stark heterodox in a contrasting sort of way.
“The earthly life is a battle,” Ma said. “If it isn’t one thing to contend with, it’s another. It always has been so and it always will be. The sooner you make up your mind to that, the better off you are, and the more thankful for your pleasures.”
My wife surprised me in November by mentioning Christmas traditions. She wants us to be proactive in determining our family’s nascent traditions. What will they be? What is important to us? What defines our family and speaks of the true spirit of Christmas? In doing so, we each discussed our traditions growing up. Someone once said that marriage is two histories colliding, but in many cases we are more of two histories merging. Defining our traditions is not going to incur major battles and conflicts.
Anyway, I happened into JC Penny as they were taking down Christmas decorations. One was a giant shiny, red spiral cone that resembled a Christmas tree only in the vaguest sense. I thought it represented today’s Christmas pretty well—vague and ambiguous. It reminded me of a poster I saw for sale recently. It was a large photo of a highly embellished Christmas tree complete with gifts and lights. The idea being if your apartment is too small for a Christmas tree, you could still have one on your living room wall.
What an evolution Christmas trees have seen since they migrated from Germany to England. From evergreens with candles to red metal spirals. Candles are obviously a ridiculous idea on a dead evergreen inside a tinderbox house. Then came electric lights, which still could get pretty hot. Then came artificial trees, which can still burn if given enough persuasion. Now we have artificial trees that have built in lights, which seems like a good idea until one burns out. And we also have artificial trees in every color including pink…plus tree posters and red spiral metal cones.
I bet it won’t be too long before we are buying giant LCD screens to stand in a corner of the parlor. We will program what kind of evergreen we want—say, spruce, which is my favorite, or a red metal spiral for JC Penny (my apologies for kicking a dead horse)—download ornaments and lights and click to decorate. During the rest of the year, we will download ficas trees or yeti to stand in its place. We’re practically already there. We’ve got LCD screens to look like fireplaces and aquariums. They’ll be hanging on every wall with folk art, masterpieces, kids’ pictures, and poems changing every month. So why not Christmas trees? Hey, why not give fake gifts, too? Instead of giving real gifts that mean something, why not just give money? If everybody did it, it would work out OK in the end. If everybody gave everybody $20 in an envelope, then Christmas wouldn’t be such a financial burden and we could all just relax.
One of my students is Jewish, and his mother wanted to come in to talk to the kids about Chanukah. Why not? Well, it wasn’t pretty. Not only did it take up 30 minutes of the winter holiday party, she berated the apparently invidious children for inflicting Christmas on the rest of the culture. “Jews didn’t give gifts for Chanukah,” she said. “It’s the festival of lights. That’s all.” This after she told the amazing story of the Maccabees. “But, all you kids were getting presents for Christmas and little Jewish kids were left out, so we had to change Chanukah into a gift-giving holiday.” Oh, and she continued to obtrude, and it wasn’t subtle. One of the third graders actually went up to her son later in the party and apologized.
So, I guess Christmas is not the only evolving holiday. So Christmas has evolved to a mere resemblance of itself. So what? That’s life and culture, right? I know it’s kind of late to be commenting on Christmas, and it’s pretty much the same ol’ backlash commentary that Charles Schultz made 40-some years ago through Charlie Brown’s Christmas TV Special. I don't find Christmas nettlesome, I promise; I was just noticing, acknowledging. I like red spiral trees, even if I don’t put one in my house.
May we all simply inspect our motives for our actions and traditions on Christmas as on every day.
“After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.”
Mole's view complements Ma Ingall’s stark heterodox in a contrasting sort of way.
“The earthly life is a battle,” Ma said. “If it isn’t one thing to contend with, it’s another. It always has been so and it always will be. The sooner you make up your mind to that, the better off you are, and the more thankful for your pleasures.”
My wife surprised me in November by mentioning Christmas traditions. She wants us to be proactive in determining our family’s nascent traditions. What will they be? What is important to us? What defines our family and speaks of the true spirit of Christmas? In doing so, we each discussed our traditions growing up. Someone once said that marriage is two histories colliding, but in many cases we are more of two histories merging. Defining our traditions is not going to incur major battles and conflicts.
Anyway, I happened into JC Penny as they were taking down Christmas decorations. One was a giant shiny, red spiral cone that resembled a Christmas tree only in the vaguest sense. I thought it represented today’s Christmas pretty well—vague and ambiguous. It reminded me of a poster I saw for sale recently. It was a large photo of a highly embellished Christmas tree complete with gifts and lights. The idea being if your apartment is too small for a Christmas tree, you could still have one on your living room wall.
What an evolution Christmas trees have seen since they migrated from Germany to England. From evergreens with candles to red metal spirals. Candles are obviously a ridiculous idea on a dead evergreen inside a tinderbox house. Then came electric lights, which still could get pretty hot. Then came artificial trees, which can still burn if given enough persuasion. Now we have artificial trees that have built in lights, which seems like a good idea until one burns out. And we also have artificial trees in every color including pink…plus tree posters and red spiral metal cones.
I bet it won’t be too long before we are buying giant LCD screens to stand in a corner of the parlor. We will program what kind of evergreen we want—say, spruce, which is my favorite, or a red metal spiral for JC Penny (my apologies for kicking a dead horse)—download ornaments and lights and click to decorate. During the rest of the year, we will download ficas trees or yeti to stand in its place. We’re practically already there. We’ve got LCD screens to look like fireplaces and aquariums. They’ll be hanging on every wall with folk art, masterpieces, kids’ pictures, and poems changing every month. So why not Christmas trees? Hey, why not give fake gifts, too? Instead of giving real gifts that mean something, why not just give money? If everybody did it, it would work out OK in the end. If everybody gave everybody $20 in an envelope, then Christmas wouldn’t be such a financial burden and we could all just relax.
One of my students is Jewish, and his mother wanted to come in to talk to the kids about Chanukah. Why not? Well, it wasn’t pretty. Not only did it take up 30 minutes of the winter holiday party, she berated the apparently invidious children for inflicting Christmas on the rest of the culture. “Jews didn’t give gifts for Chanukah,” she said. “It’s the festival of lights. That’s all.” This after she told the amazing story of the Maccabees. “But, all you kids were getting presents for Christmas and little Jewish kids were left out, so we had to change Chanukah into a gift-giving holiday.” Oh, and she continued to obtrude, and it wasn’t subtle. One of the third graders actually went up to her son later in the party and apologized.
So, I guess Christmas is not the only evolving holiday. So Christmas has evolved to a mere resemblance of itself. So what? That’s life and culture, right? I know it’s kind of late to be commenting on Christmas, and it’s pretty much the same ol’ backlash commentary that Charles Schultz made 40-some years ago through Charlie Brown’s Christmas TV Special. I don't find Christmas nettlesome, I promise; I was just noticing, acknowledging. I like red spiral trees, even if I don’t put one in my house.
May we all simply inspect our motives for our actions and traditions on Christmas as on every day.
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