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January 05, 2008

Art

The artist made this work just because she could.

But the powers that be were not amused. It was thought that the work was destroying the order of our civilization. It must be stopped and further, all signs of the first work had to be destroyed, covered up as if it never was

The artist was unmoved. She did it again, regardless of the fate of her first work. It was her joy, and gave the hours of her life meaning. For what other purpose was she made, but for this very thing?

She did not resent the powers, and she gave them no mind.

I saw her work, and was impressed by the layers. The artful strokes showing an admirable strength, and the mix of medium were unusual.

Perhaps this work was destructive. But I was moved none the less.


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and a portrait of the artist
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October 14, 2007

a tufa about talent

So I was listening to This American Life, and a girl was talking aboiut her terrible breakup. Her breakup was so bad that she spent months doing little other than listening to sad breakup songs. She was wallowing, and wanted to wallow. At last she decided that she must purge the endless wallow by compsoing her own breakup song.

She managed to get the email of Phil Collins, the author of her favorite breakup song "Against all Odds". He wrote her back and they had a phone call about the tragedy of breakups and how to write a good breakup song.

I guess this is why the story is interesting enough to be put on the radio. Oh my gosh! Phil COLLINS! Giving this pathetic girl advice on how to write a break up song.

Phil Collins is very talented.

Talent can be debilitating to those around you. Like, after a concert, the incredible talent of the guy on stage can leave you weak kneed and speechless because you were that close to such an incredible talent.

And even a lesser talent...How about a school play, when the teenagers gave a killer rendition of "Our Town" or "Cyrano"? The other kids fawn and stand back with wide eyes, full of hero-worship.

There are kinds of talent that make people love you...That roll the red carpet out in front of you and make you a god.

But there are different kinds of talent. Or maybe different kinds of reactions to talent.

I ran across an article celebrating the 50th anniversary of Atlas Shrugged.

I love Rand's books. I was telling a friend about Atlas Shrugged, and how when I read it, the book had me by the throat. I like to read, but this book was above and beyond. I was so into it, I was reading it at stoplights while driving.

She talks about the other kinds of talent. How some people can respond to talent by denying it and persecuting those who have it.

The talent of speaking his vision got Dr. King killed.

And then Jesus...I suppose you could argue that he was different, because he was the Son of GOD, but then again, maybe he was exactly the best example of that sort of talent.

Dagny, the heroine of Atlas Shrugged, first felt how it was to be treated for her talent. Her father owned the railroad. She wanted to work there, and started at the bottom to do it.

I will never forget this part of the book:

She took positions of responsibility because there was no one else to take them. There were a few rare men of talent around her. but they were becoming rarer every year. Her superiors, who held the authority, seemed afriad to exercise it, they spent their time avoiding decisions, so she told peopel what to do and they did it. At every step of her rise, she did the work long before she was granted the title. It was like advancing through empty rooms. NObody opposed her, but nobody approved of her progress.

The thing was, she was young as she was advancing in her career. Later, she began to see more of the world and how this particular incidence she had experienced was much broadspread.

I am not sure exactly why some talents are lauded and some persecuted.

It does charge the air, though, when it shows up.

August 13, 2007

The assumed Yes

Luke 11:10-11:13

I'm going to get preachy, just a little bit.

Funny, I'm almost always preachy. But I guess the sermon isn't a sermon 'til we get to chapter and verse.

That verse talks about asking for things.

If your child asks you for something, something that is good for them and not bad for them, you give it.

Kids usually know when the yes is assumed. Yes, it is assumed that they can have a glass of water. A can of soda...maybe not. Yes, they can read a book. Can they watch that TV show? maybe not.

But for good things, they answer is usually yes. So much a yes, that the question is not always asked.

It is assumed that the answer will be yes. Parents set the answer machine to 'yes'.

But there are other times when the answer machine is set to 'yes'. My neighbor had confided in me that it was a problem for her, to refrain for 'yes' when people asked her for help.

Because there are times when yes is not the right answer.

For your children, for your spouse, the yes should be assumed.

But everyone else...case-by-case basis.

I used to be much more about the yes. But...it was abused at a young age. There were so many things that were assumed I would go along with, that the question was never asked.

Did I want to? the thought didn't have a chance to germinate before I was doing it.

And it could get easily tangled. Was it my problem that I did not acquiesce to the unasked? It was assumed that I surely was in agreement.

But since I reached the age of accountability, I was able to contemplate all sorts of other things I wanted to do, things that I would have liked to ask for and hear yes to.

This made me hyper aware of when things were assumed. Yes, I can see that it was assumed I would clean the microwave at work.

My 'yes' was assumed.

But just because it is assumed doesn't mean that it has to be given. I can not do things now, because my volition is entirely within my own power.

HOORAY FOR BEING AN ADULT!

I get to choose.

And there are things that I do choose to say yes to.

And things I don't.

August 08, 2007

Hero in search of an epic

It was high school graduation, and as the only member of my graduating class, it would have been a tree falling in a forest with no one around to hear.

But that was not my way. I was going to make it into an event.

I had been in home school, with no proms and no homecoming. I had never had any of those fun events, but I was going to have a graduation. And if I possibly could, I would pack that small scrap that fell off the rich table of everyone else's high school experience into my pathetic life--I would pack that graduation celebration with as much of the other things I'd missed as possible.

And of course, the biggest grievance to me was the lack of formal wear. I was going to have a party, and I would ask my friends to dress formally.

Which meant that i would have the occasion to create a confectionary concoction of a gown. I drew it and patched together parts of different patterns so that the sleeves of one, the bodice of another and the hem of the last would result in my fantasy dress.

Sewing was the only way I could conceive of getting a dress like this. We were not people who bought clothes off the rack; it was hand-me-downs or sew it yourself if you wanted something particular.

So, the pattern was ready, but I still needed to find the perfect fabric.

I wanted to go shopping in Anchorage for it. And I thought of a friend to go with. She had graduated last year, but she was willing to go shopping with me.

Becky was always nice. I met her at her house and we made our way into Anchorage. We looked around and found the fabric I wanted, eventually.

It was a very low-key day. And I was not feeling low-key. But I thought about it a little, and realized that I really couldn't expect much else.

"You know, Becky, days can just be like that. That you maybe are wishing for something spectacular, but for the most part, days are just pretty much ordinary."

She looked at me and said, "Yes, days are pretty much ordinary."

I don't know if she had any idea what I was talking about. I'm not sure if it is a feeling that other people have.

Sometimes I feel like a flame, that I am HOT and consuming. Books, ideas, shows, projects, actions...I want to be always in the middle, and maybe enough is never enough.

I graduated a long time ago.

THIS summer, I am getting ready to get married. I am also launching an impressive e-commerce website and having a 350 sq. ft. addition built on my house.

THAT's a lot of a lot.
Any one of those things could become overwhelming. But because there were three things, Chris and I were very focussed and took care of each thing in order.

Two weeks ago, we launched the website very successfully. There are still some loose ends to take care of and we need to organize the exciting world of keeping it running, but our customers are happy and so are we.

Which leaves me now with only TWO overwhelming things to do.

I feel sort of empty.

A while back, when I was even more clueless than I am now, i went to a "networking" event. Everyone was supposed to wear a name tag and put what they were looking for underneath it.

I put down "a challenge."

And I am still looking for a challenge.

The Incredibles talks about this a little. The problem of ability vs. the utter mundanity of life

Should we stretch ourselves to greater capacity?

Like Frodo! Ah, what a glorious tale of an ordinary guy who saves the world.

I am waiting for my chance to save the world.

I found a very cool online comic strip. Yes, I'm a huge fan of Tolkien, and love the movies. But here is a satire, as if the adventures they were having were a kind of Dungeons and Dragons game.

It's an EPIC story, the kind used for fodder in games like D&D. And the dungeon master is narrating their adventure at a certain plot point:

You run tirelessly through the endless grasslands

the players, the HEROES talk back to the narrator/Dungeon Master:
'You mean we run endlessly through tiresome grasslands, don't you?"

And therein is our problem. What does it take to get a good epic? We are heroes, aren't we? Dispense with this ridiculous petty earthbound reality! Where are the dragons to slay?

And don't make me fight through stop and go traffic to get there! I should be impervious to the laws of physics and weakness!

*sigh*

Excuse me, the cell phone is rining to remind to not to forget the cover sheet on the TPS reports.

July 16, 2007

while we are on the subject

In a recent post, i was whining about how hard it is to write about inspiration....about how hard it is to be believable with good news.

i said you had to die or no one would believe you.

But that brought to mine something else.

The greeks, those old drama queens, had strict definitions of tragedy and comedy.

Tragedy pretty much HAD to end in someone dying. Because...well, come on! it has to be SAD.

But that made me remember the definition of comedy...It ends in a marriage:


final scene, in which the predominant note is rejoicing, generally leading up to a feast or wedding. The play may conclude with a cordax or riotous dance.

so...if you look at it THAT way...there are a TON TON TON of happy movies that involve love.

Just because I don't find them believable doesn't mean that others are drawn in. Romantic movies--comedies and tragedies--are ALL OVER.

so, I guess we believe in the transcendance of love.

...i just wish that it were broader than mere romantic or sexual love...

July 11, 2007

the borders of language and the universe

So I've been listening to this awesome podcast of "Proof" on The Play's the Thing

It's a play about, among other things, MATH.

I don't have a firm grasp on math. It was my worst subject in school. Now that I am older, I think that they way math is expected to be learned in school was part of my problem.

I always wanted to know WHY. I didn't understand the logic behind the math and felt very uncomfortable relying on assumptions that I knew where hidden to me. It felt like a deception, and I didn't want to be taken in.

"Why do I have to show my work? And why do I have to keep both sides of the equation equal? Who says?"

What I didn't understand is that math is a language. Math is an incredibly precisely defined set of symbols (like an alphabet..and often borrowed from alphabets!) to express ideas.

And the gatekeepers of math are super rigorous in enforcing that specific definition. The community of people fluent in the language of math expect precision in communication. It simply doesn't go if it is not correct.

I remember the movie "Close Encounters of the Third Kind"...They said that the aliens would OF COURSE try to use math to initiate the first communication.

And that would make sense, because of the precise nature of math-speak. We would know for sure what we were communicating.

Math is a wonderful tool.

The thing is, though, that a lot of stuff has excluded from math. Math shrunk the universe...or at least lopped off the parts that are not as precise as math needs them to be.

I've talked about this before.

It's a beautiful, elegant tool to help us understand our universe.

I've always thought that the definition of luxury was to have the perfect tool at hand for anything you needed to do. Such as, the perfect chair to accomplish the task of sitting.

The perfect beautiful plate and fork so I could eat.

A good hammer, or screwdriver are wonderful things too.

I have an electric sander that is great...but I'm not so sure that it does exaclty what I want it to do. It may be that I don't know how to use it right, though.

Tools do take that. You have to know how to use them, or they are not useful. I wish that I undestood more math, but I am impatient with math. It does not address the problems that bother me.

I WANT precise definitions...no, I actually want to explore the imprecise. To grab that barely understood idea or experience and nail it down. But they flip past really fast, and it's hard to capture.

I am finding out too, that math is not as precise either. They are making guesses a lot too. Euclydian geometry is great! but it can't tell you how big the earth is.

And the learning shape of the universe (which we don't know for sure) can change everything.

It's easy to think, "The shape of the universe? How could that possibly be important to little me?"

But it is. Knowing that answer would be a huge building block in our ability to...do so many things we haven't even thought of yet.

Math can't tell me the shape of the universe. It is guessing right now.

which means it is not a precise as I want.

Wasn't I just talking about this? I was just saying that I was having trouble expressing the nature of experienced transcendence...or enlightenment..?

[both these terms irritate me with their imprecision. I can't find the correct, elegant word to express what I mean...and then again, even if I did find the word that felt right to me, I would be completely uncertain about whether that same shape and flavor of meaning had been transmitted to the persons I am talkign to]

it's imprecise, and we don't know. The shape of the universe or how to express enlightenment, both these things are being reached for and guessed at.

The beauty of math is in the precision...and yet the imprecision hangs on the edges. And FRUSTRATES those of us who love precision.

And I don't even know any math. I am attracted to learning some. But I think that the learning curve for math is a bit steeper than for my electric sander.

July 07, 2007

You have to die

I've been very busy lately.

Super busy. I have three projects going on that would each on their own justify saying I"m super busy. And I am doing all three.

But those three things are actually chugging along pretty well. I'm past the panic point and have moved on to the part where I am criticising myself for not getting OTHER stuff done.

Yes. I know. I should not be so hard on myself. But it's like clockwork. I could even predict it coming while I was still panicking about the first three things.

Okay. So the part of my life that I am frustrated about neglecting is my writing.

I have this book, you know? Not the one I've already written, I feel bad enough about neglecting that one's publicity program.

But there is that other book that I was writing long before I started and finished the Miriam story.

Okay. So, I've been stuck on the story. I've written the first half, the part where I am in Alaska at home, despairing and losing faith.

despair, losing faith--check.

Now I am trying to write about my trip to Russian and about transcending despair and rekindling my faith.

I am really happy with the first part that I wrote. I did a very good job of tracing the path from innocence to jaded cynic. Metaphor and description all over the place. Very nice.

So in the story, I'm trudging along pissed and angry, but coping because I am playing it smart and close to the chest.

Which is SO easy to do. Meaning, it is easy to write about being pissed off and having unfair shit happen to you.

It's easy because every every every one keeps that feeling of injustice and pissedness right close by. I'd say almost every day everyone has the chance to feel wronged and angry about it.

Every day we have a chance to scoop up a serving of decaying disillusionment and carry it around with us. And which of us can resist doing it? It's a passtime to think about , and talk about all the absurd things that others do to inconvenience or hurt you.

and that's just the everyday petty stuff. What about the really nasty stuff?

Literature is full of those kind of stories. REALLY good stories of wrongs done. Hamlet? Oedipus Rex?

There are so many many tragedies. And they are great. I've written before about how great movies and books are often really depressing

We are ready to believe bad stuff. We are ready to be depressed.

Okay. So how the hell am I supposed to write about transcendance? No one would believe me.

We are sure that the world sucks and that the universe is against us and is most likely totally unfair.

We are not sure that there is a reason and a overarching merciful justice. We...Well, I know _I_ ...don't buy flimsy trite enlightenment.

We don't buy it and feel further betrayed if someone tries to sell it to us.

"Yeah right...blah blah and now the world is full of smiling sunflowers. I don't buy it."

Which is to say, the second half of my book is waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy harder to write. The touchpoints of empathy for joy and peace are not worn on anyone's shirtsleeves.

And you know what else? It's not even that easy for me to reach. Yes, I can remember how it felt. But I have to feel it again I think, fully feel and recognize the mountain moving that I know then AGAIN NOW.

So I have to reach deep to find it. And if I can find it, then I have to write better than I've ever written before to make it convincing to someone else.

I was talking with a friend about it.
"Honestly, can you think of a single movie where a person achieved transcendence and it was believable?"

"...maybe Life is Beautiful?"

"Yeah, but he died."

That's the only way to make it believable. You have to kill someone.

Pay it forward? He died.

Mom was talking to me this morning about Tuesdays with Morrie...a book I find utterly unconvincing, but which I recognize as touching many many people.

Not to give it away, but Morrie died.

Martin Luther King jr. Ghandi...dead.

And EVEN JESUS DIED!!!! would NOT have worked if he didn't die. NO one would have believed it.

You have to die or no one believes you have anything worth remembering.

And no one died.

...mom says a cat died in Russia...but that was after I left and it was just a strange cat, not one we knew.

I'm stuck. I can't find someone to die.

March 06, 2007

The story of the people with holes like swiss cheese

Once upon a time, there were born a people who had holes in their bodies, just like Swiss cheese.

The people did not know why they had these holes. They were inconvenient and even hurt. Different holes would ache at different times. Some of the holes were inconveniently placed, making it awkward and sometimes impossible to go about the business of their day.

Some people were ashamed of these holes, and covered them up entirely with clothing.

Some people decided they were proud of their holes, at least some of their holes anyway. They wore clothes that showed off their favorite holes. They still took great pain to hide the holes they did not like, even while flaunting the other holes.

Some of the people began to look around them, and found stones or pieces of wood to push into their holes. The stones filled in the holes, and they felt strange at first. But the people saw that they could fill in the holes and be better able to do whatever they needed done.

The other people, the ones who covered the holes entirely with clothes, were outraged. “How can you draw attention to your holes in this way? It’s shameless!”

The people who flaunted their favorite holes were outraged. “How can you deny who you are and the way you are made? You are stopping up your natural holes.”

The people with the filled in holes heard what the others said. But they could see that their lives were easier because they had filled in their holes, so they did not change.

February 12, 2007

Nadia's Future

Once upon a time, a little girl had an apple tree. Her parents gave her the apple tree. As long as she could remember, they told her this story:

This is your future, little Nadia. You must tend this tree and make sure it is healthy and bears fruit.

It is a young tree now, but as it gets bigger it will make fruit that you can eat. There will be so many apples that you can eat and be full, and you will have apples left over to sell and buy the other things you need.

When it gets big, you can rest in its shade. When it rains, you can stay dry under the leaves. And if the wind blows, you will be safe under your tree.

We are your parents, and we love you. We give you this tree and you must take care of it, so that you will be safe and secure for all your days.

What an important tree! This tree became Nadia’s whole life. She tended it, and learned all the rules of tree husbandry from her mother and father.

She took great care to water the tree, and to shade it when the sun was too hot. She never strayed too far from the tree. All the things she did, she did with the tree in mind. Always in her thoughts were what the tree needed to be strong and healthy.

Her parents were very proud of her. In all the surrounding areas, people called on Nadia’s mother and father to help them with their trees. Her parents were known for their knowledge of trees.

Nadia grew and her tree grew. She sat in the slender, not-quite-sufficient shade of her beloved tree, dreaming of the apples she would one day gather.

But then her parents came to her with news. A far-away land needed their help and advice. These people had heard of this family’s skill with trees and called them to help plant a new orchard.

Her parents were going to help with this new orchard. Nadia was excited to think of helping these poor far-away people grow a new orchard.

But she would have to leave her tree—her precious tree, with all of her future in its roots and branches. She had cared for this tree for so long.

Her parents urged her to come. Her tree had been tended so carefully, the roots were deep and the branches were strong. It would be fine on its own for a little while. And these people needed her.

Nadia decided it was a good thing to go, so she left with her parents to help the far-away people.

No doubt Nadia knew a lot about trees. But one season followed another and more time than she intended passed.

Her parents were very involved in this new orchard and did not want to leave. Nadia thought of her own tree, though, and decided at last that she must return.

She said goodbye to her parents, who were sad to see her go but still very full of plans for this new orchard. She made her way back to her home and to her apple tree.

She thought of her tree the whole long road back. It would probably have small hard little pippins on it by now. It could be as soon as this fall that should would reap the fruits of all her childhood labors. How sweet it would be!

The landscape seemed changed somehow. It was familiar but not quite right, after she had been gone for so long. When she finally reached her apple tree, she understood.

The tree was gone. It was nothing but a small blackened nub of a stump in the ground.
What had happened? How could this be? Her mind staggered with the shock of loss.

A nearby village had the story. During a storm, lightning had struck her tree, splitting it and burning it to the ground.

Nadia returned to the spot of land where her tree had been. This tree was to be her future. It was supposed to provide and shelter her for the rest of her life. All of her work and hopes were vanished as if they had never been.

She cast herself on the previously happy turf. She cried with despair. All of her life had been for nothing. Her tree was gone. All of it gone and she was totally alone.

After some time passed, she tried to think. Everything she had been taught was for this tree. What could she do? Her future was burned to the ground, but here she was.

She thought perhaps she would be able to go to other orchards nearby and help them. She could find a small fractioned future in this way.

But although they were happy to have her, whenever she began to work with the apple trees she would begin to shake with tears and her heart was too heavy. She had to leave the orchards.

Sad as she was, she knew that she had to do something. She began to find other sorts of plants to work with. Fields of corn and vineyards of grapes— these did not make her as sorrowful as the apples. She learned about the care of many types of plants and was valued in the surrounding farms.

Water still flowed from the rivers and sky. The sun shone to make the flowers open and then to swell the grain and grapes. Nadia learned to read the different leaves and to make sure that pollination and germination happened at the proper times, and the plants under her care prospered.

Nadia began to prosper as well. But whenever she thought of her future, the ghost shadow of a tree fell over her soul and she turned away from the thought. She never went back to the stump of her tree. It was dead and buried to her.

The seasons passed as they always do, and Nadia found herself at the borders of a vineyard after a rainy season. The grapevines were very healthy and Nadia was pleased with them. She walked further away from the plants to see the straight lines of the vines hanging on their strong supports. They looked very strong and full of hope.

Something about this hillside made Nadia look around. Why, this was the very place she had grown up! It had been so long, she had forgotten herself. But even further, she saw a strange collection of greenery to the east.

It was her very own tree, whose roots had grown much deeper than she realized. The stump she had thought completely dead had sprouted new shoots, and the shoots were thick and full of pippins.

Nadia’s surprised hands found her face. How had the harvest she had lost come back to find her? She had never thought such a thing would be. Disbelief bent her knees and she was sitting in the living shadow of the very real tree. Her eyes saw the new growth from the burned stump, and then looked over to the vineyard she had just finished tending.

She could scarcely believe it, but she was now finally going to reap what she had sown.

January 23, 2007

Strong women and men

It is a constantly running train of thought, but here lately it’s been on my mind—the difference between men and women.

I love men. And I love being a woman. It seems to me that these two, when done right, are very complementary.

I know Chris and I work together very well. We have great love and respect for one another, and we manage to do really well on the various projects and entertainments we take up.

There are other men I have known on the job, who I can really click with, who give me respect and collegial affection. I’ve love working with them and miss them terribly when I’ve had to move on.

What is it that men and women give each other? It’s so much more than just procreation. We are broader than that. What, really, do we need each other for?

Of course, need is relative. Do I NEED to go to the gym and work out in the morning? Not really. NEED is for survival. Food, shelter, air.

But perhaps I am too stoic. Perhaps, for the time being, I can count the survival as a given, and set the bottom standard a little above DEATH.

About 8 years ago, I came to the conclusion that it is best not to need anyone for anything. That I am responsible for myself and myself alone. I wanted to be independent and able to get whatever I needed. I didn’t want to have to wait for someone else to get me what I needed.

It turns out I was very able. I pushed my abilities and pruned my wants appropriate to my circumstances. I learned how to be independent and not need things.

But that opened up other questions.

During our first year, while trying to figure all that out, I asked Chris, “If we don’t need each other, what will keep us together?”

He really didn’t understand the question, but he answered: “We will love each other.”

At the time, it was hard for me to understand how he would stay—how could I be sure?—if he wasn’t dependent on me in some way. He should need me.

I’ve learned a lot from trusting his love.

It turns out that instead of being dependent on someone, you can value them highly. In the same way that you would be unwilling to part with an object of value and beauty, you would be unwilling to part with a person of high value and beauty.
And knowing what I value in him, I can try to foster those same things in myself. When I look at myself honestly, I can see that I am of high value. And I can feel confident that he would want to be with this good stuff that is me.

Okay, that’s the micro. What’s the macro? What do men and women need from each other? What desirable thing is it that we are particularly suited to give to each other?

Earlier this summer, I had that highly annoying conversation with a co-worker. You know the one.

“Men and women cannot be friends, because men only want to sleep with the woman.”

Basically, this argument means that men have no use for any part of a woman except…well, you know what I mean.

He brought it up, because I’d met someone who I thought was interesting but who obviously was attracted to me. I’d hoped that he might get over it and be a friend.

“OH no,” co-worker said. “Let me tell you something about men: they never want to be your friend.”

I brought up examples and hypothetical situations. It was a slow day, and we were getting into it. But he was adamant. Friendship was impossible.

I threw this back at him, “So what you’re saying is, while I want to be friends with a guy, he has no interest in my conversation or friendship. Since I am nothing to him, the only thing I’m going to get out of interactions is whatever entertainment I can create….So I should be the biggest possible bitch so that I can get maximum entertainment value.”

The rest of the guys were laughing, but he wouldn’t back down. “I’m telling you, guys do not want to be friends. Ever.”

Well, that made me depressed for a few days afterwards. Upon reflection, I took away two things:

Guys who have that conversation with females are hoping for something. Note to self: avoid that sort of discussion. It’s just an excuse for guys to talk about sex. I thought I had learned that lesson my first year in college, but I guess I forgot. Or hoped that maturity was more widespread than it is.


Also:
Guys who hold that belief have no clue what to do with the huge amorphous feelings they have about women.
Women are highly desirable, but barely understood. The desire they feel is so scary, they try to cover they metaphorical nakedness with this little insufficient scrap called “sex.”

If they have an answer, they can stop asking the question. It matters little that the answer is wrong (or at the least, insufficient). They can put to rest the discomfort of their ignorance with it.

So that leads to another question. What is it that women give men?

I once knew this guy. He was a friend of my ex. He was the most misogynistic young man (~26) I have ever met. He literally had no interest in anything I had to say. I was a woman, and did not count.

It was kind of stunning to realize this. He was never rude, but he treated me as if I were his friend's cat--simply not a source of intelligence.

He had been dating a 16 year-old (get this, ASIAN). Typical stereo-type. How much more controlling can you be? It was a half-step removed from a mail-order bride. He got married her when she told him he’d gotten her pregnant.

I’d never met her, even though we knew this guy for years while they were dating.

Long story short, after baby boy was almost 2, turned out that wifey had had a boyfriend they whole time and the child was his. She left Mr. Misogynist. He was devastated.

During this bad time, after his wife and erst-while son had left him, he called to talk to my (then) husband. When I told him I was the only one home, he wanted to talk.

I thought he had brought this disaster on himself somewhat, but I felt bad for him. I knew he was hurting.

But the amazing thing is, he wanted to talk to ME.
ME.
The woman he had no use for. The female who might as well have stayed in the kitchen and walked three steps behind for all he cared.

He really wanted to talk to me. He really really wanted to hear words from a kind female. That was all. We talked about small things for maybe 45 minutes.

He needed what I had. He needed womanhood.

I don’t know the boundaries of what masculinity and femininity are. I suspect they are not hard and fast.

But we need each other. And we need each other to be strong and independent in order to receive the good stuff from each other. I think that if we could learn to work together like that, the whole world would change and be beautiful.

December 25, 2006

Merry Christmas (in which I badly quote the Bible, South Park and John Lennon)

In the days of Caesar Augustus came the decree, that all the world should be taxed....

I'm quoting that from memory, but it strikes me that is a rather mundane and inauspicious way for the saviour to be born.

All the world should be taxed. And in order to keep things beauracratically in order, everyone had to go back to the town of their birth.

What a mess! There was not enough supplies or facilities for this to work out. A perfectly nice pregnant lady had to give birth in a stable.

Shamefull. Who's in charge here?

Well, yeah. Unfortunately...Fortunately?--Jesus didn't come to make the world run more efficiently. Maybe German or a Swede (the home of Ikea!) would have taken that on.

No, restoring love and mercy with supremem generosity was his job.

Oh yeah. Love and Generosity. Which means that the South Park kids were right.

Christmas is all about presents.

There are only three of us here in the house. Me, Chris and the cat. And I gotta say, Skellig doesn't get that into christmas. Apart from trying to lay on top of the presents, he is not too interested in them. He is a cat of gratitude for small things.

A bowl of cat food, a clean box, and the toilet lid left up. Add a few scratches behind the ears, and he's good.

So the presents that are piled high under the tree are really a testament to our generosity and relative affluence. Yay for blessings!

But, a not-blessing...Chris is sick. He has a cold and is sleeping.

We went out to lunch with Grandma and Judy (aka Mother) and Bryan. Chris couldn't do much but prop himself up in the Marie Callendar booth.

Judy said, "Too bad you are sick. You are the one who loves Christmas so much."

He does. He is an exceptionally loving and thoughtful gift-giver. He plots early and long to give unexpected but perfect gifts that people will enjoy.

His family is a good challenge to him. "Good" because they are impossible to buy for. HIs Grandmother will return nearly ANYTHING.

But even so, he has found good things for her.

But this long rambling Christmas post is mostly to say, Christmas is about loving generosity.

Generosity does not have to be with material things. Can we have loving generosity towards each other's faults? Why not? Let's get over the crabby-I-Haven't-had-my-cup-of-coffee-yet attitudes of our co-workers.

Or even when we must confront people for inappropriate behaviour, let us find a generous way to do so.

Imagine. It's easy if you try.

December 21, 2006

Long stories



In the Eastern Sierras is a very salty lake--Mono lake. It is saltier than it used to be. It's smaller than it used to be.

That's because Los Angeles, quite some time ago, began sucking away the fresh water that used to flow into Mono. Los Angeles was thirsty, and also needed the water to grow cows and oranges.

Because Mono lake wasn't getting water to refill itself, the waer level went down. And something incredibly beautiful showed up.

Tufas.

The waters that flow into Mono lake mingle and react in such a way that makes a sort of mineral snowflake. Those mineral snowflakes flow around in the water, and eventually settle or attach themselves to stuff in the lake.

And tufas grow up like ghostly monuments.

This is my metaphor for my thoughts. Some of my thoughts float around in my consciousness, being of some kind of substance that doesn't fade away. The ideas and insights, or questions, float around looking for a place where they fit. And eventually, they end up making their own place to fit. A place--a tufa--that doesn't really fit anywhere, but is still a kind of cool something.

I read once something that may not be true. I can't' confirm it on a quick perusal of the internet, but I like the story, so I'm going to tell it. Take it for what it's worth.

Egyptian cotton was pretty much the best cotton around for a super long time. Maybe as long as it took to find america and fill it with cotton plantations.

It was the best because it had the longest fiber. Cotton is useful for being made into thread, and the thread into fabric. But to make the thread, you have to spin the fibers together.

As I was told, the Egyptian cotton was the best because their cotton had the longest fiber. When the fiber was short, the thread would be all fuzzy and thick. But when the fiber was long, it spun all tightly and smooth. You could have super-fine, satiny almost, cotton fabric.

And people didn't even want to mess with cotton if it wasn't long fibered. That is, until a particular cotton spinning machine was invented to do the work mechanically. THEN the thread could be twisted tight enough, even when the fibers were stubby.


I've been thinking about my stories, and my thoughts. I have a lot of thoughts and stories. YET, I am not posting about them on my blog, or telling other people about them.

Why not?

Like the tufas, I am not sure how to explain what I'm thinking about. I've been thinking about certain stuff for a long time. And I've arrived at some structured ideas and concepts with all those thoughts.

But to explain them, and to share my mental tufas...well...It's not that I wouldn't love to do so...but...that brings me back to the cotton.

But to explain the cotton, let me tell you another story.

When I started at my current job, I realized almost immediately that I was joining a group that talked about themselves a lot. More than any other job I had ever been at.

These people talked a lot about stuff that was not work.

And I couldn't quite deal with that. "Small Talk" was what I thought. I just can't quite do that. I rummaged deep into the topics that are appropriate. Sports? the Weather? The news is dangerous, because that delves into politics and that could get too deep really fast.

So basically, I didn't talk very much. I pretty much avoided my co-workers, because this sort of conversation was too much for me.

But I didn't quit. And eventually I got sick of trying to keep to a line of "Appropriate." I wanted to talk about whatever was on my mind. And if they found me weird, so be it.


So, I decided to start telling a story. I got a little way in, and the phone rang. So of course I dropped it.

But after the call was finished, the guys said, "Keep going."

I started up again where I had left off, and kept on with my story.

The phone rang again.

And they finished and said again, "keep going."

huh.

I realized that most of my life, I had had this experience. I would begin to tell stories and get interrupted before I could finish.

There were only a very few people who could sustain interest through my long trains of thought.

Those are my dear dear friend. You know who you are. I will love and cherish you forever.

But for those who didn't hear the ends of my story...Maybe it's because I abandoned my attempts. I maybe have given up telling it too soon.

Remember the cotton? Maybe my threads are long. Maybe my threads are fine and marvelous and desirable, a part of a superior experience.

For sure sure sure my stories and thought-trains are long.

And like the tufas, they are often curiously formed.

For example, this very blog entry is long and curiously formed. But this is the way it came to me, and I am choosing now to share it with you all.

December 07, 2006

modern monument


IMG_6365
Originally uploaded by murphy_h2001.
Before Chris and I moved into this house, I lived in a condo. It was a 4 story building, and I lived on the second floor.

The first floor was actually the basement, and that is where we parked our cars. It was also where we had a storage space. We kept a lot of stuff in the storage space.

I remember when Chris moved in, and I had to make room in the closet for not only him, but also all his business inventory. We discussed what could reasonably be put in the storage space, which was admittedly huge.

"Why don't we put all our luggage in the storage space?" he said. "We don't use it all the time, and when we need it, we can go down and get it."

We put my luggage in the storage space. And then I always used his rolly bag when I had to go on a trip.

The thing was, the storage space just seemed outside of our path.

This is how I began to understand about human territories. Just like creatures in the woods, we have our trails we follow. And even if a certain thing is not far at all from our territory, we may still never go to see that thing. Because it's 'out of the way'.

And the storage space was out of the way. It just was.

This range of territory can be especially true in Los Angeles. This huge sprawling populated area is close to everything and far away from everything. When I lived in Los Feliz, Pasadena seemed very far away. It was not actually far away, but it seemed easier to get to Canter's Deli than Vroman's bookstore.

Los Feliz was more or less in the middle of things. But I do not live in the middle of L.A. anymore.

I live in Claremont. That's definitely not the midle of Los Angeles. But it's kind of in the middle of the populated area of Southern California.

Kind of.

But my new hometown, in combination with my new job, has widened my territory. I have to go to a lot of places not. There are a lot of places that are no longer out of the way.

I spend a lot of time on freeways.

Which brings me to my point:
Freeway are beautiful.

I mean really, These are amazing works of architecture. They soar, and often have 5 different levels of street. Each one has it's own particularities.

It makes me think.

Remember the part in the Lord of the Rngs movie, where Aragorn and the fellowship of the ring are passing through the Valley of the Kings? These enormous statues of kings, carved out of the sides of mountain, loom over the group as they float on the river?

I feel similarly about these freeway overpasses. They are majestic.

And that leads me to think. How much money are we spending on these things? They are not cheap. And if we are already spending money on these extremely useful stuctures, why can't we make them a little more beautiful?

Look at the photo I have included. It's on highway 15, between L.A./Orange County and San Diego. I love that bridge. It's gorgeous.

Why not do more of that?

November 28, 2006

Never enough

Not so long ago, I came to the conclusion that I am a deeply unsatisfied person. Almost at any given moment, I am thinking of how that moment could be better. How I could be doing something, being something, or experiencing something higher.

I usually consider it my own fault—that I am not organized enough to be the best self I can be. Or perhaps I am lazy and slothful. And St. Paul’s words echo in my mind: the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do [Romans 7:19]

I never get around to doing what I want to do, but all the shit I say I will stop doing—that’s what I end up being very faithful with.

For these and many other reasons, I figured out that I am just an unsatisfied person. This will not change, and I had better find a way of living with it.

I don’t mean that I don’t have things I enjoy. There are also the exciting and exceptional moments of action that absorb my total attention. Sometimes I get in the zone while writing; very very often when I am dancing I am utterly taken away, and sometimes a project can fill me and satisfy me well.

But those are rare and precious moments. For all the other moments, I am wishing for the higher thing—the greater, the more.

I was trying to explain this to Chris. The explanation went somewhat awry, since he is a sweet and wonderful man who wants me to be happy. For him, it is not a good thing for me to be unsatisfied. It is a problem, and must be fixed.

We are both interested in my happiness—he even more than I. But this new understanding I had about my nature seemed both under and over the stuff of “happiness.” Metaphysical realities are not so susceptible to temporal fixes.

But what was it I had really discovered? What did I mean by all this? Maybe it is really a personal problem, something that pills or prayer would fix.

Maybe it was all in my head.

But then I read this from John Stuart Mill:


It is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment are low, has the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly endowed being will always feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the world is constituted, is imperfect.

But he can learn to bear its imperfections, if they are at all bearable; and they will not make him envy the being who is indeed unconscious of the imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which those imperfections qualify.


It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both sides.

Mill, no fool, got it! I discovered my dissatisfaction on my own, but I am not on my own in the feeling.

AND I am a “highly endowed being.” I’ll take that.

Of course, I am also required with my endowments, to bear all the imperfections I so keenly perceive. That brings my mind back to the Bible, this time the red letters of Jesus’s words:
For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more. [Luke 12:48]

I guess the Endower of my gifts would have a right to require me to do something with them.

And I would not have it any other way. I want to be and make the best of myself that I can.

I’ll just have to find a way to bear my imperfections.

November 22, 2006

They should tell you about chapstick

They should tell you to wear chapstick. Heck, they should provide you with chapstick. With your mouth hanging open for hours and your whole head anaesthetized so you can’t feel anything, split lips must be common.

I hate dentists. But they are something that must be endured.

I’d wished I’d had chapstick on my last visit to get my teeth x-rayed. I came prepared this time, so my lips were well lubricated. But why do dentists expect you to converse with them while your mouth is full of their hands and metal equipment? I suppose for the same reason none of them ever think of providing lip lube for the procedure.

I was scared. There were needles. It took three injections to make me numb. One big needle, then ZZZZZZ goes the drill. “Ow!” goes me. In with another needle. Repeat.

Think peaceful thoughts. Tell yourself how professional this dentist is. The mantra: he knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Why does it feel like he’s drilled entirely through my upper canine into the other side? What’s going on?

Breathe. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

I breathe. Then I count to one hundred repeatedly to tick off the necessary seconds it will take to complete this.

Then I search around in my head to think of something else to think about. I decide to think about my credenz. In my head, I imagined all the things I needed to do to refinish this piece of furniture.

First, I would need to take the old and discolored stain off. The top, the sides, the drawers would all need to be stripped and scrubbed. I’d take off the drawer handles and scrub every nook and groove down to the bare wood.

I’d wash it, and then sand it, and wash it again.

There would be a few repairs to make. The two front legs are wobbly. I think that just takes a nail to secure in place. But the one drawer sticks when you pull it in and out. I’m not sure how to fix that. Maybe I can look it up.

These thoughts kept my mind away from the dentist drill.

I love to think about all the parts and steps of a process. One of my earliest memories—I was maybe three years old—was lying under the pew at church trying to figure out how it was made.

Naturally I was bored with the sermon. So I wiggled underneath the pews, which had been lovingly made in the pastor’s garage.

First, I was struck by how different the pew looked from underneath.. I even got up to look at the pew from the top again. Yes, it was the same object.

Then I started trying to understand why it looked the way it did. I saw the bare wood and the edge of the fabrics tacked down by staples. I saw edges of nail on the sides where the legs were.

I began to see how this pew was constructed! It was very thrilling to me. I could see in my mind, how they very carefully tucked the fabric around underneath and stapled it in place, and then took the backs and sides and nailed them in place after the upholstery was there and not before.

I could tell how the whole thing was put together. I ran it like a movie in my head, all the steps along the way to make this familiar thing.

All the steps that must be done carefully and in their right time—any other way and it wouldn’t work.

I think of these sorts of things all the time. What step? What’s needed? When? Anything else? How will it get there? How will people know they need it and find it when it’s needed?

Not everyone thinks this way. Perhaps some people just can’t. I can see the far goal and the immediate steps that start the motion towards that goal.

I try to have patience with those who don’t see that near/far view. The little and the big make the world go round.

Of course, my credenz is an unchanging object. It will stay still until I get around to it. Other projects are actually processes.

Processes are things that you do repeatedly. Every morning I must wake, shower, dress myself and drive to work.

Can I improve that? What would happen if I set my clothes out the night before? What about the shoes? Shower the night before? These are all ways to work on and improve a process.

It takes thought. It takes FORE thought. It takes AFTER thought. It takes awareness and willingness to notice and try.

It takes faith. You have to believe that what you are doing is important and worth doing better. You have to believe that your time and your life’s quality deserves attention and thought. You have to believe that you CAN improve the processes.

I saw a representative from Wal-Mart discuss this principle on TV. Wal-Mart is known for squeezing their suppliers to get the best price.

There is a bottom to how low the prices can go. Even Wal-Mart can’t get all their stuff for nothing.

But they have a commitment to getting more and better ‘deals’. If they can’t get a cheaper pair of shorts, then let it be a better-sewn pair. And once it’s quality workmanship, there is still a way to go one better.

Let it have cute little flowers sewn on the pockets—‘fashion.’

Never never rest. Always look for a way to do better.

Is it any wonder Wal-Mart has the staggering success it has?

I want that. I want to be with a bunch of people that want the bar of ‘better’ to be raised on a regular basis.

Good enough should never be good enough. Good enough is boring.

I want to be like the kids playing outside. ‘Can you reach that tree branch if you jump? Jump as high as you can. Yay! Made it. What about the next one?’

Jump high! Be better. Because it feels good to be good. And it feels good to be better.

That’s what I want for my credenz. I want to remake it beautiful, and I want to do a good job at this difficult task. I know that I can do it all by myself and I don't have to rely on anyone else. No worries, I can make it perfect. It makes me happy just to think about it.

The dentist is finally done. He tells me that my new crown is “temporary” and I have to come back for a permanent one in two weeks.

Bad process. Why didn’t they tell me this when I made the appointment? Come to think of it, they didn’t even tell me what work they were doing before I arrived.

Bad process.

I think about telling them about my chapstick idea, to help with patients’ lips.

But I do not have faith in them. I do not think they will hear me.


October 08, 2006

Every woman has a mirror

Every woman has a magic mirror in her heart. In it, she can see foggy images that others don’t see. She can see her family her friends, and the wider world in that mirror.

She will share her visions with the man in her life. For him, to believe what she sees takes faith.

If he doubts, it infects her and the mirror gets even foggier. And she may need to fight him to find her mirror again.

But if he can find that faith, her vision grows stronger. She can believe and be strong and wise. Both of them will be blessed.

August 04, 2006

A poem


I don't share my poetry on this blog. I figure maybe I should. I wrote this one today. Enjoy!


This one doesn’t count
Because who’s counting anyway?
It’s for you
All of you

But I’m lying
Someone is counting
One Two
Tick Tock
Fast Handing
Around the clock

I’m getting very sleepy. Things are feeling freaky
Roman numerals with Egyptian eyes
Sphinx eyes turning me to unkinetic stone
Unmotioned by the unbroken hand sweep
The caged bird in my chest batters the cage
FLEE! MOVE
No amount of panic is enough
The soft black feathers scatter and flutter from the violence
The hopeful bird croaks “Evermore!
More More MORE.” Battle this cage
With every small mustered strength
One nudge must one day be enough
To jostle and break the gaze

I am not stone. The eyes tell lies
Motion is my birthright.
Action Production
Distance before and behind
Each footfall might be
Well-placed and unstumbled
Unbungled
Disturb the road dust
The coal dust
Mighty step of weight and substance
Pressuring the stuff of the world
Reform
Realign with beauty and order
My steps to leave diamonds underfoot

The road untraveled stretches
I can’t see it
Snowshoes and machetes plow the ground
Follow stars and leaning shadows
The sun wheels overhead

Let the path find me
It’s for me and for you
I know you are counting on me

July 13, 2006

The Parable of Miriam the Camel Driver written by Murphy

Miriam now lives in the pages of a book.

Go get your copy!

http://www.lulu.com/content/290192

More to come

July 06, 2006

Ask to the Answer

Okay, i thought of what I want to write about. It's disorganized, but let me see if I can explain it.

"Open-Minded" used to be a popular phrase. I don't hear it as much as I used to, but certainly, "Closed-Minded" is a well-established bad thing.

I am seeing more and more the stance that used to connote open-minded as being a closed minded one.

I met a woman at a social event, and she worked with gangster kids. This caught my interest right away. 'Tell me more about that. I am astonished at the lack of attention given to helping kids stay out of gangs.'

She was surprised at my interest. "What do you want to know?"

I said that I thought we needed to ask until we got an answer. That we should not stop and be satisfied with the bad situation that our children are in.

She was taken with that idea. To ask until you find an answer. But she wasn't sure you could ever find an answer. In any question, really.

She had a good point. What happens when you find the answer? Are there questions with no answers?

I believe no. There are no questions without answers.

But then, like the hitchhiker's guide tells us, are you sure you are asking the right question?

Often, the answer to a question will be another question. And when you reach that the question/answer to the question, have you made progress?

I believe yes. I believe that as we sincerely question, even if our questions result in more questions, the understanding broadens. And when we understand we can do more or better than we have before.

I like people who question. I like it when people ask. But I have noticed there are people who ask, but do not believe in the answer. Not that they think the answer isn't correct, but the deny the premise of an 'answer's existence.

They enjoy questions, but only for their own sake. No answers required, or, indeed, allowed. These clever people can deflect any proposed answer with reasons to deny it.

It is as if they wish only to maintain the integrity of the perfect unanswerability of the question.

They stick tot their question until a new more intrigiung question presents itself. Sometimes, this question is what I would call and ANSWER to the first question. But, they don't think of it that way.

I am interested in asking to the answer. Questions are TOOLS to me, not toys.

May 18, 2006

BOUND

I knew it was coming. It was waiting for me when I got home.

I picked it up. I had to find a knife to open it. But I had to pace around is an addled way first.

I found a knife. I sat on the couch. Chris sat with me.

I slit the tape, but I had to stop. I held it a moment longer. Then I opened it all the way.

I held it. It rested in my hands. I turned it over. Chris touched my shoulder.

Only a few moments more. I couldn't breathe.

I put it away.

I paced around the house in my addled way again.

I knew the next day at work would be long.

It was. But I didn't forget about it.

It was waiting for me when I got home.

This time, I remembered to breathe when I held it. I flipped the pages.

I smelled it. It smelled subtley wonderful. I know the smell will mellow nicely.

I walked around addled some more, but this time I was holding it.

Then, I sat down to read it.

It was bound. It was a book. It was mine.

It felt like a book. When I read it, it had pages with numbers. I turned them, and I read it again like I wanted to know what happened.

I got about 20 pages in before I stopped myself, laughing. Of course, I already know what happened.

I wrote it.

April 11, 2006

Jesus, Buddha, Cold Mountain, and the suffering and salvation of stories

There are times when thoughts come together like objects, and bump against each other. I want to share this thought-object group with you.

I am finishing Buddha by Karen Armstrong. It's a book on CD.

And I just finished Cold Mountain by Charles frazier, read by the author.

First, I would like to say, both of these books were much easier to take as being read to me. I would have found the book about Buddha not such a page turner, but I did want to hear about the enlightened one, so having it 'pushed' at me suited.

And Cold Mountain...well...First, I have seen the movie, which was a good movie, but it was so sad.

But beggars can't be choosers, when it comes to my little library and it's collection of books on tape. I took it.

The book is a masterpiece. The recording of the author reading his book is a masterpiece. I have high standards for books, and this one exceeded my expectations dramatically.

Wow. And wow again. The words. His phrasing and timing. I didn't know it was the author reading it until I sat down to write this post. I continually thought that the reader was perfect for the work, little did I know how perfect. Authors are not always the best ones to read their work, but this one was.

Now, it would have been an excellent read. I loved his writing.

But remember, I saw the movie. I knew the ending. The book, however, was so much richer than the movie. So very many things happened, and so many ponderances took place. It was a leisurely story.

I forgot about the ending, and was enjoying the journey. I was enjoying the way he said 'of' and the old-fashioned-to-the-point-of-ancient phrases he used. They seemed deeply rooted in the time.

But the end of the book got closer. And I couldn't help remembering the end of the movie.

And I couldn't help but hope it would end different. At times I hit stop. I couldn't face that lilted voice telling me what happened next.

I cried sheets of tears fully through the last two cassettes. I remember thinking again that I was glad to be listening to the story. I wouldn't have been able to read the words through my crying.

What a powerful story.

Next thought-object:

In Buddha Karen Armstrong had talked about Siddartha's journey to enlightenment. Siddartha is Buddha's pre-enlightened name, if you didn't know. I didn't know.

He was born Siddartha, and the Brahmin prophesied that he would achieve enlightenment. Either that or be the King of the Universe. Buddha's Dad prefferred Siddartha to be King of the Universe rather than just a boring old enlightened one.

Siddartha, however, chose the path of enlightenment. And when I say "chose" I mean to say he leaned into it. He didn't just meander along and WHOOPS--fall into enlightenment. He worked really hard at it, and sacrificed a lot to get it.

Ms. Armstrong said something that stuck with me about Buddha's road to enlightenment:

Siddartha was totally and completely sure he would achieve it. He had no doubt, he had utter faith, that enlightenment was a destination that existed and he would get there.

She mused for a little bit about what might have happened if he had given up. No Buddhist monks, no marvelous Buddhist scripture, what a loss, she seemed to say. Buddha knew the end of his story: Enlightenment. It was just a matter keeping going until he got there.

Now, I am not Buddhist. I know very little about Buddhism, but from what I've learned, it does not quite appeal to me. It does not fit the world I see around me, and although I would be pleased to learn more about the philosophies of the Buddha, I am a Christian to my core.

It was interesting to hear that Buddha is not supposed to be a god. Literally, he's "The guy who figured it out"--how to avoid suffering and pain. In his world view, and according to Buddhist thought, there are gods and he is not one of them. He is actually better than a god, because the gods need him to help THEM figure it out.

Now, that's a mind-bender to a mono-theist like me. Whoa. It made me think about the nature of Christ.

Next thought-object:

So, Christ is God. And Christ is Man. That's a mind-blower for anybody.

What knife could separate the God from the Man? According to orthodox philosophy, he totally God and totally Man. Which doesn't answer anything at all, really.

Easter is coming up, you know. It's Passion week for most of America. Passion, also known as suffering. Just the sort of thing that Buddha was trying to avoid.

Jesus did not avoid His suffering. In fact, He walked right into it. The whole story of the crucifixion is how He gunned for the cross.

Which part was doing that? The man part? I have always tended to think that it was the God part that gave Him the character to do it, but the man part was the body that they tortured.

But, comparing the story of Buddha to the story of Christ put it in a new light.

How confident was Jesus that everything would turn out okay? Did He ever wonder if He was nuts-a faltering of confidence? Did he have a little voice in His head saying, " 'Son of God'--give me a break! Who are you kidding?"

What was the nature of Christ's faith? Buddha had faith in his story; he believed he would reach enlightenment.

Did Jesus have such faith? It is human to falter. In my experience, it is the nature of faith to include faltering. Part of the mustard seed that is faith includes the part that doesn't quite believe. The part that doesn't believe but does it anyway.

Was that how Jesus had faith?

While I was listening to the end of Cold Mountain, and crying and wishing-wishing-that it would end differently, I thought about suffering. All the suffering that Inman and Ada has been through, and the whole country suffered in the Civil War. All they had struggled and suffered for...why did the story have to end that way? I wanted so badly for it to end another way.

And I remembered Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. He suffered terror and dread, a suffering before the physical suffering. Sweating blood in his pain, he asked God the Father if there was another way for the story to end. He really wanted a different ending.

O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me

He knows what's coming. He knows he's going to be tortured and killed. But does he know the rest? Does he have confidence that He will be the saving of all mankind? What if He didn't know? What if all He knew was that God said he had to suffer and die?

Suffering and dying is the state of all humans. Suffering and dying doesn't require godhood. God could require me to sacrifice my life, and I can only hope I would do as he demands. It is possible that He would enable me to do it. It is certain, though, that if I died for some noble purpose it would not result in the redemtion of all creation.

In Jesus's case, though, it did. My life doesn't have the currency of Christ's.

But that doesn't mean He knew that. Perhaps He knew no more than I know. That the bigger story of suffering, pain and death is in God's hands and He works it all to good.

Jesus suffered so much in His death. And every step along the way, He could have stopped it.

I think about that, and how much I wanted to stop the sad suffering end of Cold Mountain.

Jesus didn't stop his end. Because He believed in the story. I don't know how much He knew of the story. I don't know how much _I_ know of the story. But in this case, in this story, I know it works out with perfect justice, symmetry and beauty. It's the story that God is telling, and it's a story about Him.

Me, and my experiences with suffering and beauty, is only a story inside the big story.

The story, not even a real story in the sense of historical fact, of Cold Mountain is an experience of suffering and beauty and justice because it lines up with the big story, the way the world works, the way God works.

God is the original storyteller. It makes me feel humble to put my spun stories inside of His.

Believe in the stories. That is saving faith.


Jesus, Buddha, Cold Mountain, and the suffering and salvation of stories

There are times when thoughts come together like objects, and bump against each other. I want to share this thought-object group with you.

I am finishing Buddha by Karen Armstrong. It's a book on CD.

And I just finished Cold Mountain by Charles frazier, read by the author.

First, I would like to say, both of these books were much easier to take as being read to me. I would have found the book about Buddha not such a page turner, but I did want to hear about the enlightened one, so having it 'pushed' at me suited.

And Cold Mountain...well...First, I have seen the movie, which was a good movie, but it was so sad.

But beggars can't be choosers, when it comes to my little library and it's collection of books on tape. I took it.

The book is a masterpiece. The recording of the author reading his book is a masterpiece. I have high standards for books, and this one exceeded my expectations dramatically.

Wow. And wow again. The words. His phrasing and timing. I didn't know it was the author reading it until I sat down to write this post. I continually thought that the reader was perfect for the work, little did I know how perfect. Authors are not always the best ones to read their work, but this one was.

Now, it would have been an excellent read. I loved his writing.

But remember, I saw the movie. I knew the ending. The book, however, was so much richer than the movie. So very many things happened, and so many ponderances took place. It was a leisurely story.

I forgot about the ending, and was enjoying the journey. I was enjoying the way he said 'of' and the old-fashioned-to-the-point-of-ancient phrases he used. They seemed deeply rooted in the time.

But the end of the book got closer. And I couldn't help remembering the end of the movie.

And I couldn't help but hope it would end different. At times I hit stop. I couldn't face that lilted voice telling me what happened next.

I cried sheets of tears fully through the last two cassettes. I remember thinking again that I was glad to be listening to the story. I wouldn't have been able to read the words through my crying.

What a powerful story.

Next thought-object:

In Buddha Karen Armstrong had talked about Siddartha's journey to enlightenment. Siddartha is Buddha's pre-enlightened name, if you didn't know. I didn't know.

He was born Siddartha, and the Brahmin prophesied that he would achieve enlightenment. Either that or be the King of the Universe. Buddha's Dad prefferred Siddartha to be King of the Universe rather than just a boring old enlightened one.

Siddartha, however, chose the path of enlightenment. And when I say "chose" I mean to say he leaned into it. He didn't just meander along and WHOOPS--fall into enlightenment. He worked really hard at it, and sacrificed a lot to get it.

Ms. Armstrong said something that stuck with me about Buddha's road to enlightenment:

Siddartha was totally and completely sure he would achieve it. He had no doubt, he had utter faith, that enlightenment was a destination that existed and he would get there.

She mused for a little bit about what might have happened if he had given up. No Buddhist monks, no marvelous Buddhist scripture, what a loss, she seemed to say. Buddha knew the end of his story: Enlightenment. It was just a matter keeping going until he got there.

Now, I am not Buddhist. I know very little about Buddhism, but from what I've learned, it does not quite appeal to me. It does not fit the world I see around me, and although I would be pleased to learn more about the philosophies of the Buddha, I am a Christian to my core.

It was interesting to hear that Buddha is not supposed to be a god. Literally, he's "The guy who figured it out"--how to avoid suffering and pain. In his world view, and according to Buddhist thought, there are gods and he is not one of them. He is actually better than a god, because the gods need him to help THEM figure it out.

Now, that's a mind-bender to a mono-theist like me. Whoa. It made me think about the nature of Christ.

Next thought-object:

So, Christ is God. And Christ is Man. That's a mind-blower for anybody.

What knife could separate the God from the Man? According to orthodox philosophy, he totally God and totally Man. Which doesn't answer anything at all, really.

Easter is coming up, you know. It's Passion week for most of America. Passion, also known as suffering. Just the sort of thing that Buddha was trying to avoid.

Jesus did not avoid His suffering. In fact, He walked right into it. The whole story of the crucifixion is how He gunned for the cross.

Which part was doing that? The man part? I have always tended to think that it was the God part that gave Him the character to do it, but the man part was the body that they tortured.

But, comparing the story of Buddha to the story of Christ put it in a new light.

How confident was Jesus that everything would turn out okay? Did He ever wonder if He was nuts-a faltering of confidence? Did he have a little voice in His head saying, " 'Son of God'--give me a break! Who are you kidding?"

What was the nature of Christ's faith? Buddha had faith in his story; he believed he would reach enlightenment.

Did Jesus have such faith? It is human to falter. In my experience, it is the nature of faith to include faltering. Part of the mustard seed that is faith includes the part that doesn't quite believe. The part that doesn't believe but does it anyway.

Was that how Jesus had faith?

While I was listening to the end of Cold Mountain, and crying and wishing-wishing-that it would end differently, I thought about suffering. All the suffering that Inman and Ada has been through, and the whole country suffered in the Civil War. All they had struggled and suffered for...why did the story have to end that way? I wanted so badly for it to end another way.

And I remembered Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. He suffered terror and dread, a suffering before the physical suffering. Sweating blood in his pain, he asked God the Father if there was another way for the story to end. He really wanted a different ending.

O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me

He knows what's coming. He knows he's going to be tortured and killed. But does he know the rest? Does he have confidence that He will be the saving of all mankind? What if He didn't know? What if all He knew was that God said he had to suffer and die?

Suffering and dying is the state of all humans. Suffering and dying doesn't require godhood. God could require me to sacrifice my life, and I can only hope I would do as he demands. It is possible that He would enable me to do it. It is certain, though, that if I died for some noble purpose it would not result in the redemtion of all creation.

In Jesus's case, though, it did. My life doesn't have the currency of Christ's.

But that doesn't mean He knew that. Perhaps He knew no more than I know. That the bigger story of suffering, pain and death is in God's hands and He works it all to good.

Jesus suffered so much in His death. And every step along the way, He could have stopped it.

I think about that, and how much I wanted to stop the sad suffering end of Cold Mountain.

Jesus didn't stop his end. Because He believed in the story. I don't know how much He knew of the story. I don't know how much _I_ know of the story. But in this case, in this story, I know it works out with perfect justice, symmetry and beauty. It's the story that God is telling, and it's a story about Him.

Me, and my experiences with suffering and beauty, is only a story inside the big story.

The story, not even a real story in the sense of historical fact, of Cold Mountain is an experience of suffering and beauty and justice because it lines up with the big story, the way the world works, the way God works.

God is the original storyteller. It makes me feel humble to put my spun stories inside of His.

Believe in the stories. That is saving faith.


March 31, 2006

What just happened, lady?

[All quotes taken from Diving Deep and Surfacing by Carol P. Christ]

Walking through a store, three beautiful ladies shopping. My friends and I stop to admire some boots. One friend says:

"I have fat calves. Boots never fit me right."

"Me too!" I say.

The third woman says quietly, "Boots never fit me right either. But...why do we all assume that we are fat? Why don't we just say they make the boots too small?"

We stare at her, amazed at her wisdom.


Instead of recognizeing their own experiences, giving names to their feelings, and celebrating their perceptions of the world, women have often suppressed and denied them. When the stories a women reads or hears do not validate what she feels or thinks, she is confused. She may wonder if her feelings are wrong. She may even deny to herself that she feels what she feels.

I spend a huge amount of time between the pages of a book. This has been true as long as I could read.

When I was a teenager, I began to write poetry. It occurred to me that nearly all the writers I loved to read were male. The obvious conclusion was that men had greater talent at writing, that females simply were unable to produce strings of beautiful words.

Men were, categorically, better writers than women.

This did not seem in keeping with my assesment of the young men I know. According to the evidence, these boys must be capable of producing poetry and metaphor to an even greater extent than myself.

I watched them, waiting for jewels to drop out of their mouths. But the only thing I heard was re-telling of last night's movie rental, or TV show.

Hmm. No precious nuggets there. Perhaps their poetic talents were private. I approached them straight out, taking a survey of my aquaintances:

"Do you ever write poetry?"

To my surprise, almost all of them said they did. Of course, I didn't ask and they did not offer to share their efforts with me. But I was sure that their poetry must be far superior to my feeble efforts.


Women have lived in the interstices between their own vaguely understood experience and the shaping given to experience by the stories of men. The dialectic between experience and shaping experience through storytelling has not been in women's hands.

A grieving and battered woman sits with her parents. She is on the cusp of a tragic choice. Weary and toneless, she speaks to her mother and father:

"I have told you how it's been. You know the story. I have tried all I can try. He won't listen. He won't change. I cannot stay with the way things are. I will have to divorce him."

Her father answers, "You are too emotional right now to make that decision."

She lifts her heavy head to stare at him. After a moment, she turns to her mother. "Do I sound emotional to you?"

Hesitantly, the mother replies: "No. But what your father means is..."


In a very real sense, there is no experience without stories... Stories give shape to experience, experience gives rise to stories. At least this is how it is for those who have had the freedom to tell their own stories, to shape their lives in accord with their experience. But this has not usually been the case for women. Indeed, there is a very real sense in which the seeming paradoxical statement "Women have not experienced their own experience" is true.

February 05, 2006

Sniff…our little Internet is growing up

Other people started the Internet. The military started off with DARPA. Just like General Eisenhower had to use the threat of military action on our own soil to push through funding for the interstate highway system, it was the threat of nuclear disaster that let the government come up with an inter-network of communication technology.

Well, we aren’t even close to tapping all the possibilities DARPA started, now become the