The Fence-Line- A Parable

A few weeks back the wind blew so hard in our neighborhood it blew the fence down between us and our neighbor to the south. We looked at it and decided to rebuild it in the Spring when the weather improves. We haven't discussed costs or other options (hiring it out, e.g.), but the episode got me thinking - or "daydreaming" to be more accurate.

I thought about replacing the six foot privacy fence with one just like it, but realized my neighbor has an eight foot step ladder. What kind of privacy would a replacement fence give me? So I considered building a twenty foot fence, but realized my neighbor also owns a twenty-four foot extension ladder. There's not enough privacy to be had with a twenty foot tall fence! So I decided to build a thirty foot fence, just like The Donald wants!

Now the sun no longer reaches my yard; the plants have died; the grass has turned brown. Even the mushrooms and toadstools have gone flaccid. I have my privacy, but I have it in darkness.

Every Song Once Was New

I want time to sit and read, take a nap and snack. Basically, I want to be in kindergarten. Anon.

I woke up this morning and found myself stumbling around the bedroom like as if I was coming off a bit of a bender – I wasn’t.

I wasn’t dizzy (although I do have blond genes), and I wasn’t groggy from sleep or struggling to wake up. I was fully awake as I clambered out of bed, but as I made my way to the wash room I found my equilibrium was anything but equilibriating!

That happens every so often. The body wakes up but the inner ear stays in bed and – voila – we find ourselves schlepping off into the world like Godzilla through Tokyo. It’s not a pretty sight (although it can be downright comical).

Fortunately, our house is small enough I can cruise along using walls, furniture, and countertops like any self-respecting toddler my age, and so life is as safe and sane as I make it (for whatever that’s worth).

That seems to be the way 2019 has started off for me. It isn’t a bad year (yet); I don’t expect to see it improve or get worse as it progresses, and yet it just seems a bit “off” to my sensor array.

For instance, it is January, but we haven’t had any snow come down in our corner of the world. That’s not a bad thing (being snow-averse, as I am), and yet I know the lack of snow will have an impact on the forests all around us. I fear for what it will mean when fire season returns. I can’t do anything about that, so I don’t fret; I simply plan to be careful when out and about. I will make every effort to minimize sparks wherever I go.

Actually, that sounds like good advice for life. We should all go through life minimizing the sparks we fling off here there and everywhere. In the Saint Francis prayer, we ask God to make us instruments of peace. That sounds good on the face of it, but then at some point we have to deal with people and situations that bring out that same feeling one gets when fingernails are scratched down those proverbial blackboards (that people have heard of but never use anymore).

White boards. Ugh. What’s the fun in those?

I have fond memories of taking the erasers out after class to pound them along the bricks at Whittier Elementary in Seattle. The cloud of chalk-dust blowing up as those felt blocks whacked into one another, or tumbled onto the asphalt playground outside the Janitor’s entrance. That was life; that was living. There was pride to be had in restoring those erasers to as black as black could be. Black meant they were clean, and that we had done our job. But now-a-days: Blecht!

Now we have color-coded “dry-erase” markers. Erasers are still made of felt, but there’s hardly anything to beat out of them. You bang them together and you might, if you’re lucky, get a little pufflet of a piffle-cloud – totally incapable of causing even a flea to sneeze. What a waste!

But, that’s the world we live in. It is so safe and sane it’s hard to feel a great sense of accomplishment getting to the end of the day alive. Having been bubble-wrapped, there are no bruises to point out; no scars witnessing to the day’s battles.

Well, blackboards are a thing of the past. No doubt when schools introduced them generations ago, teachers grumbled, too, about having to toss out their granite tablets and designer chisels.

But, that’s progress; that’s nothing to grouse about (really). The same goes with being at peace with the world. It is so easy to fight everything that comes around until one realizes the world’s not here to fulfill our every whim. There IS a center to the universe, but I am neither he, nor she, nor it.

All I need to do to be at peace is to realize that fact and, further, to see to it I keep MY fingernails off the chalkboard of life. The less dust I raise, the better off we will all be.

And that’s the way I see it as I stumble ‘round this morning here in this, our valley.

THE WALL

Silly me. It seems a wall the GOP refused to build during the past 2 years when they controlled both house of congress and the White House is now so critically important they refuse to pay the people who actually secure our borders. As if the promise to pay is sufficient reason to come --- when it has been over a month.

There is a rule of thumb one does not negotiate with terrorists, bullies, or extortionists, for if one does, then that is all people will do: terrorize, bully, and extort. Oh my. No wonder the Dems continue to pass bills in the HOUSE to pay federal employees and carry on federal programs the GOP senate passed before the year ended.

Building the Wall is worth discussing and debating. If it will work, then convince Congress in open debate. But to hold our nation hostage for what many consider a vanity project? Oh my; how vain is that? How insane?

Sigh.

Hobbies and Such

SHOWER THOUGHT: The first humans sent on a voyage to another solar system might be greeted by humans who were sent later using faster space ships.

Every year, I try to find something new to conquer. I have never been much of a hobbyist, and yet I have always yearned to find that “one thing” that I can delight in and which might help me pass the time in a way that is more productive than watching television, going to movies, or reading books – all sedentary activities.

One year a friend suggested I take up golf. I was reluctant to give it a shot; years earlier when I had only just become a teen, my uncle took my brother and me out to shoot a round at a local golf course. I had never had lessons, had never gripped a club or struck a ball with one. I had seen the game played on television (black and white, grainy picture, and 13 inch screen) so I had an idea of what to do. I think we played nine holes and I shot something in the neighborhood of 180 (not counting swings and misses).

So I didn’t have much confidence I would do any better playing golf as a middle-aged couch potato. Still, he encouraged me to give it a go and even went so far as to set me up for some lessons with an instructor at the local public golf course. I took the lessons and must admit it helped bring my score down out of the stratosphere. I don’t think I ever parred a hole (but I can par boil eggs). I gave the game a run for a year or so but came to know deep in my heart that it wasn’t a sport, activity, or hobby I’d be good enough to actually enjoy, so I eventually gave away my clubs and equipment to a relative who had interest in the game – and skills.

I’ve tried other hobbies, of course. I strove to play the Recorder for a bit, but I didn’t have money to blow for lessons. I entertained woodworking for a while, but I board (sic) of it too quickly. I branched out into whittling but couldn’t make the cut there, either. I wrote music for church, but nothing of note came from that. Then I pictured myself becoming a photographer, but that didn’t develop the way I expected it to, either.

So this year, I thought I would take up calligraphy. If I become good at it, maybe I can ink a deal to create note cards for special occasions, like weddings or baptisms.

I bought a beginner’s set; it included the pen, a variety of nibs, and a bottle of ink. The online advertisement said the set also came with a case, but what they meant was one could use the cardboard box they came in “as” a case. I was underwhelmed on that score, but I appreciated the rest of it anyway.

First chance I had, I got everything out and set up and began to practice my calligraphy skills and must admit the results were more legible than my standard handwriting. I use the word “handwriting” very loosely as it looks more like a seismographic scrawl than a row of letters or a sentence. I can’t even read what I’ve written, for heaven’s sake!

Moving on, what amazed me at first was how often I had to dip the pen into the ink to draw enough fluid to produce a letter or two. It is very slow going, and I can now appreciate what it took for the writers of the scriptures to produce the books of the Bible. I think we take it for granted that everything just fell perfectly into place, but what a painstaking process it is!

If I had to rely on a traditional stylus, ink, and vellum (or papyrus) upon which to write letters, sermons, poetry, or the like, I doubt I would have the stamina to produce more than a couple of pieces per year. On the other hand, it would look so pretty.

It turns out I have fun doing calligraphy. I can’t hardly wait to do my next column in ink and vellum, which you’ll likely see around 2025. Maybe you can golf while you wait for it in this, our valley.

Political Correctness

I have no idea what that means, really. Language changes with time. When I was growing up, my grandfather was an invalid. He was a cripple. He suffered from a major stroke and was wheelchair bound in the late 1950s until his death in the early 1960s. We don’t use those terms (cripples, invalids) anymore. We’ve moved on to disabled, handicapped, differently abled, mobility challenged, etc. It isn’t because we’re offended by the other terms. Rather, it is because we seek to be kind, compassionate, and thoughtful. 

Some years ago when I moved to California from Michigan, I was speaking to a group of people and used the term “orientals” when speaking of people from the far East. Ironically, I was speaking against racism. I was informed afterwards that the term “oriental” was no longer appropriate. The term de jour was now Asians. I thanked my friend for the insight. I’d missed the memo. I wasn’t offended by the correction. I didn’t think the person an ass-wipe for confronting me. Why? Because he didn’t confront me. He shared some information that would help my relationship with the people I was serving. That allowed me to be kind, compassionate, and thoughtful.

The other day Steve King (for whom I have virtually no respect (politically) anyway) got into trouble for asking what to my ears was a rhetorical question: Why are these words and phrases wrong? Rather than censuring him, or lambasting him, or punishing him for his ignorance, I would think it would have been more helpful for our national dialogue for someone to have spent a few minutes going over the history of those terms. I doubt he would have understood it, but then again, we wouldn’t have had people hiding behind the “Oh look how we’re being persecuted for speaking our mind or asking questions” that so many use to avoid conversation and deflect addressing the issues that divide us.

I have been blocked for expressing my political perspective on Facebook and Tumblr and other venues - by Right Wingers. I have never blocked them or stopped following them because (let’s be honest) they sometimes post some righteous stuff and funny memes. Although we may often view the world differently, I need the Right to help keep me balanced. I have tried walking with one leg tied up. It’s NOT a pretty sight!

So, until someone can help me understand what it really means to be PC, I shall continue to strive to be kind, thoughtful, and compassionate in word and deed. I think that's what Jesus might have done. 

The Ferry God-Child

Laughter is the closest distance between two people. Victor Borge

I boarded the Washington State Ferry “Yakima” the other day, making my way home from Lopez Island – one of the San Juan Islands lying in Puget Sound. I had been on the island providing worship services for Grace Church and was now preparing for the forty minute cruise from the island to the terminal in Anacortes (where I’d left my truck).

I grabbed one of the seats located on the passenger deck. Although the boat has been in service quite a few years, it has been well-maintained. The seats are well-worn, but comfortable and clean. Unlike airline seats (which are about as spacious as the small end of a baseball bat), these seats can accommodate someone of significant girth (if needed).

I found a comfortable position in which to relax as the crew made preparations to get underway, and noted a toddler (probably about 15-18 months old) rumbling up the deck with one of those gaits that ranges somewhere between a walk and a trot to keep from falling. She had the biggest smile on her face as she trundled up the aisle toward the exit leading out to the forward observation deck. Her dad was in close pursuit, requiring only about a step or two to keep up with every dozen or so of hers.

She came screeching to a halt about four feet in front of me as if noticing for the first time she was in a public space and not alone. She looked up and noticed I was simultaneously looking at her and, seeing her wonderful smile, I couldn’t help but smile back like the silly doofus I can often be when I’m around kids. She saw me beaming and her whole body exploded into joy as she absorbed being the center of the universe (if only then and there for that precise moment), and then, filled once again with the life-force of the cosmos, she returned to her sallying forth.

Smiles are contagious, and laughter is purely magical. There is nothing more delightful to my ears than the sound of raucous laughing in a room. I will confess that I also interpret pun-induced groans as laughter in disguise. I don’t know why I like word-play, but I do. It is addictive, but as far as I know there is no Punsters Anonymous twelve-step group for people like me, so until I find or found one, the world will just have to deal with whatever PUNishment I inflict upon it. You have been warned!

I suppose the reason I enjoy smiles and laughter is not only for the energy humor gives me, but for the energy it can impart to those around us. That little girl on the ferry did nothing but smile, but I found it therapeutic. That’s important when the days are short on daylight and the weather is gray and nippy.

I don’t know why people tend to become so serious as we age. Maybe we don’t. Maybe it just looks and feels like we do. On that same ferry, I don’t remember seeing others smile as freely or as broadly as that little girl – except her dad. He stayed right with her as she circled the boat a half dozen times during the crossing. She was filled to the brim with boundless energy, and her father just stayed with her, opening doors as a proper valet should, and seeing to her every need (which was little more than the need to keep moving and smiling at everyone she met).

After about forty minutes, the MV “Yakima” slipped into port. Drivers and their passengers returned to their vehicles; we walk-ons stayed on the passenger deck to make our way back to land via the catwalks that switched back and forth from the upper level of the boat to the ground below.

Like the others, I grabbed my belongings and made my way into the darkness. A soft rain was falling as I trundled off to find my truck in one of the farther corners of the parking lot. I suppose the air was chilly, but I didn’t really notice as the smile of a young child continued to warm my soul and light my path.

I suppose that’s as it should be everywhere, and especially here in this, our valley.

Songs of Joy

The Lord has done great things for us, and we are glad indeed … Those who sowed with tears will reap with songs of joy. Psalm 126

My wife and I went out to dinner the other night with some friends. They’d come up to visit from Texas, and as we enjoyed our time together, a few tables away was a young child who was absolutely unhappy with her situation. She was just an infant, so she wasn’t behaving in a bratty or spoiled manner. She was just plain unhappy, and she let the world know about it.

One of the things I love about children is their unfiltered and unfettered capacity to be honest in their expression of pain or joy. It can certainly be disconcerting for their parents when it happens in a restaurant, and I suspect there were patrons closer to “the action” who were disturbed by the incessant yowling that was drowning out the overhead music or the sounds of Thursday Night Football being telecast nearby.

Such is life, and I like it, because it is real. It is such a complete contrast with the saccharine story-lines of so many Christmas specials and Christmas movies. I’m nowhere near as cynical as Jean Shepherd in his holiday classic, A Christmas Story, but I am a realist. The days are short and cold; there are precious few signs of Peace on Earth and Goodwill towards All to be found on the news.

Our visitors received word while with us that one of their church stalwarts down in Texas passed away in the night – having taken a recent turn for the worst in her battle with cancer. Holiday cheer is deflated daily with news of violence at home and abroad. The stock market is careening wildly, blown (as always) by the high pressure winds of Greed trying to hold at bay the low troughs of Fear.

Admittedly, the holiday displays of lights and yard decoration in our neck of the woods seem much more prolific than last year. In fact, I saw my first set of Christmas lights burning brightly on a home near us … the week before Halloween!

It causes me to wonder if the outward appearance of Christmas cheer is genuine, or if it isn’t folks near and far whistling their way through the graveyard – putting on a brave face as their innards jiggle Santa-like in the manner of a bowl-full of jelly. There are people, of course, who absolutely delight in the holidays. The lights and tinsel put them in a festive spirit; images of the Holy Child cavorting with reindeer, snowmen, elves, camels, kings, and Dickensian Carolers. What’s not to love?

For myself, I fall somewhere between the extremes. I separate the world’s manifestation and understanding of the season from the Church’s experience and expression of the holiday. In the tradition to which I belong, this is the season of Advent. It’s a season of waiting, patiently preparing heart, mind, and body to receive the One who comes in grace. When Christmas comes, it isn’t as a jolly old elf distributing goodies from his bounty (or charcoal, as the case may be), but a tiny child – who comes empty and totally dependent on the grace of others to survive.

“… no crying he makes”? What a pile of reindeer foo-foo! God did not send a baby mannequin, but a real honest-to-goodness infant who cried when hungry, dirty, or wet, jumped when startled by loud noises, who bled when cut, who needed the warm embrace of mother and father when cold. It is this very real human being I have come to love, embrace, hold fast, and share.

I do my civic duty, of course. I’ve hung my lights. Barb and I put up our tree the other day (earlier than usual) in order to snap some holiday photos with our friends. We will make the rounds to oo, ah, and critique neighborhood decorations. I’ve been humming (for weeks) seasonal favorites (both religious and secular) as I’ve trundled through the shops or driven down the road.

But now there’s more: when I hear an infant scream, I can smile – not because I’m some malicious sadist, but because “the one who sows with tears will (come to) reap with songs of joy.” I think that’s what we’re aiming for in this, our holiday valley.