Ferry Rails and Tiny Cars

Idealistic as it may sound, altruism should be the driving force in business, not just competition and a desire for wealth. Dalai Lama

I was riding along on one of the local ferries when the handrail I was holding onto collapsed. Fortunately I was atop the landing and called out to one of the crewmen for help. He disappeared below-decks, and I was left holding a dangling rail. Minutes later the boat docked and a lady struggled to move her car, which was stuck between the ferry terminal building and curb. She was driving one of those tiny cars which barely hold two people, and yet forty clowns can clamber aboard with room to spare. All I had to do was find someone to help me pick it up, turn it ninety degrees, and she would be able to drive away safe and sound. I couldn’t find anyone to help, and then …

I woke up.

Where’s Joseph, the Interpreter of Dreams when I need him? I know everyone dreams, including yours truly, but I am not one to remember what goes on inside my noggin from the time my head hits the pillow until my body rises afresh each morning. What few dreams I do recall having over the years generally have that sense that they were painted by Salvador Dali; they’ve got a melting clock quality to them.

I am told that, as a rule, dreams are a reflection of what’s going on in our lives. We are often so busy that sometimes it requires our subconscious or our unconscious mind to tell us what’s happening. Taking that into consideration, perhaps I am being told it’s OK to get a grip, but pay attention to who or what you grip! It’s OK to ask for help, but don’t ask the guy below – look to the One above.

That seems like solid advice, whether from a dream, a counselor, or even (dare I say it): God!

I am and always have been a solitary traveler. I like to dawdle, making my way through museums at a crawl. I don’t do well needing to rush places. I would rather leave early to arrive early or on time, than to rush hither, thither, and yon. One may need to jump out of the way of a speeding car while crossing the street, but one doesn’t need to BE the speeding car. One may need to quickly beat out a grease fire in the kitchen, but one doesn’t have to set the burner so hot and furious as to cause the fire to begin with, right?

Retirement has allowed me to take a fresh look at how I’m living, and I’ve come to realize the benefits of slowing down and smelling the proverbial roses. I must loosen my grip. As my bishop once explained, when we clench our hands into a fist, our bodies clench with them. Jesus invites us to release our grip on money, power, prestige, or whichever god we may hold most dear – life itself – for by losing one’s life, we find it. When we unclench our fists, our bodies unclench as well, and that’s healthier for us.

Retirement also challenges me to move my face in another direction. When one keeps one’s nose to the grindstone, one can get an extremely calloused nose. One also can’t see much beyond the spinning grit. Faith bids us, “Look up!”

“I lift my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? It comes from the Lord!” (Psalm 121)

My Dad always taught us to “Step on your eye,” by which he meant, “Watch where you’re stepping.” I think that is solid advice and has prevented my stumbling on any number of occasions.

But I think the Psalmist is also correct. One needs to look up. We need to learn to ask for help. “Asking for help isn’t giving up,’ said the horse. ‘It’s refusing to give up.” (Charles Mackesy's The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse). I plan to look up more often. I guess that’s as good a Lenten discipline as any.

As for the woman stuck with the tiny car?

I think that’s just my unconscious clowning around. You can’t be dead serious all the time you’re asleep, can you?

At least that’s what I think here in this, our valley.

The Exhilaration of Acceleration

Good judgment comes from experience. And experience? That comes from poor judgment – Anonymous

I needed to head over the river to take care of some business in Burlington (a town just north of us). I was on the on-ramp approaching the bridge and noted traffic on the main road was moving at about the speed limit (also known as a crawl), so I hit the accelerator so I could merge onto the bridge traffic ahead of the slow-pokes – er, uh, other cars.

I put the pedal to the metal, as the old saying goes, and my trusty steed took off like a wild stallion from the gates at Hialeah. She didn’t just take off; she tore off like a hound after a hare. The pedal stuck to the floor and wouldn’t spring back! I gave it a tap to unstick it (as happens every so often – the linkage can sometimes get a little kink in it and needs help returning to its normal position), but it was jammed against the floorboards and wouldn’t spring back.

Fortunately, traffic was light, so I pushed the brake hard enough to prevent my jump to light speed, and as soon as I crested the top of the span I slipped the gear shift from drive into neutral and coasted down to the end of the bridge, rolled my way into a (mostly empty) parking lot, and finally came to a controlled stop in a wide-open parking space. While firmly pressing on the brake, I slipped the transmission from neutral into park.

All this time the engine continued roaring with a high RPM, but before I turned it off, I reached down and discovered the floor-mat had crept up and caused the pedal to jam, so once I pulled it back, the accelerator sprung back to its normal position, and all was well with the world once again.

Life is like that. Things are going along smoothly, and then a crisis arises and we need to deal with it quickly. I have found in my life that a crisis is, as often as not, a product of my own creation. If I had accelerated normally onto the bridge, I would likely have had no trouble with the gas pedal. It was my overblown sense of entitlement (to jump to the front of the pack) that hurled me into the problem that needed solving.

I’m pretty sure this problem of ego has been with us a long time. When Adam and Eve stomped on the accelerator roaring their way to equality with the Divine they discovered Eden didn’t have seat belts, and they found themselves ejected from the Garden of Eatin’.

As some may know, we have embarked on a forty day season called Lent which, for many Christians, is a season of fasting (or abstinence) self-examination, and discipline. While that sounds all glum and dour, it is actually just a time of looking at one’s life, relationship with God and others, and discerning what could be done to remove or reduce some of those character defects that afflict each of us. It’s not a matter of earning our way into God’s good graces, by the way, but of knowing our tendency is to set the bar far too low, and of God’s belief that we can do better.

When I was a child, I had a child’s artistic talents. Out of love, my artwork was posted on the refrigerator for everyone to see and behold, even though it was obvious my stick figures would never make it into the Louvre. My skills today are still those of a five year old and, frankly, they never make it onto the refrigerator anymore.

I suspect that many people rest on their spiritual laurels, not out of a sense of evil or even of laziness, but simply because we get busy with life and don’t put much thought into the matter. Lent invites us to come back to the drawing board, to pick up the colored pencils, charcoals, paints, or whatever medium we’ve been blessed with, and light the passions afresh.

However one practices their faith, I hope each will take some time to reflect on their lives and see if there isn’t space for improvement in this, our valley. Keep on trucking with exhilarating joy (but first, you'd better fix the mat).

The Joy of Memory

We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joys in the world – Helen Keller

I recall someone once saying that people don’t actually remember events. Something happens (an event) and our minds gather information (sights, sounds, smells, emotional responses, etc.) and each time we “remember” the event, it isn’t the event we recall, but mental puzzle-parts we piece together.

In other words, each time we remember an event, it isn’t the event, but recalling the reconstructed incident the last time we remembered it. So our memory is like the old copy of a copy of a copy in the early days of photocopiers or mimeographs (I am picturing everyone born after 1970 scrambling to Google to see just what on earth a mimeograph is).

So memory isn’t what we think it is, and if this theory is correct, then it’s no wonder we remember things differently. It isn’t unusual, for instance, for me to look for something and I’ll remember exactly where it used to be when we lived in Fresno or Ennis, but for the life of me I can’t remember where I put it in our current abode.

It’s frustrating and a reason I don’t want to ever move again. Besides, what are the odds I’ll remember where we’re now living?

That’s another thing: I used to remember phone numbers and addresses like crazy. I might not remember your name, but I’d be able to call you up at the drop of a hat. Now, with phone numbers etched into our telephone and computer contact lists, I can’t even remember my own phone number half the time. The old saying, “Use it or lose it” is truer now than ever!

Since I never considered my memory to be all that good, I found myself buying a book promising the reader they would learn tricks to improve that facet of their lives. Sadly, I can’t remember the name of the book, the author, or when last I saw it! I do remember, though, it wasn’t all that helpful.

Every now and then I will see an old photograph and have absolutely no recollection of having taken it, or the circumstances around it. It may stir an emotional reaction, even if it doesn’t otherwise jog the memory whatsoever. We have taken tons of scenic photographs over the years and as I view them on the computer or flip through our photo albums, I find myself wondering where they were taken. A tree topped hill doesn’t give many clues on its own; it could be Michigan, Ohio, West Virginia, or any of a million other places.

I believe memory is a gift from God. While I may complain about how poor my memory is (and it is about certain things), the fact is the gift of memory allows us to learn so that we don’t generally burn our lips twice with a scalding cup of coffee, or stumble twice over a crack in the sidewalk.

Driving along a canyon, I am amazed by the thousands of birds that manage to find their nest in the face of the cliff, and they do so without addresses or zip codes. Penguins (which all look alike to me) wander into a field of a million other penguins and find their own mates and offspring, and they do so without government issued IDs, or QR (or bar) codes.

When I gather with people of my own faith community, much of what we do is share the stories of our lives and the stories of our faith with one another, remembering just what it is God has done for us and, just as importantly, how we might need to respond to the grace received. We do not celebrate the times we have been injured by things said and done, but remember the grace of God that brought us through those times, and the healings we have likewise experienced.

Sometimes people confuse going to church with trying to earn a spot in the Good Place, but really, it is going to sing the songs of deliverance and realizing that God knows who we are (by sight, smell, and sound like penguins?) and, more than that, will never, ever forget any of us. Period. Full stop. Amazing!

I need to remember that here in this, our valley.

The Joy of Aphorisms

Happy are those … whose hearts are set on the pilgrim’s way – Psalm 84

Today, as I write this, I see it is National Have Fun at Work Day (January 31). I don’t know what clearing house national holidays have to pass through to become what they’re declared to be, but I’m glad someone is looking out for the workers of the world.

Although I am retired, I enjoyed work and had a lot of fun while I worked. Now, I know there are some jobs where having fun would be a trifle difficult. I’m not sure digging ditches is a bundle of laughs, and although we have machines that do much of the work people used to do by hand, armed with little more than pick-axe and shovel (and some brawn), the fact is that using heavy machinery to do those jobs takes concentration if they’re to be done safely and properly.

For the most part, I have fun when I work. My grandmother used to say, “A light heart makes for a light job.” Grandparents used to have many sayings like that. I think it was a generational thing. You don’t hear too much these days about grandparents spouting off bits of wisdom. You don’t find too many having their hairdressers turning their hair blue these days, either.

It seems like my grandparents always had a bit of wisdom to share whenever something came up: Rising early in the morning makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise; don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched; it’s always darkest before the dawn.

Of course, many of those old chestnuts came from Aesop’s fables or were mangled from the Bible. For instance, they might have said, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” The actual quote is, “The one who spares the rod hates his child,” and the reference to rod does not mean spanking or beating. The rod was a shepherd’s tool used to defend the sheep from predators, groom the sheep’s tangled wool (making it easier to clip during shearing season), and examine the sheep for wounds. It was NOT used to beat sheep, otherwise the flock would not trust the shepherd to lead them to green pastures or still waters.

So, to spare the rod was about protecting and caring for one’s child; to spare the rod (throw it away), then, meant you hated your child! Oh how that bit of “wisdom” got mangled, eh?

Today’s world, of course, has replaced a lot of these aphorisms with Memes and snarky comments. Sarcasm seems to be the ideal response to anything we see or hear – wisdom with a bite (for “sarcasm” means to tear the flesh). They may “tickle our funny bone” (another maxim from yesteryear), but do they help us get along in a more civilized manner?

While my grandmothers’ dictums (dicta?) and “sayings” (grandmothers is plural because they both had them and said them) may seem hokey today, they generally made sense.

Even if a bible verse got mangled, the things they said were intended to encourage people to “take heart,” to look for “the light at the end of the tunnel,” to “consider the needs of others” before taking that last piece of chicken or cookie.

In all of that, they seemed a lot happier with life around them then than people do around these parts today. “MYOB” they’d say (Mind Your Own Business), “you don’t need to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.” I think they were right most of the time.

My life is messed up enough without trying to control the words, thoughts, and deeds of others. I have many opinions about a great many things, and yet I have found the world has not “beat a path” to my door to hear them. I haven’t gotten an invitation to vacation atop some mountain so the guru de jour can take a break from dispensing his or her own aphorisms for a world hungry for them (aphorisms, not gurus).

Maybe we should bring back those little wisdom sayings, especially considering how little wisdom we have in our communities. It might take away some of the heaviness and darkness, and that would make for a little more fun at work and play, here in this our valley.

I would certainly hope so – just don’t blue your hair.

Kindness with a Shovel

No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted – Aesop

We had a wonderful little snowfall here the other day. I looked outside and noted that we had received about a quarter inch or so. Just a dusting. That’s the way I like it.

The next day, of course, Mother Nature decided to share more of her bounty with us, and when I awoke we had more than half a foot of snow. Ugh.

Our Pacific Northwest weather, particularly in the Puget Sound region, tends to be far milder than the interior regions of either Washington or Montana, but we still receive our snows, and they generally come in the first couple months of the year rather than the last couple of months. That’s just the way it is.

I looked at the snow out our window and admired how still and quiet it lay upon the ground. There are few scenes more idyllic than those of new-fallen snow.

Sadly, life requires we destroy the idyllic by going out and plowing the driveway. That would be fine if I had a plow, of course, but I don’t. I have a trusty little snow shovel that has held up quite nicely for over a decade. It fits me perfectly and isn’t as heavy as some of the “I’m-sure-they-were-made-of-iron” snow shovels I’ve had to muscle around in my three-score-plus years trudging this “… earth, our island home” (Book of Common Prayer).

Unfortunately, we couldn’t wait for Mother Nature to come back and clean up her mess as we had places to go and things to do, so I got dressed, bundled up, and with trusty shovel in hand went to work clearing our driveway. Thankfully, it is mostly downhill from the house to the street, so it didn’t take but about thirty minutes to get it all cleared, and another thirty to get my pulse down out of the scary-high triple digits.

We took care of our errands after that, after which we came home and enjoyed a lazy afternoon of reading, writing, and whatever else we were of a mind to do.

A few hours later I heard the tell-tale sound of wheels spinning on ice and noticed our neighbor and another woman struggling to drive away from the curb along which our neighbor’s guest had parked. Although they weren’t parked along much of a grade, it was enough to prevent any forward movement.

I debated whether or not I should help them (a debate which lasted about 2.3 seconds) and decided to bundle up and do my bit for the good of the community. It seemed that somewhere in the deep dark recesses of my mind I had heard or read a story about someone helping a stranger, and a corresponding command to go and do likewise, so I did.

I put on my boots and coat, and with the added traction that said boots (and a body mass of about fourteen stone) would provide, helped them get turned around and moving down the road toward their ultimate destination.

It doesn’t take much to be kind or courteous, does it? We see someone in need, or someone struggling, and instead of turning a blind eye, we reach out offer a hand.

It just seems to takes far less energy to be kind. I know people who blow their cork at the slightest provocation, and I don’t understand it. Each is entitled to an opinion; each is entitled to their space on the chessboard of life, and while games of Capture the Flag have their time and place, I don’t see the thrill of making every other moment a scramble to the top, especially when it requires climbing on the backs of others to make that journey.

So I’m glad my drapes were open enough so I could see a neighbor in need. I’m glad I was able to get my boots and coat on to be of service and contribute my mass to something more productive than keeping my couch in place.

As Aesop famously said, “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.” I think Jesus would have enjoyed comparing notes with the Greek story-teller. That would have been an entertaining conversation to sit in on and listen to, eh?

Snow it went last week here in this, our valley.

A Civil Path

I like people with depth, I like people with emotion, I like people with a strong mind, an interesting mind, a twisted mind, and also that can make me smile. Abbey Lee Kershaw

We have embarked on a new year, and it is officially referred to as an election year. I cringe because much of the past three years in America has been so acrimonious as to fatigue even the stoutest of hearts.

I am pleased as punch that I am not a political analyst or pundit. I have the privilege of writing on matters of life and faith. There may not be a whole lot of depth or meat in what I have to say, but if the lions starve on the floor of the Coliseum, I’m not going to cry.

It seems strange that so many people say they yearn for peace and harmony while simultaneously hoisting their flags and rattling their sabers. Although modern light sabers are more given to humming than rattling, the effect is the same: dread.

Dread. One letter more than Dead. It’s not that far off, is it?

I was speaking to a friend of mine who happens to fall on a section of the political spectrum outside my own sphere of influence, but we get along fine. How?

To start with, we don’t call each other names. Labels are fine if they’re affixed to cupboards so one can find the plates or the drawers with the silverware, but they aren’t as helpful when dealing with people. For one thing, labels are often wrong.

The story is told of a woman who frequented a high-end clothing store. The store would open early or stay open late in order to cater to her whims. She would phone ahead, and the manager in the clothing department would pre-select items she was sure the woman would be interested in buying, and she would remove the proper labels and replace them with Size 2. No matter what the mirror told the customer, she was convinced she was a size 2, and had the labels to prove it!

No, people are far more complex than labels, so we honor one another by ignoring the labels we might be tempted to use, and actually talk to one another.

It is our church’s tradition (and calling) to “respect the dignity of every person.” I’m pretty sure that comes from the Bible, whether it is a direct quote or not. While Jesus may have argued with his enemies (and we do have enemies in life), his challenge to them was always to “be better than that.” Again, that’s not a direct quote, but I am sure it is an accurate reflection of what was in his heart at the time.

There are people whose decisions and actions clearly violate the tenets of their faith. Mine sure do. None of us is perfect, and while I would love to think myself rational and reasonable and one who mostly pleases God with the things I say or do, I know I fall short of that ideal, and I have no doubt there are folks who could find plenty of evidence to bear witness to my shortcomings.

So the second thing that enables civil discourse is having a sense of humility when offering our thoughts: I think I am right, but I could be wrong. Let’s talk about it. That’s called conversation. We talk.

If my friend and I debate, it is with minds open to hearing what the other has to say. Each of us has a story. Each has experiences that help to shape our perspectives, so we respect the dignity of the other by honest listening.

My hope as we move forward into 2020 is that we will each find ways to build one another up. Even when we are most distressed by what we see or hear on the news, know that it is barely a blip on eternity’s radar. If a butterfly flapping its wings in Beijing can cause the sun to shine in NYC in the place of rain, our little acts of civility can surely move the needle of grace far beyond what we might otherwise imagine.

That’s my hope and prayer for 2020 in this, our valley. Peace!

January 2nd = Science Fiction Day

I did not know that.

My first "novel" was a science fiction story that was about 6 chapters long, written back in the fourth grade. Each chapter was a paragraph in length, and it involved a trip to the moon. I read it to the class and they seemed very impressed. I never got the story back from the teacher. I had typewritten it on the family's manual typewriter (which meant, to me, that it was an official manuscript). Sadly, no copies exist.