Deep Gap, North Carolina
Several weeks ago a friend asked me if I had any images of doors. Caroline was helping a missionary acquaintance put together some sort of Sunday School program. She indicated she was having a hard time finding any photos of doors on the Internet. I promised to see if I could find an image or two of doors in my databases.
After mining some 65,000 digital files, copying and pasting them for several hours, I found I had assembled exactly 199 images of doors from twenty-two countries. I perused these images and the most surreal thing about them is that I actually made them myself. These doors are to be found on the front of everything from squatter’s shacks in Haiti, to ancient pyramids, to the inconceivably opulent oil palaces of Dubai. Some are more than two thousand years old; others still have almost-damp paint on them. The smallest of these are whimsical painted wood ones barely chest high. Others are vast imposing bronze panels twenty feet high, weighing tons. Every one has added paragraphs, even whole chapters to my life experience. I wonder how it is that I have been granted entry through all of these portals into other worlds, so very different than my own.
Alas, my friend never did drive over to my house to collect these images I had assembled for her to pass on to her missionary friend, even passing up a free meal. Something about cleaning houses, doing church stuff, and busyness came across cyberspace. Yet, the exercise of revisiting all these portals in my past proved most helpful, provoking a sense of gratitude for the journeys granted me. It made me wonder about what really is important in life. Do we make time to spend with those we hold dear, to dine with them and share memories?
Jesus expressed His indignation at those who could not be bothered to show up for a gala dinner, individuals who made excuses of taking care of animals, inspecting properties, ad infinitum. He routinely used parables to make strong statements about Kingdom living and what really matters in the human experience. Taking time to share meals was a big deal to Jesus, as it is to me.
One of my great joys is hearing the doorbell ring just before the announced time of a dinner party. For those few seconds in transit to answer, I wonder who is about to gift me with their presence in my life. Opening the door is not unlike unwrapping a finely decorated Christmas gift. There is that invariable moment of recognition and subsequent elation that comes after opening my own door, knowing these dear friends are to be at table with me for the luxurious span of several hours, uninterrupted by the usual urgent distractions part and parcel of American life. It has long been my practice to keep the dining table set with my best silver and crystal in anticipation of surprise visitors, even on days when I have no specific meal planned. Every guest, every day of life merits celebration with our best.
The first time I came here to the end of the road, some ten years ago, I was literally fleeing a great darkness in my life, gaining safety under a cloak of secrecy. Only two people even knew where I was fleeing. Then, in the darkness of night I showed up here to find the now-deceased director of the retreat waiting on me with a fine hot supper of chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables cooked in ways only known to those living in the recesses of Appalachia. Even in extremitis, a fine hot meal has a way of putting the brakes on frenzied souls.
Ten years later I have returned here and details of my whereabouts are common knowledge to those who have any reason to care about them. I came through yet another one of those doors in my life to find the same pure hospitality that has been offered to me here during the past ten years. Fine hot meals have offered recent pleasure to a now calmer soul. There is no hiding here anymore. I only wish I could bring everyone here with me. A decade ago I was living a tortured frantic life. I find myself presently in a large place of soul I wish all could experience. The Keepers of Eden left the light on for me.
Certainly, meals we share on journeys through beckoning doors of the world are fertile soil for many of our most cherished memories. New Testament writings are replete with stories of shared hospitality at table. Sharing of meals is one of the more intimate activities we indulge in. The most important sacrament in orthodox, catholic, or protestant liturgical churches is that of Holy Eucharist, a sacred meal to remind us of One who made the ultimate sacrifice, allowing us admittance to the door of Heaven. We are challenged to share this meal as often as we think about it.
For those with their names entered into the Lamb’s Book of Life, an invitation awaits them to the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. Even the extravagance portals of the oil palaces of Dubai will pale in comparison to the gates of the New Jerusalem. For certain, I have seen many of the grandest portals on earth but passing through them will be nothing compared to walking on streets of transparent gold through gates of pearl to the greatest festival meal of all time.
One of the most beloved promises in all Christian scripture is that in which the Father declares, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any one hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will dine with him, and he with me.” We have reason to keep the tables of our hearts set with the best we have. We have the most desirable of all guests in the universe waiting just outside the most important door in the world, our own. Have you heard Him ring your bell?
Friday, May 21, 2010
Becoming a Student of the World 5-19-10
Deep Gap, North Carolina
David Thoreau gained fame with his musings from Walden Pond, in reality a small non-descript wood shack next to an ordinary pond. Extraordinary about his experience was his ability to become an exemplary student of the world around him. For hundreds of years now, Thoreau’s observations have entranced us with images of a world with its own natural rhythm, a rhythm bringing serenity and clarity to troubled souls.
Here on my second day without video feeds of Gulf oil spills, Forex quotes on European currency pairings, volcanic cancellation notices from airlines, or calls from individuals desperate to create cash flow to maintain their own free spending, I sit here at a tiny table by the window watching the world gently wake up. Three deer wander by, tentative by nature, looking cautiously for low-hanging fruit to feed fawns growing in warm dark places. A black lab dog came sniffing, looking for hand-outs. The abundant hospitality I find myself immersed in includes a glass jar of treats for dogs passing by. This lucky dog got five. There is a curious pleasure deriving from feeding things. All manner of feathered creatures are flitting about, looking for those succulent morsels which will give rise to another generation of high fliers in a few weeks. Large swallowtail butterflies are already about, a bit of a colorful surprise in a region just turning loose from the hardest winter in memory. Thousands of Christmas trees growing below me are all tipped with another winter’s pent up energy. A splendid soft gray cat just came to the door looking for a handout.
There is no plan for the day other than to feed the itinerant dogs that comes my way, to make macro-images of botanical wonders in the garden at the other end of the nearby meditation trail, to establish détente with semi-feral cats, to lounge around and read books that have been languishing under piles of paperwork too long, to fuel my little enterprise with fine meals down at one of the houses below. My major accomplishment thus far has been to open up a couple of those wondrous still-warm eggs from the hen-house and to lightly immerse them in a mixture of virgin olive oil and butter over a low gas flame. Life is good.
Today, many people I hold very dear are struggling with things like cocaine addiction, alcoholism, unemployment, cancer, the tortures of unquiet minds, divorce, jail, permanent confinement to nursing homes, even a despairing sense God is ignoring them in their darkness of soul. I wonder how one can bottle sublime serenity from this mountain top and bring it to the desiccated deserts of troubled lives seared by severe misfortunes of life. How do those in incendiary worlds of shattered dreams embrace the taunting statement of old: “I know the thoughts I have for you, thoughts for good, not for evil, plans that will give you hope and a future.” How does someone who made a very bad choice and will never get off the Row except via the Chair interpret this promise? How does a vibrant young soul trapped in a ninety-year-old desiccated body with few working parts, warehoused and long forgotten in a facility, hope to embrace life? What does it say to a grandmother who has watched all of her children make catastrophic choices and pass the curse of the generations on down to her grandchildren and great grands?
On my visitations I can take bits of chocolate and a few stalks of flowers inside the walls of hospitals, facilities, jails, and darkened homes but far more is required. But what? My theology starts to feel rather inadequate at this point. Here it becomes essential to trust in the experiences of those who have gone before me, those who have found truth.
Vicktor Frankl brought peace and serenity to the souls of countless Jews trapped in the incendiary deserts of the Third Reich’s death camps. His concepts of empowerment and logo-therapy did much to bring hope to those who had no longer had any sense of being God’s chosen people. For those struggling with significance in the hell of Buchenwald, Auschwitz, or Dachau or unemployment in 21st century America, his classic work, Man’s Search for Meaning has been a balm to many tormented souls. Written on specks of toilet paper and other bits of waste while in hell, Frankl managed to find beauty in the spirit of those around him and even in the outer world beyond the camp. One day during what had become daily interrogations and torture, Frankl was sitting in a chair, facing his tormentor, in a room with a very small high window. For a few seconds he was able to see a beautiful bird on a bare branch. He was able in an instant to remember that his keepers did not have the last say on the nature of his world.
Zeibignew Drecki was himself put to the test of fire in Hitler’s death camps. At a profound level he found the promises of old to not be wanting. Despite five and a half years in hell with nearly daily seasonings of torture he came to the conclusion the promises of old held true. In perhaps one of the most astounding and articulate statements put to paper, in his autobiography, Drecki as much said he knew that his Creator loved him and had a magnificent plan for his life, despite it including a long detour through a man-made hell. He was able to differentiate the authors of his life experiences.
Perhaps as with Frankl and with Drecki, it would do me well to pay attention and hear what messages might come from the birds of the air. If God spoke through Balaam’s donkey, he might just speak through the messengers flying outside my window as they did outside those of Frankl and Drecki. I might just need to become a student of the world as did Thoreau out there at Walden Pond.
He has made Himself known through the handiwork of His creation.
David Thoreau gained fame with his musings from Walden Pond, in reality a small non-descript wood shack next to an ordinary pond. Extraordinary about his experience was his ability to become an exemplary student of the world around him. For hundreds of years now, Thoreau’s observations have entranced us with images of a world with its own natural rhythm, a rhythm bringing serenity and clarity to troubled souls.
Here on my second day without video feeds of Gulf oil spills, Forex quotes on European currency pairings, volcanic cancellation notices from airlines, or calls from individuals desperate to create cash flow to maintain their own free spending, I sit here at a tiny table by the window watching the world gently wake up. Three deer wander by, tentative by nature, looking cautiously for low-hanging fruit to feed fawns growing in warm dark places. A black lab dog came sniffing, looking for hand-outs. The abundant hospitality I find myself immersed in includes a glass jar of treats for dogs passing by. This lucky dog got five. There is a curious pleasure deriving from feeding things. All manner of feathered creatures are flitting about, looking for those succulent morsels which will give rise to another generation of high fliers in a few weeks. Large swallowtail butterflies are already about, a bit of a colorful surprise in a region just turning loose from the hardest winter in memory. Thousands of Christmas trees growing below me are all tipped with another winter’s pent up energy. A splendid soft gray cat just came to the door looking for a handout.
There is no plan for the day other than to feed the itinerant dogs that comes my way, to make macro-images of botanical wonders in the garden at the other end of the nearby meditation trail, to establish détente with semi-feral cats, to lounge around and read books that have been languishing under piles of paperwork too long, to fuel my little enterprise with fine meals down at one of the houses below. My major accomplishment thus far has been to open up a couple of those wondrous still-warm eggs from the hen-house and to lightly immerse them in a mixture of virgin olive oil and butter over a low gas flame. Life is good.
Today, many people I hold very dear are struggling with things like cocaine addiction, alcoholism, unemployment, cancer, the tortures of unquiet minds, divorce, jail, permanent confinement to nursing homes, even a despairing sense God is ignoring them in their darkness of soul. I wonder how one can bottle sublime serenity from this mountain top and bring it to the desiccated deserts of troubled lives seared by severe misfortunes of life. How do those in incendiary worlds of shattered dreams embrace the taunting statement of old: “I know the thoughts I have for you, thoughts for good, not for evil, plans that will give you hope and a future.” How does someone who made a very bad choice and will never get off the Row except via the Chair interpret this promise? How does a vibrant young soul trapped in a ninety-year-old desiccated body with few working parts, warehoused and long forgotten in a facility, hope to embrace life? What does it say to a grandmother who has watched all of her children make catastrophic choices and pass the curse of the generations on down to her grandchildren and great grands?
On my visitations I can take bits of chocolate and a few stalks of flowers inside the walls of hospitals, facilities, jails, and darkened homes but far more is required. But what? My theology starts to feel rather inadequate at this point. Here it becomes essential to trust in the experiences of those who have gone before me, those who have found truth.
Vicktor Frankl brought peace and serenity to the souls of countless Jews trapped in the incendiary deserts of the Third Reich’s death camps. His concepts of empowerment and logo-therapy did much to bring hope to those who had no longer had any sense of being God’s chosen people. For those struggling with significance in the hell of Buchenwald, Auschwitz, or Dachau or unemployment in 21st century America, his classic work, Man’s Search for Meaning has been a balm to many tormented souls. Written on specks of toilet paper and other bits of waste while in hell, Frankl managed to find beauty in the spirit of those around him and even in the outer world beyond the camp. One day during what had become daily interrogations and torture, Frankl was sitting in a chair, facing his tormentor, in a room with a very small high window. For a few seconds he was able to see a beautiful bird on a bare branch. He was able in an instant to remember that his keepers did not have the last say on the nature of his world.
Zeibignew Drecki was himself put to the test of fire in Hitler’s death camps. At a profound level he found the promises of old to not be wanting. Despite five and a half years in hell with nearly daily seasonings of torture he came to the conclusion the promises of old held true. In perhaps one of the most astounding and articulate statements put to paper, in his autobiography, Drecki as much said he knew that his Creator loved him and had a magnificent plan for his life, despite it including a long detour through a man-made hell. He was able to differentiate the authors of his life experiences.
Perhaps as with Frankl and with Drecki, it would do me well to pay attention and hear what messages might come from the birds of the air. If God spoke through Balaam’s donkey, he might just speak through the messengers flying outside my window as they did outside those of Frankl and Drecki. I might just need to become a student of the world as did Thoreau out there at Walden Pond.
He has made Himself known through the handiwork of His creation.
Unplugging From the World 5-18-10
Deep Gap, North Carolina
What grand luxury to be able to walk away from the strident cacophony of a frantic pace of life. How very different to be ‘off the grid’ without to-do lists, radio, TV, household responsibilities, cell phones, newspapers, ad infinitum. Today I was granted opportunity to drive away from daily life and come here and hide at the end of a gravel road from distraction in order to be found by What really matters. The weather proved a perfect metaphor for this transition to another way of living and being. Leaving home under bright sunny skies with temperatures in the 80s it was only a bit more than three hours before I found myself in dense cloud and 58 degrees, much like that sublime climate found in England and Wales this time of year, only nice and close in the hidden recesses of emerald Appalachia.
I didn’t have to take off my shoes or cram into 22 inches for nine hours or more. No one inquired about my ballistic potential. By 4 PM I found myself in more than a speck of paradise – a quaint little hermitage overlooking a valley filled with fields of lush Christmas trees. Here spring is just coming into full flower; this splendid little house embedded in a field of towering stalks of foxglove blooms, splendid purple, lavender, and white wonders. Verdant hosta of several varieties add emerald softness along with luxuriant fern. It never occurred to me that spring would wash over me again this year, having already seen spring come and go under the first heat of southern summer in Alabama, South Carolina and Georgia. Brilliant flecks of paradise have again come ashore in my life. Aureate sunshine of late afternoon irradiated lupine, columbine, flame azalea, rhododendron, lady slippers, and two dozen other delights growing here in abundance.
As grand as sudden immersion in a botanical wonderland might be, even grander is immersion in pure hospitality. For one growing up in the uncertainties and tribulations of alcoholism and drug addiction, there is a soul-restoring sort of overwhelm that comes from being the subject of such unconditional ‘wantedness.’ In alcoholic environments all one’s energies are given to surviving unwanted in an environment without easy exits.
This little house named Postinia is filled with all my favorite sorts of foods, juices, even fresh eggs from happy birds a hundred yards away. . Books by many of my favorite authors are here in abundance. The bed is covered with a mountain of pillows, just as I like it. An invitation to a dinner fit for the Revelation of John awaited.
The Gardeners who keep this emerald heaven in order were busy planting annuals and perennials around this little refuge when I dropped in from the outer chaos. In a world where so many are struggling with unemployment, the huge challenges of conserving mental and physical health, personal safety, and the larger angst our world is flooded with, I again wonder why it is granted for me to have this amazing option of opting out for a season, how it is that Some find the energies and attentions to make sure my little sanctuary is properly planted. Instantly names of dozens of dear souls come to mind, good loving people who desperately need this break from life. Perhaps one day it will be possible to right click, copy and paste, and bring them here to this experience. How I wish this for them – for many of them it is a matter of survival.
It has been eleven years since I first walked trails here in the company of a fine beagle with the moniker ‘Muffin.” Last year Muffin almost died from an abscessed tooth and was not up to prowling the woods with a city slicker. The attentive Gardeners got her into town just in time for treatment. This year with a few less teeth, Muffin is happily scampering in the woods, forever on hunt as good beagles always are. In a year’s time all five dogs here have been treated well by time and happily provided a frivolous sense of frolic to our after-dinner exploration in a world that needs a lot more of this. The little fearless Boston Terrier continues grappling with logs in the pond, unaware that twenty-pound dogs were not given life callings of managing mill ponds singlehandedly. Two tiny Chihuahuas add their moral support to the expedition. There is exquisite humor and release in watching these fearless diminutive dogs take on their world. I am reminded of the scriptural promise, “I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me.”
I think of the millions trapped in front of plasma screens, infusing their souls with what’s wrong with the world, everything from off-shore drilling practices to ethics in government to fiscal mismanagement in European central banks. How I wish those where I live were out with their dogs after dinner walking around one of the myriad little lakes and ponds within a ten-minute walk, with an eye for the beauty immediately around them. The sun also rises over all those little lakes and ponds every day.
Here there are no sirens, garbage trucks, school busses, only the sounds of birds celebrating the first light of a groggy sunrise emerging from the dense fog shrouding ten thousand Christmas trees splayed out below. Earliest solar penetrations are having success at igniting first warmth of the day. In the distance a couple of roosters remind me of ancient days in Mexico, when other roosters heralded the start of a new day, days we could bring promise of physical health to the thousands waiting all night for our clinics and surgeries to open. In Appalachia roosters bring promise of a day in which healing for the soul is the order of the day – no scalpels or drugs needed.
The next right thing for me to do is to go find a good dog. Odds are one hundred percent I will find beauty, if only I look for it. The good news is you are playing with the same odds.
What grand luxury to be able to walk away from the strident cacophony of a frantic pace of life. How very different to be ‘off the grid’ without to-do lists, radio, TV, household responsibilities, cell phones, newspapers, ad infinitum. Today I was granted opportunity to drive away from daily life and come here and hide at the end of a gravel road from distraction in order to be found by What really matters. The weather proved a perfect metaphor for this transition to another way of living and being. Leaving home under bright sunny skies with temperatures in the 80s it was only a bit more than three hours before I found myself in dense cloud and 58 degrees, much like that sublime climate found in England and Wales this time of year, only nice and close in the hidden recesses of emerald Appalachia.
I didn’t have to take off my shoes or cram into 22 inches for nine hours or more. No one inquired about my ballistic potential. By 4 PM I found myself in more than a speck of paradise – a quaint little hermitage overlooking a valley filled with fields of lush Christmas trees. Here spring is just coming into full flower; this splendid little house embedded in a field of towering stalks of foxglove blooms, splendid purple, lavender, and white wonders. Verdant hosta of several varieties add emerald softness along with luxuriant fern. It never occurred to me that spring would wash over me again this year, having already seen spring come and go under the first heat of southern summer in Alabama, South Carolina and Georgia. Brilliant flecks of paradise have again come ashore in my life. Aureate sunshine of late afternoon irradiated lupine, columbine, flame azalea, rhododendron, lady slippers, and two dozen other delights growing here in abundance.
As grand as sudden immersion in a botanical wonderland might be, even grander is immersion in pure hospitality. For one growing up in the uncertainties and tribulations of alcoholism and drug addiction, there is a soul-restoring sort of overwhelm that comes from being the subject of such unconditional ‘wantedness.’ In alcoholic environments all one’s energies are given to surviving unwanted in an environment without easy exits.
This little house named Postinia is filled with all my favorite sorts of foods, juices, even fresh eggs from happy birds a hundred yards away. . Books by many of my favorite authors are here in abundance. The bed is covered with a mountain of pillows, just as I like it. An invitation to a dinner fit for the Revelation of John awaited.
The Gardeners who keep this emerald heaven in order were busy planting annuals and perennials around this little refuge when I dropped in from the outer chaos. In a world where so many are struggling with unemployment, the huge challenges of conserving mental and physical health, personal safety, and the larger angst our world is flooded with, I again wonder why it is granted for me to have this amazing option of opting out for a season, how it is that Some find the energies and attentions to make sure my little sanctuary is properly planted. Instantly names of dozens of dear souls come to mind, good loving people who desperately need this break from life. Perhaps one day it will be possible to right click, copy and paste, and bring them here to this experience. How I wish this for them – for many of them it is a matter of survival.
It has been eleven years since I first walked trails here in the company of a fine beagle with the moniker ‘Muffin.” Last year Muffin almost died from an abscessed tooth and was not up to prowling the woods with a city slicker. The attentive Gardeners got her into town just in time for treatment. This year with a few less teeth, Muffin is happily scampering in the woods, forever on hunt as good beagles always are. In a year’s time all five dogs here have been treated well by time and happily provided a frivolous sense of frolic to our after-dinner exploration in a world that needs a lot more of this. The little fearless Boston Terrier continues grappling with logs in the pond, unaware that twenty-pound dogs were not given life callings of managing mill ponds singlehandedly. Two tiny Chihuahuas add their moral support to the expedition. There is exquisite humor and release in watching these fearless diminutive dogs take on their world. I am reminded of the scriptural promise, “I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me.”
I think of the millions trapped in front of plasma screens, infusing their souls with what’s wrong with the world, everything from off-shore drilling practices to ethics in government to fiscal mismanagement in European central banks. How I wish those where I live were out with their dogs after dinner walking around one of the myriad little lakes and ponds within a ten-minute walk, with an eye for the beauty immediately around them. The sun also rises over all those little lakes and ponds every day.
Here there are no sirens, garbage trucks, school busses, only the sounds of birds celebrating the first light of a groggy sunrise emerging from the dense fog shrouding ten thousand Christmas trees splayed out below. Earliest solar penetrations are having success at igniting first warmth of the day. In the distance a couple of roosters remind me of ancient days in Mexico, when other roosters heralded the start of a new day, days we could bring promise of physical health to the thousands waiting all night for our clinics and surgeries to open. In Appalachia roosters bring promise of a day in which healing for the soul is the order of the day – no scalpels or drugs needed.
The next right thing for me to do is to go find a good dog. Odds are one hundred percent I will find beauty, if only I look for it. The good news is you are playing with the same odds.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Land of Our Fathers 5-6-10
Anderson, South Carolina
A friend of mine describes a delightful tradition at the girl’s boarding school where she teaches; May Ball in which seniors are escorted to a formal dance by their fathers and have their first dance with the man who has been a major source of inspiration, encouragement, and empowerment in their lives. For better or worse, girls will learn to relate to the men in their lives, especially their husbands, from the model lived out by their fathers.
In the mid-twentieth century with the advent of television, fathers were depicted as strong benevolent beings who assumed protectorate roles with those in their charge, individuals who had moral and ethical bearings that provided a sense of guidance and safety to those who trusted them. Weekly series such as Lassie, Sky King, The Rifleman, Gun Smoke, Bonanza, Leave it to Beaver, and The Brady Bunch” portrayed men in a positive light. Even Hollywood blockbusters of the 1950s and 60s portrayed men as bigger than life.
In 1995 David Blankenhorn’s Fatherless America presented a sobering analysis of social consequences accruing for children growing up without fathers in their homes. Blankenhorn describes “consequences of this radical departure from virtually all human history” as the most urgent social problem in America. He points out incisively that no culture can be found in which large numbers of mothers abandon their children, yet finding cultures in which large numbers of men abandon their children is easy – America being foremost among these. Why this constitutes the most urgent problem can be summed up by this cogent statement. “In a larger sense, the fatherhood story is the irreplaceable basis of a culture’s most urgent imperative: the socialization of males. More than any other cultural invention, fatherhood guides men away from violence by fastening their behavior to a fundamental social purpose. By enjoining men to care for their children and for the mothers of their children, the fatherhood story is society’s most important contrivance for shaping male identity.”
America has rewritten its cultural scrip and has made substantial ‘progress’ in a large social experiment to discard fathers and forge ahead without them. The National Centers for Health Statistics reported in May 2010 that forty-one percent of all mothers in 2008 were single. In some areas, singleness among mothers is greater than eighty percent. A survey by the National Science Foundation found forty-two percent of Americans believe one parent can raise a child just as well as two. Restated, nearly half of Americans are essentially saying that men are unnecessary in the socialization of children.
Children would beg to differ. Judith Wallerstein gained national prominence in 1989 with her longitudinal study on the consequences of divorce, Second Chances. She followed children for twenty years, assessing the consequences of them losing their fathers to divorce. Almost universally, children were adversely affected in every possible way with boys faring worse than daughters. Judges rarely remove daughters from custody of their mothers. Boys almost universally lose regular access to their fathers. Another twenty years of work by Wallerstein only confirms her earlier findings – there are no winners in divorce. America has a divorce rate than has few rivals in the world. America has few rivals when it comes to violence, social fragmentation, mental illness, and existential angst. Benevolent fathers really do guide males away from all manner of violence.
In recent decades men have been portray by media as nerds, impotent, even cognitively compromised – in daily parlance, as little more than fools. Weekly series are virtually devoid of positive characterizations of men as positive role models. Blankenhorn clarifies cultural scripts regarding men who are portrayed as unnecessary fathers, old fathers, new fathers, deadbeat dads, visiting fathers, sperm fathers, stepfathers and nearby guys. All of these scripts are pejorative at best.
A recent program on travel safety in our local travel club was presented by the sheriff’s department. During the course of this the presenter revealed our small own to have 854 documented gang members and gang affiliations. This number would be unbelievable from any other source than law enforcement. Our small, once bucolic, town has a whole unit assigned to matters pertaining to substantial gang activity.
As Wallerstein found out in her interviews with fatherless boys, others including law enforcement officials, have found out that boys demand a sense of belonging and accountability and will go to any length to get it. Boys as young as eight desperately need a role model of some kind and a sense of identity. They will submit to the precarious and dangerous gang culture in order to find it. The adverse consequences of gang participation are well known. When fathers abandon their children, they are casting them to the winds, so to speak. They make an ipso facto decision to let the nearest gang raise their boys. These boys wont be taking their daughters to May Ball in twenty years. Many of them will be incarcerated or interred.
Down the street from me in the modest corner house, many years ago a man lost his wife and the mother of his son and daughter to a very nasty course with cancer. What Bill did not lose in his grief was his sense of responsibility as a father. For twenty years I have watched him raise his son and daughter successfully, as Blankenhorn would say, ‘by fastening their behavior to a fundamental social purpose.’ Bill’s son graduated from Annapolis and is now successful as a well-performing naval flight officer; soon to be married. He learned how to treat women by watching how his father treated his sister, herself most successful in life, trained as a specialist nurse in one of our medical universities. It is safe to say the gangs down on the south side of town would not have steered Russell to successful matriculation at Annapolis or Karen to successful completion of her medical training.
Nearly half the country may now think guys are little more than sperm donors and unnecessary relational baggage, but I myself am inclined to stay with the consensus of all human history. Guys, stick around, you just might get asked for the first dance.
Train up a child in the way he should go; Even when he is old he will not depart from it.
A friend of mine describes a delightful tradition at the girl’s boarding school where she teaches; May Ball in which seniors are escorted to a formal dance by their fathers and have their first dance with the man who has been a major source of inspiration, encouragement, and empowerment in their lives. For better or worse, girls will learn to relate to the men in their lives, especially their husbands, from the model lived out by their fathers.
In the mid-twentieth century with the advent of television, fathers were depicted as strong benevolent beings who assumed protectorate roles with those in their charge, individuals who had moral and ethical bearings that provided a sense of guidance and safety to those who trusted them. Weekly series such as Lassie, Sky King, The Rifleman, Gun Smoke, Bonanza, Leave it to Beaver, and The Brady Bunch” portrayed men in a positive light. Even Hollywood blockbusters of the 1950s and 60s portrayed men as bigger than life.
In 1995 David Blankenhorn’s Fatherless America presented a sobering analysis of social consequences accruing for children growing up without fathers in their homes. Blankenhorn describes “consequences of this radical departure from virtually all human history” as the most urgent social problem in America. He points out incisively that no culture can be found in which large numbers of mothers abandon their children, yet finding cultures in which large numbers of men abandon their children is easy – America being foremost among these. Why this constitutes the most urgent problem can be summed up by this cogent statement. “In a larger sense, the fatherhood story is the irreplaceable basis of a culture’s most urgent imperative: the socialization of males. More than any other cultural invention, fatherhood guides men away from violence by fastening their behavior to a fundamental social purpose. By enjoining men to care for their children and for the mothers of their children, the fatherhood story is society’s most important contrivance for shaping male identity.”
America has rewritten its cultural scrip and has made substantial ‘progress’ in a large social experiment to discard fathers and forge ahead without them. The National Centers for Health Statistics reported in May 2010 that forty-one percent of all mothers in 2008 were single. In some areas, singleness among mothers is greater than eighty percent. A survey by the National Science Foundation found forty-two percent of Americans believe one parent can raise a child just as well as two. Restated, nearly half of Americans are essentially saying that men are unnecessary in the socialization of children.
Children would beg to differ. Judith Wallerstein gained national prominence in 1989 with her longitudinal study on the consequences of divorce, Second Chances. She followed children for twenty years, assessing the consequences of them losing their fathers to divorce. Almost universally, children were adversely affected in every possible way with boys faring worse than daughters. Judges rarely remove daughters from custody of their mothers. Boys almost universally lose regular access to their fathers. Another twenty years of work by Wallerstein only confirms her earlier findings – there are no winners in divorce. America has a divorce rate than has few rivals in the world. America has few rivals when it comes to violence, social fragmentation, mental illness, and existential angst. Benevolent fathers really do guide males away from all manner of violence.
In recent decades men have been portray by media as nerds, impotent, even cognitively compromised – in daily parlance, as little more than fools. Weekly series are virtually devoid of positive characterizations of men as positive role models. Blankenhorn clarifies cultural scripts regarding men who are portrayed as unnecessary fathers, old fathers, new fathers, deadbeat dads, visiting fathers, sperm fathers, stepfathers and nearby guys. All of these scripts are pejorative at best.
A recent program on travel safety in our local travel club was presented by the sheriff’s department. During the course of this the presenter revealed our small own to have 854 documented gang members and gang affiliations. This number would be unbelievable from any other source than law enforcement. Our small, once bucolic, town has a whole unit assigned to matters pertaining to substantial gang activity.
As Wallerstein found out in her interviews with fatherless boys, others including law enforcement officials, have found out that boys demand a sense of belonging and accountability and will go to any length to get it. Boys as young as eight desperately need a role model of some kind and a sense of identity. They will submit to the precarious and dangerous gang culture in order to find it. The adverse consequences of gang participation are well known. When fathers abandon their children, they are casting them to the winds, so to speak. They make an ipso facto decision to let the nearest gang raise their boys. These boys wont be taking their daughters to May Ball in twenty years. Many of them will be incarcerated or interred.
Down the street from me in the modest corner house, many years ago a man lost his wife and the mother of his son and daughter to a very nasty course with cancer. What Bill did not lose in his grief was his sense of responsibility as a father. For twenty years I have watched him raise his son and daughter successfully, as Blankenhorn would say, ‘by fastening their behavior to a fundamental social purpose.’ Bill’s son graduated from Annapolis and is now successful as a well-performing naval flight officer; soon to be married. He learned how to treat women by watching how his father treated his sister, herself most successful in life, trained as a specialist nurse in one of our medical universities. It is safe to say the gangs down on the south side of town would not have steered Russell to successful matriculation at Annapolis or Karen to successful completion of her medical training.
Nearly half the country may now think guys are little more than sperm donors and unnecessary relational baggage, but I myself am inclined to stay with the consensus of all human history. Guys, stick around, you just might get asked for the first dance.
Train up a child in the way he should go; Even when he is old he will not depart from it.
Opening Pandora’s Jar – An Unfair Sacrifice 5-2-10
Anderson, South Carolina
A great legacy travel provides me is the collection of visual images in my memories of magnificent places visited. Images of tropical turquoise water washing up on white powered beaches are high on my list. My good fortune working on a cruise ship as a photographer ‘collecting’ images of many bucolic tropical isles with their sugar sand beaches was one of my favorite experiences. Journeys by submarine and semi-submersible vessels allowed for multi-sensory experiences of teeming diverse colorful life below those turquoise waters. Our blue planet has a nearly impossible array of spectacular life forms to enjoy.
On Tortola in the British Virgin Islands climbing Sage Mountain and standing in the shade of grand mahogany trees while taking in a platinum view of an expansive archipelago of small islands is a peak life experience. Each island encloses perfect crescent-shaped beaches filled with fine sand, textured by assorted birds and sea life scampering across their pristine surfaces.
In Grand Cayman powerboats take visitors out to a submerged sand bar, about five feet below the surface. There one can don diving gear, even free dive, to cavort in company with a large colony of sting rays. Solitary by nature, this is the only location known where these splendid creatures socialize and keep company with each other. Certainly, there are few locations on earth where humans can interact with them.
Off beaches at St Croix, scuba tanks allow amateur explorers to visit the eastern-most park in the American National Park System. Buck Island Reef affords views of some of the most glorious of salt water life, framed in magnificent reefs. Aerial images of these shallow reefs are stunning beyond articulation.
At Roatan in Honduras divers can visit the St. Peter’s Basilica of the diving world. Clarity of aquamarine waters is stunning, allowing unencumbered viewing of schools of impossibility, creatures more colorful than creative tee-shirts just silk-screened in kiosks on nearby beaches. Brain coral adds curious dissonance to one’s experience of this sublime eco-system. Eventually one has to come up for air and rely on indelible images printed into one’s memory.
Recently, very different images of Caribbean paradise have been emerging, ominous images of reckless destruction and catastrophic ruin of some of the grandest places on earth. Because of our reckless addiction to fossil fuels, to our gas guzzling Armadas, Hummers, Expeditions, and Explorers, some of our great joys in life are at imminent risk of being lost. Unbounded craving of America for fossil fuel has pushed demand for crude oil and its extraction to new levels. In the frenzy to bring production quotas to ever higher levels, offshore drilling has resulted in catastrophic accidents and environmental fouling.
Most ‘celebrated’ of these events was grounding of the Exxon Valdez in 1989, in which 10.8 million gallons of viscous crude oil were discharged into Prince Edward Sound, fouling 1,300 square miles of ocean. It was often reported the captain of this oil tanker was drunk and left his bridge in the hands of others who had not received required time off from duty before assuming twelve-hour shifts.
In 1998 Transocean Industries ordered construction of a deep water drilling rig with capability of drilling oil wells 30,000 feet. The Deepwater Horizon semi-submersible rig was put in service in 2001 and leased to British Petroleum until 2013. In September 2009 this rig reached a depth of 32,055 feet in the Tiber oilfield, yielding the deepest oil and gas well ever tapped in any oilfield.
On April 20th, the rig was being used to cement casing into a deep well forty one miles southeast of the Louisiana delta. A violent explosion killed eleven workers, injured others, and set the rig on fire. It burned and sank to the ocean floor a mile below, coming to rest about 1,400 feet from the wellhead. In ten days, by some estimates, more oil was released by the ruptured well than by the Valdez. The well is estimated to be releasing 200,000 gallons of crude oil per day, perhaps far more. More ominously, some observers say collapse of the well casing could make control of the gusher impossible. BP states a worst case scenario includes 6.8 million gallons a day flowing from an uncontrolled blow-out.
Others suggest the entire gulf coast shoreline and its ecosystems could be lost. True economic, environmental, and aesthetic costs are matters of speculation. Potential consequences of this blow-out may soon dwarf any other natural disaster in American experience. We have in a week’s time become a nation of environmental voyeurs. Fishermen and individuals who depend on the Gulf of Mexico for their livelihoods are soon to be economic casualties. Those dependent on tourism may experience the true environmental cost of doing business in ways unfathomed. This blowout is at one end of the Gulf Stream. If the oil slick gets into the Gulf Stream, the fouling destruction could take out East Florida beaches and move further north. As one perceptive fisherman in Louisiana said, “This is worse than an atomic bomb.” Realtors are saying out loud this may not be a good time to own coastal property.
The greatest fear in the oil industry is an uncontrolled blow-out. In days ahead we will all become expert at why this is a justified fear. Perhaps just as deadly is our uncontrolled appetite for everything from plastic plates and cups we throw away at parties to the billions of plastic water bottles we discard each year; to our cars; all made from crude oil. British Petroleum and Transocean are only doing what we ask them to do – give us the raw materials for the stuff we throw away in abundance.
In Greek mythology Pandora opened her jar, releasing all manner of evil upon mankind. The only thing remaining inside when she got the lid back on was Hope. The dense viscous oil released by Deepwater Horizon is considered the most problematic form of oil to be released from a blown-out well. Have our consumer appetites opened a jar that contains the harsh stuff of reality, not the safe musings of ancient writings? Do we have the right to force other creatures of our world to make the ultimate sacrifice? Is there hope remaining that we might become wiser in our reckless ways?
Members of my former church have a real problem with my efforts to recycle those very plastics made from the same form of crude spewing out of the ocean floor off Louisiana. Two days after the Deepwater Horizon blow-out I asked members of my prayer group to leave their plastic cups and plates on the table for recycling, as I always do. I had to fish them out of the trash cans, as I always do. I can only hope my environmental eccentricities which ‘freak out’ people will become main stream – for the life of all of us.
“Father, forgive them they know not what they do.”
A great legacy travel provides me is the collection of visual images in my memories of magnificent places visited. Images of tropical turquoise water washing up on white powered beaches are high on my list. My good fortune working on a cruise ship as a photographer ‘collecting’ images of many bucolic tropical isles with their sugar sand beaches was one of my favorite experiences. Journeys by submarine and semi-submersible vessels allowed for multi-sensory experiences of teeming diverse colorful life below those turquoise waters. Our blue planet has a nearly impossible array of spectacular life forms to enjoy.
On Tortola in the British Virgin Islands climbing Sage Mountain and standing in the shade of grand mahogany trees while taking in a platinum view of an expansive archipelago of small islands is a peak life experience. Each island encloses perfect crescent-shaped beaches filled with fine sand, textured by assorted birds and sea life scampering across their pristine surfaces.
In Grand Cayman powerboats take visitors out to a submerged sand bar, about five feet below the surface. There one can don diving gear, even free dive, to cavort in company with a large colony of sting rays. Solitary by nature, this is the only location known where these splendid creatures socialize and keep company with each other. Certainly, there are few locations on earth where humans can interact with them.
Off beaches at St Croix, scuba tanks allow amateur explorers to visit the eastern-most park in the American National Park System. Buck Island Reef affords views of some of the most glorious of salt water life, framed in magnificent reefs. Aerial images of these shallow reefs are stunning beyond articulation.
At Roatan in Honduras divers can visit the St. Peter’s Basilica of the diving world. Clarity of aquamarine waters is stunning, allowing unencumbered viewing of schools of impossibility, creatures more colorful than creative tee-shirts just silk-screened in kiosks on nearby beaches. Brain coral adds curious dissonance to one’s experience of this sublime eco-system. Eventually one has to come up for air and rely on indelible images printed into one’s memory.
Recently, very different images of Caribbean paradise have been emerging, ominous images of reckless destruction and catastrophic ruin of some of the grandest places on earth. Because of our reckless addiction to fossil fuels, to our gas guzzling Armadas, Hummers, Expeditions, and Explorers, some of our great joys in life are at imminent risk of being lost. Unbounded craving of America for fossil fuel has pushed demand for crude oil and its extraction to new levels. In the frenzy to bring production quotas to ever higher levels, offshore drilling has resulted in catastrophic accidents and environmental fouling.
Most ‘celebrated’ of these events was grounding of the Exxon Valdez in 1989, in which 10.8 million gallons of viscous crude oil were discharged into Prince Edward Sound, fouling 1,300 square miles of ocean. It was often reported the captain of this oil tanker was drunk and left his bridge in the hands of others who had not received required time off from duty before assuming twelve-hour shifts.
In 1998 Transocean Industries ordered construction of a deep water drilling rig with capability of drilling oil wells 30,000 feet. The Deepwater Horizon semi-submersible rig was put in service in 2001 and leased to British Petroleum until 2013. In September 2009 this rig reached a depth of 32,055 feet in the Tiber oilfield, yielding the deepest oil and gas well ever tapped in any oilfield.
On April 20th, the rig was being used to cement casing into a deep well forty one miles southeast of the Louisiana delta. A violent explosion killed eleven workers, injured others, and set the rig on fire. It burned and sank to the ocean floor a mile below, coming to rest about 1,400 feet from the wellhead. In ten days, by some estimates, more oil was released by the ruptured well than by the Valdez. The well is estimated to be releasing 200,000 gallons of crude oil per day, perhaps far more. More ominously, some observers say collapse of the well casing could make control of the gusher impossible. BP states a worst case scenario includes 6.8 million gallons a day flowing from an uncontrolled blow-out.
Others suggest the entire gulf coast shoreline and its ecosystems could be lost. True economic, environmental, and aesthetic costs are matters of speculation. Potential consequences of this blow-out may soon dwarf any other natural disaster in American experience. We have in a week’s time become a nation of environmental voyeurs. Fishermen and individuals who depend on the Gulf of Mexico for their livelihoods are soon to be economic casualties. Those dependent on tourism may experience the true environmental cost of doing business in ways unfathomed. This blowout is at one end of the Gulf Stream. If the oil slick gets into the Gulf Stream, the fouling destruction could take out East Florida beaches and move further north. As one perceptive fisherman in Louisiana said, “This is worse than an atomic bomb.” Realtors are saying out loud this may not be a good time to own coastal property.
The greatest fear in the oil industry is an uncontrolled blow-out. In days ahead we will all become expert at why this is a justified fear. Perhaps just as deadly is our uncontrolled appetite for everything from plastic plates and cups we throw away at parties to the billions of plastic water bottles we discard each year; to our cars; all made from crude oil. British Petroleum and Transocean are only doing what we ask them to do – give us the raw materials for the stuff we throw away in abundance.
In Greek mythology Pandora opened her jar, releasing all manner of evil upon mankind. The only thing remaining inside when she got the lid back on was Hope. The dense viscous oil released by Deepwater Horizon is considered the most problematic form of oil to be released from a blown-out well. Have our consumer appetites opened a jar that contains the harsh stuff of reality, not the safe musings of ancient writings? Do we have the right to force other creatures of our world to make the ultimate sacrifice? Is there hope remaining that we might become wiser in our reckless ways?
Members of my former church have a real problem with my efforts to recycle those very plastics made from the same form of crude spewing out of the ocean floor off Louisiana. Two days after the Deepwater Horizon blow-out I asked members of my prayer group to leave their plastic cups and plates on the table for recycling, as I always do. I had to fish them out of the trash cans, as I always do. I can only hope my environmental eccentricities which ‘freak out’ people will become main stream – for the life of all of us.
“Father, forgive them they know not what they do.”
Solomon’s Gift 4-22-10
Connellsville, Pennsylvania
When asked what one single gift he would most treasure in the world, King Solomon asked for wisdom, not a plasma screen TV, not a palm pilot, not even an unlimited free line of credit at Circuit City or Best Buy. He simply wanted to know how to judge information and to act appropriately on those things he learned and was told. He wanted to live his life well. You might say he wanted to live Christmas all year long.
Today in early spring the Magi appeared again to give me knowledge and wisdom that would save me from certain death. I was suddenly put in the same league as Solomon, even if for but a short season, yet long enough to keep from dying in the mountains. Wisdom is certainly a gift that keeps on giving. As Solomon said, “seek this one with all your heart”. It might just save your life.
In my travels I’ve often been disquieted by seeing impossibly steep truck escape ramps constructed for that frightening possibility of brake failure in eighteen-wheelers traversing steep mountain passes. Some of these ramps look like they were designed by civil engineers who hate their jobs, insuring tractor–trailer rigs achieve maximum altitude just before plunging into a high mountain abyss. I’ve often wondered what the terror would be like for a truck driver in the mountains finding himself sucked into this steep uncertainty following a brake failure
Being of the attitude that getting there is just as important as being there, I often take slow back roads to places, avoiding Interstates filled with everyone else in a big hurry. So it today I was on the Blue Ridge Parkway rather than several oppressively frenetic interstates, taking Joanne to Pennsylvania for one of her semi-annual family pilgrimages. The Blue Ridge Parkway must be one of the most beautiful roads in the world, if you have good brakes and a reliable vehicle.
The region of the Parkway east of Asheville on which I found myself this morning is the highest public road in eastern North America. I was at nearly 6,000 feet, near Mount Mitchell, occasionally stopping to take picture of incredible vistas and to have small bits of conversation with other sojourners gawking at the same wondrous views. It was up this serpentine pathway to heaven that I first smelled it, that distinctive odor that comes from nothing in the world but burning brake pads.
Having always had an intellectual disdain for people foolish enough to ride their brakes in the mountains rather than using their gears and downshifting, letting the engine do the work of fighting gravity, I have always been compulsive about avoiding the use of brakes in the mountains, especially when any kind of equilibrium is some thousands of feet straight down, inches from my right tire. I happily figured the whiff of burning asbestos was from someone else flirting with death, not me. I knew better that to flirt unnecessarily with the grim reaper. I refocused on the wondrous emerald realm around me. Anyway, Joanne doesn’t like it when I focus on the dark side of life on the third planet.
Again, moments later, my nostrils caught the distinctive aroma. Both feet were well away from the brake pedals. No one else was on the road. Perhaps the odor was just hanging in the very still air from a now-invisible car. The odor seemed to go away. Denial can be an effective life coping skill, or so we like to think
Sometimes ignorance of the future is truly a gift. Ignorance can be sweet bliss. Yet, as always, denial provides only a deferral of interest charges, and eventually one will have to pay back. Yet payback can be wondrous. Once in a while the debt is forgiven. And so it was for me today.
For some five miles, driving across the sky, I thought that ominous odor merely a fading reminder of the inferiority of those who didn’t know better about mountain driving. They had asked for TVs rather than knowledge or common sense. And then it recurred. Sniff. Denial was starting to fray around the edges, especially up in this very thin atmosphere. And then the clincher. Joanne said, “I need to go to the bathroom.” Guys behind the wheel know the world comes to a halt at that statement.
Divine providence is an amazing thing. Those who have traveled the Parkway know bathrooms are not a dime a dozen. It may be fifty very circuitous miles or more between them. As Joanne was uttering those words every driving man dreads hearing, a ranger station/gift shop came into view. I knew it would have toilets. I didn’t know it would have Magi, or that I would even need one.
After pulling in, I put my hand down on the left front wheel – warm but not too hot. Good. It was another idiot after all. I went around the passenger side to get Joanne out and saw about five tendrils of blue and gray smoke wafting up into the rarified atmosphere of the Blue Ridge from the front right wheel. You already know exactly what that smoke smelled like. The machined wheel was so hot it had turned blue. For those of you that don’t know, when an ironsmith is working metal to make it really strong, he anneals it by getting it really hot in a stoked furnace and then dumping it into cold water. It turns blue. I knew if I put my hand on that wheel it was going to be medium-well done at a minimum when I pulled it back. I suddenly had that same kind of feeling one has when a doctor says, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”
Moving slowly, no longer wondering about the magic of rhododendron and mountain laurel in the Blue Ridge, I wandered into the shop wondering how many days it was going to take and how much it was going to cost to get down off the mountain and to Pennsylvania. Inside, I asked if anyone had any mechanical inclinations. The young woman inside immediately denied having any but said she would ask the guy in the back room. I thought only car dealers had back rooms. He came out and denied any knowledge of such things but suggested it might be a good idea to take a bucket of cold mountain water and dump it on that smoking wheel.
Mechanically gifted readers will instantly know that’s a fine plan for annealing hot horseshoes, but it’s clearly not the optimum plan for burnt brakes on a heavy van at 6,000 feet. A bucket of cold water on that white-hot metal would have destroyed everything in that region of the van and would have done severe damage of the highest order to my credit card at payback time.
Then it happened, in the emerald mountains at 6,000 feet. The Magi appeared, wearing a brown work shirt. No robes or camels. A fellow in a gray pick-up truck wandered up to the small group watching the last fading tendrils of blue-gray ascend towards Heaven. He gave the gift that keeps on giving – wisdom. Still uncertain if I was watching brake fluid burning from a line failure or the burning of the brake pads, he suggested that the brake caliper may well have failed and seized. He then offered a pearl of knowledge, unknown to my vast experience. “Drive the van backwards and hit the brakes fairly hard. Do this several times. It might make the caliper release, if this is indeed the problem.” I knew nothing about brake calipers seizing.
With the most inspiring tool in the van being a pair of toe-nail clippers and having visions of the nearest tow truck being 255 miles away, I gave it a try. Something told me this guy came from a reliable Source. What did I have to lose but my life? I am certain the other high-altitude souvenir buyers in the parking lot must have thought I was short on fluids myself or experiencing altitude sickness.
The Magi provided me with another essential piece of information about an unknown land. Eight miles along the Parkway was an exit and just outside that exit was a Wal-Mart super center with a garage and three miles further on was a Ford dealership. Here? How could there be a Wal-Mart here on the highest place in Eastern North America? There wasn’t. I asked what those eight miles of Parkway were like. “All downhill.” How could it be otherwise? I was already at the highest place on this part of the planet.
God protects the foolhardy. Joanne has already faced down death once and won. She was game. After my little reverse display in the parking lot for the tourists I crept forward, hazard lights on, not knowing if the brake had released, if there was any brake fluid anywhere in the system, or if I had any brakes other than the parking brake. For forty five minutes as I descended those “all-downhill” miles from the high place where Magi come to earth, my blood pressure ascended. No talking, no radio. Using the engine and the gears, we traversed those eight miles at breath-taking speeds approaching seventeen miles an hour. The only talking allowed was my indicating success at another mile descended.
At about mile six, I had the horrid realization that Blue Ridge Parkway exits tend to be tight little clover leafs with stop signs leading onto often-busy state roads. I was already far into the coast of a life-time so could only hope that the specified exit might be a little more forgiving than most. As it turns out, this exit was newly reconstructed and led into a huge very busy four lane state road. I had no idea if I had any brakes whatever. As it was the Magi must have called ahead. I was able to coast around the wide exit ramp and roll the stop sign, having been given a clear view of the highway and seeing a long gap in the traffic. I found myself on a four-lane road, going up a very slight incline with a Wal-Mart super center in front of me. This was better than gold, frankincense and myrrh any day of the week, or eternity for that matter.
The Magi must have called one of his buds. All the while in that time-altering descent, during forty-five minutes that seemed like forever, a very large white pick-up truck appeared on the Parkway and held way back to give me space for a survivable descent. Most people want to get to the next place. Magi are patient with those limping along in life. He even held back and followed me around that exit ramp and rolled the stop sign with me. At the Wal-Mart, seeing I was safely down to 5 mph limping to the garage, he went on to another High Place. I never knew a Wal-Mart could look better than 6,000-foot vistas of oceans of cloud in mountain valleys. Standing on still ground at the garage, the fellow there said, “We don’t do brakes.” He then said, “There’s a Ford dealership three miles ‘up’ the road. ‘Up’ sounded infinitely better than ‘down’.
Gravity was gentle and we made it the three miles to the Ford dealership along that very busy highway filled with every logging truck and eighteen wheeler in the region. The service garage had a large sign on the door, which stated, “No appointments necessary.” The Magi was right. The caliper was destroyed after its piston had failed, and the Magi’s trick had allowed it to release so I could descend a total of eleven miles without immolating the front end of the van. The wheel was stone cold when I got back down to earth. And He provided a place without an appointment.
No Christmas dinner has anything on the picnic lunch we ate in that Ford showroom while we waited three hours for the burnt brakes to be replaced. The price was right and the people were unusually friendly.
When asked what one single gift he would most treasure in the world, King Solomon asked for wisdom, not a plasma screen TV, not a palm pilot, not even an unlimited free line of credit at Circuit City or Best Buy. He simply wanted to know how to judge information and to act appropriately on those things he learned and was told. He wanted to live his life well. You might say he wanted to live Christmas all year long.
Today in early spring the Magi appeared again to give me knowledge and wisdom that would save me from certain death. I was suddenly put in the same league as Solomon, even if for but a short season, yet long enough to keep from dying in the mountains. Wisdom is certainly a gift that keeps on giving. As Solomon said, “seek this one with all your heart”. It might just save your life.
In my travels I’ve often been disquieted by seeing impossibly steep truck escape ramps constructed for that frightening possibility of brake failure in eighteen-wheelers traversing steep mountain passes. Some of these ramps look like they were designed by civil engineers who hate their jobs, insuring tractor–trailer rigs achieve maximum altitude just before plunging into a high mountain abyss. I’ve often wondered what the terror would be like for a truck driver in the mountains finding himself sucked into this steep uncertainty following a brake failure
Being of the attitude that getting there is just as important as being there, I often take slow back roads to places, avoiding Interstates filled with everyone else in a big hurry. So it today I was on the Blue Ridge Parkway rather than several oppressively frenetic interstates, taking Joanne to Pennsylvania for one of her semi-annual family pilgrimages. The Blue Ridge Parkway must be one of the most beautiful roads in the world, if you have good brakes and a reliable vehicle.
The region of the Parkway east of Asheville on which I found myself this morning is the highest public road in eastern North America. I was at nearly 6,000 feet, near Mount Mitchell, occasionally stopping to take picture of incredible vistas and to have small bits of conversation with other sojourners gawking at the same wondrous views. It was up this serpentine pathway to heaven that I first smelled it, that distinctive odor that comes from nothing in the world but burning brake pads.
Having always had an intellectual disdain for people foolish enough to ride their brakes in the mountains rather than using their gears and downshifting, letting the engine do the work of fighting gravity, I have always been compulsive about avoiding the use of brakes in the mountains, especially when any kind of equilibrium is some thousands of feet straight down, inches from my right tire. I happily figured the whiff of burning asbestos was from someone else flirting with death, not me. I knew better that to flirt unnecessarily with the grim reaper. I refocused on the wondrous emerald realm around me. Anyway, Joanne doesn’t like it when I focus on the dark side of life on the third planet.
Again, moments later, my nostrils caught the distinctive aroma. Both feet were well away from the brake pedals. No one else was on the road. Perhaps the odor was just hanging in the very still air from a now-invisible car. The odor seemed to go away. Denial can be an effective life coping skill, or so we like to think
Sometimes ignorance of the future is truly a gift. Ignorance can be sweet bliss. Yet, as always, denial provides only a deferral of interest charges, and eventually one will have to pay back. Yet payback can be wondrous. Once in a while the debt is forgiven. And so it was for me today.
For some five miles, driving across the sky, I thought that ominous odor merely a fading reminder of the inferiority of those who didn’t know better about mountain driving. They had asked for TVs rather than knowledge or common sense. And then it recurred. Sniff. Denial was starting to fray around the edges, especially up in this very thin atmosphere. And then the clincher. Joanne said, “I need to go to the bathroom.” Guys behind the wheel know the world comes to a halt at that statement.
Divine providence is an amazing thing. Those who have traveled the Parkway know bathrooms are not a dime a dozen. It may be fifty very circuitous miles or more between them. As Joanne was uttering those words every driving man dreads hearing, a ranger station/gift shop came into view. I knew it would have toilets. I didn’t know it would have Magi, or that I would even need one.
After pulling in, I put my hand down on the left front wheel – warm but not too hot. Good. It was another idiot after all. I went around the passenger side to get Joanne out and saw about five tendrils of blue and gray smoke wafting up into the rarified atmosphere of the Blue Ridge from the front right wheel. You already know exactly what that smoke smelled like. The machined wheel was so hot it had turned blue. For those of you that don’t know, when an ironsmith is working metal to make it really strong, he anneals it by getting it really hot in a stoked furnace and then dumping it into cold water. It turns blue. I knew if I put my hand on that wheel it was going to be medium-well done at a minimum when I pulled it back. I suddenly had that same kind of feeling one has when a doctor says, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”
Moving slowly, no longer wondering about the magic of rhododendron and mountain laurel in the Blue Ridge, I wandered into the shop wondering how many days it was going to take and how much it was going to cost to get down off the mountain and to Pennsylvania. Inside, I asked if anyone had any mechanical inclinations. The young woman inside immediately denied having any but said she would ask the guy in the back room. I thought only car dealers had back rooms. He came out and denied any knowledge of such things but suggested it might be a good idea to take a bucket of cold mountain water and dump it on that smoking wheel.
Mechanically gifted readers will instantly know that’s a fine plan for annealing hot horseshoes, but it’s clearly not the optimum plan for burnt brakes on a heavy van at 6,000 feet. A bucket of cold water on that white-hot metal would have destroyed everything in that region of the van and would have done severe damage of the highest order to my credit card at payback time.
Then it happened, in the emerald mountains at 6,000 feet. The Magi appeared, wearing a brown work shirt. No robes or camels. A fellow in a gray pick-up truck wandered up to the small group watching the last fading tendrils of blue-gray ascend towards Heaven. He gave the gift that keeps on giving – wisdom. Still uncertain if I was watching brake fluid burning from a line failure or the burning of the brake pads, he suggested that the brake caliper may well have failed and seized. He then offered a pearl of knowledge, unknown to my vast experience. “Drive the van backwards and hit the brakes fairly hard. Do this several times. It might make the caliper release, if this is indeed the problem.” I knew nothing about brake calipers seizing.
With the most inspiring tool in the van being a pair of toe-nail clippers and having visions of the nearest tow truck being 255 miles away, I gave it a try. Something told me this guy came from a reliable Source. What did I have to lose but my life? I am certain the other high-altitude souvenir buyers in the parking lot must have thought I was short on fluids myself or experiencing altitude sickness.
The Magi provided me with another essential piece of information about an unknown land. Eight miles along the Parkway was an exit and just outside that exit was a Wal-Mart super center with a garage and three miles further on was a Ford dealership. Here? How could there be a Wal-Mart here on the highest place in Eastern North America? There wasn’t. I asked what those eight miles of Parkway were like. “All downhill.” How could it be otherwise? I was already at the highest place on this part of the planet.
God protects the foolhardy. Joanne has already faced down death once and won. She was game. After my little reverse display in the parking lot for the tourists I crept forward, hazard lights on, not knowing if the brake had released, if there was any brake fluid anywhere in the system, or if I had any brakes other than the parking brake. For forty five minutes as I descended those “all-downhill” miles from the high place where Magi come to earth, my blood pressure ascended. No talking, no radio. Using the engine and the gears, we traversed those eight miles at breath-taking speeds approaching seventeen miles an hour. The only talking allowed was my indicating success at another mile descended.
At about mile six, I had the horrid realization that Blue Ridge Parkway exits tend to be tight little clover leafs with stop signs leading onto often-busy state roads. I was already far into the coast of a life-time so could only hope that the specified exit might be a little more forgiving than most. As it turns out, this exit was newly reconstructed and led into a huge very busy four lane state road. I had no idea if I had any brakes whatever. As it was the Magi must have called ahead. I was able to coast around the wide exit ramp and roll the stop sign, having been given a clear view of the highway and seeing a long gap in the traffic. I found myself on a four-lane road, going up a very slight incline with a Wal-Mart super center in front of me. This was better than gold, frankincense and myrrh any day of the week, or eternity for that matter.
The Magi must have called one of his buds. All the while in that time-altering descent, during forty-five minutes that seemed like forever, a very large white pick-up truck appeared on the Parkway and held way back to give me space for a survivable descent. Most people want to get to the next place. Magi are patient with those limping along in life. He even held back and followed me around that exit ramp and rolled the stop sign with me. At the Wal-Mart, seeing I was safely down to 5 mph limping to the garage, he went on to another High Place. I never knew a Wal-Mart could look better than 6,000-foot vistas of oceans of cloud in mountain valleys. Standing on still ground at the garage, the fellow there said, “We don’t do brakes.” He then said, “There’s a Ford dealership three miles ‘up’ the road. ‘Up’ sounded infinitely better than ‘down’.
Gravity was gentle and we made it the three miles to the Ford dealership along that very busy highway filled with every logging truck and eighteen wheeler in the region. The service garage had a large sign on the door, which stated, “No appointments necessary.” The Magi was right. The caliper was destroyed after its piston had failed, and the Magi’s trick had allowed it to release so I could descend a total of eleven miles without immolating the front end of the van. The wheel was stone cold when I got back down to earth. And He provided a place without an appointment.
No Christmas dinner has anything on the picnic lunch we ate in that Ford showroom while we waited three hours for the burnt brakes to be replaced. The price was right and the people were unusually friendly.
Let It All Come In 4-15-10
Anderson, South Carolina
A great challenge of exercising in public gyms is the ubiquitous presence of televisions screens in lockers rooms, assorted group exercise rooms, and on fitness floors. Recently my gym installed flat screen televisions on virtually all treadmills, climbers and cross-trainers. It’s not possible to exercise without direct view of at least a dozen screens. Fortunately, machines I routinely use were never retro-fitted with video screens so I don’t have one eighteen inches in front of my face.
It’s become common for many members to insulate themselves from each other with ear buds plugged into these screens. Many more are isolating themselves with video streaming picked up from smart phones. Others not yet habituated to constant video input settle for various forms of audio input from IPODs and MP3 players.
Today while suiting up I noticed a rapid succession of faces come across the large screen above my locker, many of them rather sinister and aggressive. Curious, I stood still, waiting to see what the ad was about. It proved to be an advertisement from a large cable subscription service with only one phrase in the ad, “Let it all come in, call us.”
Incredulous, it occurred to me that millions of people actually pay substantial amounts to get a flood of non-stop serenity-robbing video input into their lives. They actually do “let it all come in.” A number of families I know have screens in every room of their houses, including the bathrooms. One arm-chair athlete admitted out loud that he spends $130 a month for cable just so he can see Monday Night Football. Others are spending $250 a month or more for a pallet of hundreds of premium channels. A family here in town has forgone access to hot water for showers for three years because paying for premium cable is more important that paying the natural gas bill. An eighty-five year old mother has long forgotten the pleasures of a warm shower. A recent estimate suggests more than 100 million Americans are paying for cable subscription services, to “let it all come in,” often to every room.
The large screen on the wall in front of my stair climber has split imaging video feed to it. I’m not able to turn this screen off. There are no less that six sources of information displayed at any one time, except when paid commercials are running. From the steps of the climber I can see three news feeds, a finance ticker tape, closed captioning from the main video feed, and at times three additional video inserts on the right side of the screen. Sometimes a stopwatch counter indicates hours, minutes, and seconds remaining until some noteworthy interview or event is expected to occur.
While climbing today, I learned from the main video feed that my travel plans next week face disruption because of a volcanic eruption taking place in Iceland beneath the Eyjafjallajokull glacier. The airports I want to use have been closed because dangerous clouds of powdered rock are wafting eleven miles up into the sky. How bizarre to learn that volcanic explosions might dump on my life, while in the local gym getting exercise. It is becoming progressively harder to be focused on one’s immediate place and experience, to be present to those people around me. How can I be listening to or encouraging those around me if they are insulated by their own video inputs and I am wondering if volcanic grit is going to destroy the jet turbines keeping me at 40,000 feet. Geologists indicate that volcanic plume is spewing ash up to 55,000 feet and that a far greater eruption from another nearby volcano is likely.
Some of the greatest wisdom in the great religious traditions speaks of the need to be still, to be quiet, to find peace by eliminating outside input. Masters of meditation have learned how to find ‘filling’ silence that allows them to attain serenity and mindfulness unachievable with any number of mood altering drugs. The anxiety and restlessness of an over-stimulated people is inconceivable to those few remaining cultures yet disconnected from the world’s video feed. For certain, I did not go to the Y today to explore the effects of putting powdered rock into the intakes of fan jets. I went to find a bit of equanimity and tranquility that comes from exercise-induced endorphins and pleasant community that derives from being with others who want to do the same thing.
Do we really want to submit to stressful commutes to go perform jobs that stress us even more just to make more money so that we can pay the cable company “To let it all come in” and wipe out any chance of getting a good night’s sleep?
For years I’ve been viewed as eccentric, because I don’t have any kind of television or cable service in my house. Every time I go to the gym, I am reminded that being eccentric can be a very good thing. A whole lot of lemmings have died because they followed the leader.
Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. Those things, which ye have both learned, and received, and heard, and seen in me, do: and the God of peace shall be with you.
A great challenge of exercising in public gyms is the ubiquitous presence of televisions screens in lockers rooms, assorted group exercise rooms, and on fitness floors. Recently my gym installed flat screen televisions on virtually all treadmills, climbers and cross-trainers. It’s not possible to exercise without direct view of at least a dozen screens. Fortunately, machines I routinely use were never retro-fitted with video screens so I don’t have one eighteen inches in front of my face.
It’s become common for many members to insulate themselves from each other with ear buds plugged into these screens. Many more are isolating themselves with video streaming picked up from smart phones. Others not yet habituated to constant video input settle for various forms of audio input from IPODs and MP3 players.
Today while suiting up I noticed a rapid succession of faces come across the large screen above my locker, many of them rather sinister and aggressive. Curious, I stood still, waiting to see what the ad was about. It proved to be an advertisement from a large cable subscription service with only one phrase in the ad, “Let it all come in, call us.”
Incredulous, it occurred to me that millions of people actually pay substantial amounts to get a flood of non-stop serenity-robbing video input into their lives. They actually do “let it all come in.” A number of families I know have screens in every room of their houses, including the bathrooms. One arm-chair athlete admitted out loud that he spends $130 a month for cable just so he can see Monday Night Football. Others are spending $250 a month or more for a pallet of hundreds of premium channels. A family here in town has forgone access to hot water for showers for three years because paying for premium cable is more important that paying the natural gas bill. An eighty-five year old mother has long forgotten the pleasures of a warm shower. A recent estimate suggests more than 100 million Americans are paying for cable subscription services, to “let it all come in,” often to every room.
The large screen on the wall in front of my stair climber has split imaging video feed to it. I’m not able to turn this screen off. There are no less that six sources of information displayed at any one time, except when paid commercials are running. From the steps of the climber I can see three news feeds, a finance ticker tape, closed captioning from the main video feed, and at times three additional video inserts on the right side of the screen. Sometimes a stopwatch counter indicates hours, minutes, and seconds remaining until some noteworthy interview or event is expected to occur.
While climbing today, I learned from the main video feed that my travel plans next week face disruption because of a volcanic eruption taking place in Iceland beneath the Eyjafjallajokull glacier. The airports I want to use have been closed because dangerous clouds of powdered rock are wafting eleven miles up into the sky. How bizarre to learn that volcanic explosions might dump on my life, while in the local gym getting exercise. It is becoming progressively harder to be focused on one’s immediate place and experience, to be present to those people around me. How can I be listening to or encouraging those around me if they are insulated by their own video inputs and I am wondering if volcanic grit is going to destroy the jet turbines keeping me at 40,000 feet. Geologists indicate that volcanic plume is spewing ash up to 55,000 feet and that a far greater eruption from another nearby volcano is likely.
Some of the greatest wisdom in the great religious traditions speaks of the need to be still, to be quiet, to find peace by eliminating outside input. Masters of meditation have learned how to find ‘filling’ silence that allows them to attain serenity and mindfulness unachievable with any number of mood altering drugs. The anxiety and restlessness of an over-stimulated people is inconceivable to those few remaining cultures yet disconnected from the world’s video feed. For certain, I did not go to the Y today to explore the effects of putting powdered rock into the intakes of fan jets. I went to find a bit of equanimity and tranquility that comes from exercise-induced endorphins and pleasant community that derives from being with others who want to do the same thing.
Do we really want to submit to stressful commutes to go perform jobs that stress us even more just to make more money so that we can pay the cable company “To let it all come in” and wipe out any chance of getting a good night’s sleep?
For years I’ve been viewed as eccentric, because I don’t have any kind of television or cable service in my house. Every time I go to the gym, I am reminded that being eccentric can be a very good thing. A whole lot of lemmings have died because they followed the leader.
Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. Those things, which ye have both learned, and received, and heard, and seen in me, do: and the God of peace shall be with you.
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