The Hump

If 'April is the cruelest month' (if you haven't guessed yet, TS Eliot is both my favorite and only poet I read), then May must be the longest.

It certainly has felt that way, having spent most of the last 3 weeks in either New Orleans or Denver, or on a plane going from one to the other. All business, very little pleasure (unless you count the guys on Bourbon Street who were lifting up their shirts to get beads from girls 'pleasure', which I most certainly do not), utter exhaustion and a suitcase full of stinky socks when I finally come home.

So I'm home now, and since I've returned, I've noticed this curious little phenomenon that really screws up my personal productivity. It's been there ever since I took started my 'day job', but lately I've really been noticing it.

You see, there is a little... hump... in my day, everyday, right around 4 or 5 pm. It's like this little speedbump in the middle of the afternoon, where I am finally free from the office and can come home. And then I get home, and find that the energy that sustained me throughout the workday is now utterly gone. Depleted. Sucked out of me like a leech.

I know there are a million things I either could be doing or SHOULD be doing: my lord, take one look at our garage and you'll see what I mean. But I just can't. I don't want to do anything. And if I must, then it has to be the least taxing thing in the world, like staring open-mouthed and drooling at a blank wall. (Note: my skills in this area have improved greatly over the last year)

Tragically, this is where the rest of the evening gets planned, right during this time of 'the hump'. What to do for dinner? Should I return those movies? And, oh, hey, how about that novel I've been writing for about 4 years now? Or maybe that gym membership that we keep paying for like homeowner dues? And, of course, the answer is always:

Flump... sigh... "I don't want to. I just want to... decompress. It's been a long day."

So I sit, fiddle, drool, while the hours pass.

And then, after 7 pm, my energy comes right back. But by then, it's all ruined. I didn't exercise, dinner was take-out, and now I'd rather read a book than write one. I've made it over 'the hump', but it's not like I'm in a good place, because it's too late to do the things I wanted to work on.

It's amazing how little sense of accomplishment you feel, when you've succeeded at accomplishing nothing at all.

A Phone Call from Mac

Not long ago, I received an email from a long time friend, mentor and all around Jedi knight. Mac, as he is now known, was once Chris MacDonald in a previous incarnation: whipping-boy for the Session and the Presbytery, which was part of his regular duties as college minister of this particular church. However, with the blessing and the curse of his brilliant (and I DO mean brilliant) mind, coupled with his devilish delight in irrevererence, I am not entirely convinced that he did not, on some occasions, deserve the private floggings of the committees mentioned above. I'm just saying.

This is some 14 years in the past now: Mac has moved beyond the creeping tendrils of ministry, and is probably embroiling himself in some other brilliant but self-destructive enterprise where he seems to have his downfall preplanned already. That's just Mac. And I don't believe he'd disagree. Rather, he'll pick himself up off the ground, dusting his pants and laughing, probably quoting some goofy line from 'Highlander'. If a weather vane is used to attract lightning, Mac is a pillar to attract shit, taking it all in stride and still believing in the grace of God.

There is much to be said about Mac, and no doubt future entries will contain references to his mis-adventures, but what this post is really about is a picture. The one above. He sent me this recently, during a time when life seemed to be reaching a point where I could not possibly voice a single complaint, yet I felt empty and bereft inside.

Then this came. This awful, ugly photo of an ungainly and awkward young man, struggling to make sense of the world after the loss of his brother and the onset of depression. I cringe whenever I look at it, but I have it saved, still, because behind the LensCrafter glasses and the awful mullet, there is this boy who is wistfully looking out at something vast, immeasurable, and beautiful. Yes, I look like a myopic pirate with a lip full of chewing tobacco, and if I dwell on this period of time too long, I feel what I felt then: adrift, sputtering, gasping, splashing and struggling.

And then I realize: that's what calls me to this picture, over and over again. It wasn't the feeling of being lost and useless, it was the struggle: that damn-ed struggle for meaning and position in a world that is never static, never allowing you to set your feet on solid ground BECAUSE THE WORLD ISN'T REALLY WHERE YOU WERE MEANT TO BE.

Yes, this picture is reference back to a time I would rather forget. But that would render the whole experience worthless- and if it were not there, I would not be here, at this moment, at this now, wanting that struggle again. I would not have my beautiful wife, my coming child, my past failures that ring now like handbells of grace.

I think Mac knew this when he sent it. He was there for me- a big, bloody, awful, wonderful, gifted mess- at the time when I needed someone most. Someone who would get down in the dirt and the grit and the grime of faith, and be satisfied with not coming up with answers... because answers soon become platitudes that we substitute for actual experience.

He understood then, just as he understands now, it's all about the struggle.

Wait without words, for you are not ready for words...
- TS Eliot

An Apology to Half of Seattle

The car I currently drive is an inherited one- inherited in the sense that when Salome and I married, she brought it into the nuptial relationship as a shared asset (see image of car here).

When the infamous snows of Seattle hit, we purchased a Honda CRV, and Salome's old car was designated as my main mode of transport. It was a wise move- and I'm by no means complaining- as my commute is significantly shorter than hers and I drive like an elegant figure skater when it comes to icy roads.

But still, it's an old Ford Escort, and it's not the most luxurious of drives.

The other day the battery light in the Escort went on. As the Escort has the following issues:

1) The brake light never goes off
2) The gear box is not lighted, so at night you have to guess what position 'reverse' is in: which has the potential for the creation of a great drinking game
3) The 'check oil' light is always on

I think I can be forgiven for thinking this new battery light was just another sign of the old girl showing her age. Who knew the car was actually trying to tell me something???

She made her final statement by dying at the intersection between a freeway off ramp and a major arterial street. On Friday afternoon, during the prime traffic hour.

And here's where the apology comes in. You see, for years I have taken a rather dim view of Seattle. I have hated its dim corridors that pass for 'streets', and the uppity denizens sipping coffee in Starbucks in front of their laptops. I have hated how one out of every 2 cars is an SUV, and how the small community churches have died off in favor the mega-churches. It has seemed that the only value Seattle had was 'big': whether it was a start-up company reaching up to become a giant (or big enough to capture Microsoft's attention and subsequently be bought out by them), or the egos of those who walk the city streets.

So, as I sat in my dead car, with the hazard lights blinking (nice: enough juice in the battery to let everyone know the car was dead, but not enough to get it started), it took less than 5 minutes of sitting before someone edged around my car and came to a stop. He offered assistance, tried to jump start it (no go), and then to help push it off to the side of the road (gear box was stuck in park, and wouldn't move into neutral). I thanked him, but there was nothing he could do.

I then called for a tow truck, which came interminably late, (just under an hour) but during that wait I had no less than 7 people stop and offer assistance. This, in a city that doesn't care- unless the yellow-spotted grout lizard is in danger of having to move 20 feet from its habitat because of some proposed road construction.

From the Hispanic man who pulled off to the side and offered a jump start and tinkered with the engine, to the Asian man who instructed me on what I'd need to do to get it running, to the delivery driver who, with a few of Hispanic co-workers, showed me how to get the car out of 'park', into 'neutral', and helped push me off the road, to the black man who pulled up behind me just to ask if I was alright. And I would be remiss if I didn't mention the 20-something Latinos in their souped car and thumping bass- and whom I would probably dismiss as 'gang-bangers' or
'thugs' under other circumstances- who also stopped and offered assistance.

In fact, with the exception of the first gentleman who tried to give me a jump start, I never received offers of assistance from anyone who was Caucasian, and drove a Mercedes or some other luxury car.

And yes, the paragraph above about why I dislike Seattle so much is not one I'm going to retract: I think my earlier criticism still holds true. But my error- and thus my apology- is that there are some genuinely good people out there who defy typology and stereotypes, and are willing to stop and help someone in need.

These are the people that are the glue that hold this city together, and though none of you will be likely to read this blog, I just want to say yet again:

Thank you.