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.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
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
Saturday, May 3, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The Beating of a Heart
3 weeks ago, I learned that I might be a father.
Might.
Based on a $10 test that- pardon the details of the mechanics- required someone to pee onto a swab of cotton.
I am not one that requires flow charts, diagrams, confirmations from experts and an army of lawyers to write a brief before I'll believe something. But I would like a soupcon of empiricism and a dash of research before I buy into something entirely. I've bought several used cars in the past, and have completely learned from those experiences. Particularly one where you never buy a used car from a guy who insists you call him 'Dutch'.
I digress.
Further testing (and the indignity it engenders) was required before I would even allow myself to start to hope, let alone believe. 5 tests and 24 hours later, I started to believe.
This was further augmented by:
a) Salome phoning the clinic and describing the situation, an appointment (LONG in the future- what the hell is the matter with these doctors? This is my CHILD we're talking about here) set, and a nurse practitioner telling my wife 'congratulations'.
'You mean...?'
'Honey, those tests are designed to look for one single thing. It found it. 5 times. You are.'
b) A terrifying moment when my wife had to go into the clinic for an ultrasound to make certain everything was okay. I skipped work and broke traffic laws to get to that appointment, but was 5 minutes too late to observe the ultrasound. DAMN YOU, SEATTLE!!! DAMN YOU AND YOUR SHITTY PARKING!!!
At this point, there was no plausible denial of what was growing in my wife's belly, but still... I still felt a bit... reluctant to fully rejoice. At 6 weeks and 6 days, it's still an 'embryo': it hasn't even graduated to a 'fetus' (which occurs at week 10, according to the books I'm reading, as if there's some sort of cap and gown celebration where someone shakes the new fetus's hand and slips them a diploma), and this seemed to me to be a somewhat precarious, could-go-either-way sort of situation, and I didn't want to get too hopeful.
But oh.
Oh.
Salome calls me today at work, after her appointment, and tells me the news. My baby has a heartbeat.
My baby has a heartbeat.
It's beating, it's alive, pulsing and throbbing with new life. Sorting out 23 chromosomes from mom, and 23 from dad to decide what it wants to be (hint: choose more from your mom's side). It's growing, and healthy, with the steady quick thrumming of 115 beats per minute. It's drawing strength, it's in the process of becoming itself.
And in some inexplicable way, despite a lifetime of fumbles, failures and befuddlement, I did something right.
I gave my baby a heartbeat. And now I am a believer.
I love you. Come soon.
Might.
Based on a $10 test that- pardon the details of the mechanics- required someone to pee onto a swab of cotton.
I am not one that requires flow charts, diagrams, confirmations from experts and an army of lawyers to write a brief before I'll believe something. But I would like a soupcon of empiricism and a dash of research before I buy into something entirely. I've bought several used cars in the past, and have completely learned from those experiences. Particularly one where you never buy a used car from a guy who insists you call him 'Dutch'.
I digress.
Further testing (and the indignity it engenders) was required before I would even allow myself to start to hope, let alone believe. 5 tests and 24 hours later, I started to believe.
This was further augmented by:
a) Salome phoning the clinic and describing the situation, an appointment (LONG in the future- what the hell is the matter with these doctors? This is my CHILD we're talking about here) set, and a nurse practitioner telling my wife 'congratulations'.
'You mean...?'
'Honey, those tests are designed to look for one single thing. It found it. 5 times. You are.'
b) A terrifying moment when my wife had to go into the clinic for an ultrasound to make certain everything was okay. I skipped work and broke traffic laws to get to that appointment, but was 5 minutes too late to observe the ultrasound. DAMN YOU, SEATTLE!!! DAMN YOU AND YOUR SHITTY PARKING!!!
At this point, there was no plausible denial of what was growing in my wife's belly, but still... I still felt a bit... reluctant to fully rejoice. At 6 weeks and 6 days, it's still an 'embryo': it hasn't even graduated to a 'fetus' (which occurs at week 10, according to the books I'm reading, as if there's some sort of cap and gown celebration where someone shakes the new fetus's hand and slips them a diploma), and this seemed to me to be a somewhat precarious, could-go-either-way sort of situation, and I didn't want to get too hopeful.
But oh.
Oh.
Salome calls me today at work, after her appointment, and tells me the news. My baby has a heartbeat.
My baby has a heartbeat.
It's beating, it's alive, pulsing and throbbing with new life. Sorting out 23 chromosomes from mom, and 23 from dad to decide what it wants to be (hint: choose more from your mom's side). It's growing, and healthy, with the steady quick thrumming of 115 beats per minute. It's drawing strength, it's in the process of becoming itself.
And in some inexplicable way, despite a lifetime of fumbles, failures and befuddlement, I did something right.
I gave my baby a heartbeat. And now I am a believer.
I love you. Come soon.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Song Lyrics That Are Just... LAME
Hey, I've got artistic roots.
I appreciate that creative spark. That muse. Whatever your medium, baby, spill your soul to the world. Paint it, sing it, interpretive-dance it (well...), write it, yodel it. I don't care. I will not, in any way, stifle it.
Unless it's absolute crap.
Lately, there have been song lyrics bouncing around in my head. I can't get them out. I can't. Can't, can't, can't CAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNN'T. Unless I purge them into this blog, pass this curse onto you and make all of you suffer.
And what makes these songs echo and reverberate in my head is NOT because they're catchy, have a good beat, and you can dance to them. It's because whether it be a simple line or an entire refrain, they're just freakin' stupid.
So, in no particular order since they all equally suck, the winners are:
Artist (term used loosely): Plain White T's
Song: Hey There, Delilah
Lyric: Hey there Delilah,
I've got so much left to say,
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all...
Okay, no problems here. Actually quite beautiful. Simple, adoring love song. THAT SUDDENLY SLIPS INTO VICTORIAN ENGLISH in the last line:
Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all.
Comment: Try saying this in plain, everyday language, and you'll get your ass kicked for being 'Poncey'. Thanks, Plain White Dickens. Talk about desperate for a rhyme.
Artist: Fergie
Song: Big Girls Don't Cry
Lyric: And I'm gonna miss youuuuu like a child misses its blanket.......
Comment: Can we say... 'searching for a simile'? It's a stretch, a dumb stretch, and it conjures images of you as a grown up wearing 'Little Mermaid' body pajamas with feet and carrying a teddy bear, but- oh the strength of you!!!!- you're going to grow up now and leave the little pink blankee at home. However, at least it marginally beats your next lyric, which is:
Artist: Fergie
Song: My Humps
Lyric: My hump, my hump, my hump, (Ha) my lovely lady lumps (Check it out).
Comment: Um.... given the obvious regression into the 'women are meat' mentality, I'm not sure how she got away with it. Could you imagine P. Diddy coming out with a song that goes:
My sac, my sac, my sac, (Ha), my hairy scrotum sac (Check it out)...?
Artist: Justin Timberlake
Song: Sexyback
Lyric: Get your sexy on, go 'head and be gone with it.
Comment: Apart from the whole thing not making a lick of sense, I do have to say this in response to the first phrase: Hey Justin, I don't know about you, but I always have my sexy on.
I am currently wearing red panties as I write this.
Artist: Jordin Sparks
Song: Tattoo
Lyric: Just like a tattoo,
I'll always have you (even when I'm an 80 year old grandmother with upper arms the size of hams and a backside that you need a king-size bedspread to cover, and that tattoo is sagging and wrinkled and stuck in my waddles of fat...).
Ah, but then it gets worse:
Lyric: You're still a part of everything I do,
You're on my heart just like a tattoo.
Huh?
Comment: People normally don't put tattoos on their hearts, darlin'. It kind of defeats the purpose- while simultaneously being darned dangerous. And if my being 'a part of everything [you] do' means I'm the equivalent of blue-inked sketch of a lotus flower or some other tramp-stamp, I'm not entirely convinced I'm all that special to you.
Gotta song lyric you hate? Spread the venom. Leave a comment with the lyric.
I appreciate that creative spark. That muse. Whatever your medium, baby, spill your soul to the world. Paint it, sing it, interpretive-dance it (well...), write it, yodel it. I don't care. I will not, in any way, stifle it.
Unless it's absolute crap.
Lately, there have been song lyrics bouncing around in my head. I can't get them out. I can't. Can't, can't, can't CAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNN'T. Unless I purge them into this blog, pass this curse onto you and make all of you suffer.
And what makes these songs echo and reverberate in my head is NOT because they're catchy, have a good beat, and you can dance to them. It's because whether it be a simple line or an entire refrain, they're just freakin' stupid.
So, in no particular order since they all equally suck, the winners are:
Artist (term used loosely): Plain White T's
Song: Hey There, Delilah
Lyric: Hey there Delilah,
I've got so much left to say,
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all...
Okay, no problems here. Actually quite beautiful. Simple, adoring love song. THAT SUDDENLY SLIPS INTO VICTORIAN ENGLISH in the last line:
Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all.
Comment: Try saying this in plain, everyday language, and you'll get your ass kicked for being 'Poncey'. Thanks, Plain White Dickens. Talk about desperate for a rhyme.
Artist: Fergie
Song: Big Girls Don't Cry
Lyric: And I'm gonna miss youuuuu like a child misses its blanket.......
Comment: Can we say... 'searching for a simile'? It's a stretch, a dumb stretch, and it conjures images of you as a grown up wearing 'Little Mermaid' body pajamas with feet and carrying a teddy bear, but- oh the strength of you!!!!- you're going to grow up now and leave the little pink blankee at home. However, at least it marginally beats your next lyric, which is:
Artist: Fergie
Song: My Humps
Lyric: My hump, my hump, my hump, (Ha) my lovely lady lumps (Check it out).
Comment: Um.... given the obvious regression into the 'women are meat' mentality, I'm not sure how she got away with it. Could you imagine P. Diddy coming out with a song that goes:
My sac, my sac, my sac, (Ha), my hairy scrotum sac (Check it out)...?
Artist: Justin Timberlake
Song: Sexyback
Lyric: Get your sexy on, go 'head and be gone with it.
Comment: Apart from the whole thing not making a lick of sense, I do have to say this in response to the first phrase: Hey Justin, I don't know about you, but I always have my sexy on.
I am currently wearing red panties as I write this.
Artist: Jordin Sparks
Song: Tattoo
Lyric: Just like a tattoo,
I'll always have you (even when I'm an 80 year old grandmother with upper arms the size of hams and a backside that you need a king-size bedspread to cover, and that tattoo is sagging and wrinkled and stuck in my waddles of fat...).
Ah, but then it gets worse:
Lyric: You're still a part of everything I do,
You're on my heart just like a tattoo.
Huh?
Comment: People normally don't put tattoos on their hearts, darlin'. It kind of defeats the purpose- while simultaneously being darned dangerous. And if my being 'a part of everything [you] do' means I'm the equivalent of blue-inked sketch of a lotus flower or some other tramp-stamp, I'm not entirely convinced I'm all that special to you.
Gotta song lyric you hate? Spread the venom. Leave a comment with the lyric.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
ONE day, Seattle? Seriously... One Day?!?
People say I was lucky to have grown up in California.
I always reply, 'It depends upon what part of California you grew up in.'
While I spent most of my childhood in Placerville, it was close enough to Sacramento to endure the same weather patterns. In essence, there were two seasons in Sacramento: 'miserably hot', and 'tar-boiling, tennis shoe-melting, fry-an-egg-on-your-dashboard' kind of hot. Either way, it made me appreciate those occasional days when the sun was covered by clouds and rain fell in little droplets, and I decided that when I was old enough to be on my own, I would be moving to a climate that was not so relentlessly sunny; I actually pined for rainy days, for fog and sleet and occasionally the driving snow.
I'm about to change my mind on that now.
It's friggin' April- no, it's the end of April, with May speeding around the corner like a pollen-belching locomotive. Only thing is, this particular train is being pulled by 'The Little Engine That Couldn't', and each day we awake to that same, dismal grayness, where the clouds cover the sun with bellies full of rain.
Seriously, the last time Salome and I saw the sun for any extended period of time, it was when we took our belated honeymoon trip to Cancun last summer. And even then, we had a hurricane (Dean) bearing down on us. But even still, we were grateful.
In the last 30 days, we've had two- count 'em, two- days where the sun broke the back of the relentless clouds, and finally showed its face for all of 16 hours- the slutty little tease- and so now California is looking better and better.
True, the relentless sun that beats down upon that state puts you at an increased risk for melanoma, but no one (as far as I know) ever suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder by living in sunshine.
Talk about only ever seeing things in shades of gray.
I always reply, 'It depends upon what part of California you grew up in.'
While I spent most of my childhood in Placerville, it was close enough to Sacramento to endure the same weather patterns. In essence, there were two seasons in Sacramento: 'miserably hot', and 'tar-boiling, tennis shoe-melting, fry-an-egg-on-your-dashboard' kind of hot. Either way, it made me appreciate those occasional days when the sun was covered by clouds and rain fell in little droplets, and I decided that when I was old enough to be on my own, I would be moving to a climate that was not so relentlessly sunny; I actually pined for rainy days, for fog and sleet and occasionally the driving snow.
I'm about to change my mind on that now.
It's friggin' April- no, it's the end of April, with May speeding around the corner like a pollen-belching locomotive. Only thing is, this particular train is being pulled by 'The Little Engine That Couldn't', and each day we awake to that same, dismal grayness, where the clouds cover the sun with bellies full of rain.
Seriously, the last time Salome and I saw the sun for any extended period of time, it was when we took our belated honeymoon trip to Cancun last summer. And even then, we had a hurricane (Dean) bearing down on us. But even still, we were grateful.
In the last 30 days, we've had two- count 'em, two- days where the sun broke the back of the relentless clouds, and finally showed its face for all of 16 hours- the slutty little tease- and so now California is looking better and better.
True, the relentless sun that beats down upon that state puts you at an increased risk for melanoma, but no one (as far as I know) ever suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder by living in sunshine.
Talk about only ever seeing things in shades of gray.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
If This Doesn't Touch Your Heart...
We learn our lessons in the strangest of places.
I remember as a child in Sunday school class, sitting around in a circle and trying to sing a song about 'the fruits of the spirit'. Some poor, demented soul had actually tried to put music to the words 'peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, self-control...'.
It seemed, in that hazy understanding children have of the world, that if something wasn't put into song, it wasn't real. So we mercilessly belted out this tune, not having a clue what 'self-control' was, but it was in the song, so we bravely clapped out of sync, and stumbled over the syllables we tried to sing.
As years have passed, it is rare to come across individuals who possess even a few of these 'fruits'.
Sometimes, then, the best examples of how to be human do not come from humans at all. Watch this video. Let it take the time to load. It's worth it.
PS- Please adopt from animal shelters
I remember as a child in Sunday school class, sitting around in a circle and trying to sing a song about 'the fruits of the spirit'. Some poor, demented soul had actually tried to put music to the words 'peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, self-control...'.
It seemed, in that hazy understanding children have of the world, that if something wasn't put into song, it wasn't real. So we mercilessly belted out this tune, not having a clue what 'self-control' was, but it was in the song, so we bravely clapped out of sync, and stumbled over the syllables we tried to sing.
As years have passed, it is rare to come across individuals who possess even a few of these 'fruits'.
Sometimes, then, the best examples of how to be human do not come from humans at all. Watch this video. Let it take the time to load. It's worth it.
PS- Please adopt from animal shelters
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