Primal Warfare

I am literally in love with this picture
and all of the questions it
arouses. As well as its harmony
with the end of this blog. Pay attention.

I wanted go to bed. I really did. But my fingers just want to type and my heart wants to write. So, fine, I'm up.


I sat with my Papa again tonight in his living room in Kansas City with the big Siamese cat who sits in the leather chair like a person and watches the Science Channel with us. My grandpa ate deli meat (ham, which I'm now craving... damn vegetarianism) and drank red boxed wine, and he talked about Mississippi. I saw all the colors with their sepia tones and the 1940's streets of Jackson, with the kiddy matinee on Saturday mornings and the hot tamales sold on the corner by the black man who'd been alive since the beginning of time. Life was beautiful. My Papa, the only boy in his family, became a nuclear physicist/chemist. He always tells me stories about things I've never heard. Tonight, he promised to show me something I'd never seen before. He was right.


He brought in a rolled up chart. When he opened it, my eyes adjusted to the colors, dates, and diagrams. It was a history of nuclear warfare from the beginning of production in America in the 1920's. He explained all the colors, the keys and showed me where he started helping out with the production. He pointed to the red lines, all the warheads that are currently stockpiled. "There's a piece of me in each of those. I helped invent things that stopped things from happening in the bombs. I also have something on Mars." Right, my Papa's also a genius I forgot to mention. But, instead of wondering about the effect of water on the corrosion of the chemicals and the effect of hydrogen on the corrosion of the soft metals like my grandad, I thought about how far we haven't come.


That's right. After almost one hundred years of nuclear warfare, we are no more civilized or advanced as a society it seems. We still have to be able to blackmail each other into "peaceful" situations, to be able to have the ability to blow up the whole of Russia 6 times over so that we are safe. That doesn't make me feel safe. It makes me feel... primitive. For all of the progress we have made in setting up societies and preserving cultures so many of us are still focused on preservation through a power struggle. The alpha male dominates. I'm not here to rant on the job of the "big brother" or to give my political stance on war or homeland security. That's another blog. I just wonder sometimes if our highly advanced progress in the area of destruction is really just a 21st century version of the first society's own tradition of the "one with the most wins." Or if it's just the human version of animal instincts. I wonder with all the ability to blow up countries, why we haven't figured out how to save them yet? While we could wipe Central America off the map with one submarine of missiles, why we haven't been able to even help them to have a decent standard of living. There's not answers to those questions that can take place in essay form. They take place in human form, spelled out in the footsteps of those who tend to the civilians who are ripped apart by the effects of the wars led by their leaders. They take place in the hands of the peace makers who cross borders and make dropping bombs obsolete in the face of beautiful humanity.


Will we ever learn? Probably not. But I hope that for the next generation what we have to show is more than a well preserved stockpile of nuclear warfare to brag about.

The Philosophy of Christmas

"Santa is Dead…"

                     -K. R. Smith 

In a conversation with Molly in which I endlessly mocked the shallow shell that is our most celebrated season, we laughed at the truth of the ridiculously dramatic yet humorous statements which jumped from my overactive mouth. So we developed this tragic piece of irony, these thoughts are a story told by the pretentious and nasaly voice of an overtly learned and obnoxious American, making obvious that her views, so rooted in the American way are clearly full of wisdom, irony and clichés. Please, take this entry with a grain of salt…

Here in America, Santa doesn’t come. Not anymore at least. The streets are covered in lights, and the children await eagerly the arrival of a large man who will satisfy their sticky, greedy fingers. Their thoughts revolve around the boxes which are already underneath the tree whose life they have stolen so that their home may resemble the now dying European tradition of Christmas cheer. But Santa won’t come. Not anymore. Every American adult is tainted with the flow, the ebb and tide of the retail season which overtakes the generosity which once burst forth with the mention of Christmas. Instead of the rise of humanity, Christmas season brings the rise of consumerism. Our wallets are empty, and so are the hands of the needy… because we have left the department store cash registers overflowing with what appears to be our Christmas cheer. The faces of our celebrated, flawless heroes, the Presidents of the United of America, are so sadly the faces which will cause too many to be hungry this year as they make their way into the banks of those corporate giants who already have too much. No, Santa won’t come here. Not anymore. Because, who can give us who already have 2 of what we need and 4 of what we don’t need, anything that will ever satisfy us? Our mouths drip with the drool of materialism, and the saliva hits the sidewalks, covering those who we in our superiority, trample into poverty. Yeeessss, we are all so cultured here in America. My shoes were made in China, my shirt in Taiwan, and my diamond is from the Ivory Coast. Of course I care about these places in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season… my money all pays their factory wages! No. No, Santa doesn’t come here. Here where our stockings hang like flags of war announcing the coming of another season of oppression for those in the sweat shops producing our shining, clicking, and buzzing Christmas presents and fueling Santa’s disgust at our selfish ambitions in this holiday season which is rooted not even slightly in what makes us happy. No, happiness can’t be bought. Obviously. We’ve bought everything. Everything. And are we happy? No.

So, cry large alligator tears of sadness at the empty space you find under your tree on December 25^th oh little American children. And slump in your chairs of self-indulgence, praise your righteousness which is shown by your giving of a thousand pointless gifts oh people of the United States. Christmas is no longer a reflection of something transcendent, the echo of a meta-narrative and place of union for meaningful moments… it is a reflection of our own faces, which have grown disfigured and drawn with every empty Christmas season. Yes, throw a tantrum, childish America… Because Santa has forgotten you.

Running with Scissors.

“When I run, I feel God’s pleasure.” –Eric Liddell, Chariots of Fire

Out of the many things I do that make very little sense to many people, perhaps the one which makes the least sense is how much I love to run. Unless you are a runner as well, there appears very little purpose or practicality in running for miles and miles with no decided destination besides returning to where you started. And yet, compulsively my soul grows hungry for the rhythm of my feet against the ground, to feel the echo of my footsteps resounding through the dirt.

On the beach, running is a song. It’s like each breath in and then out is the crescendo or the melody that you sing with the sound of the waves as they too move in, and then out. But, despite all of the power in your own body, the force in each muscle to move your legs further down the beach, you are so frail compared to the surging and ever approaching salt water. And so exists a mutual respect between the sea and the runner. The sea does not cross its boundaries, the runner knows his place. Jumping in and out of the sea foam, avoiding sharp shells, splashing through the tide pools, blisters form on the bottom of feet so used to being  confined in a pair of shoes. The sand though, is not like the ocean. It is resistant to the interruption of an intrusive runner in its fragile rest, piece lying precariously upon piece. And so it moves to make the ache in your calves grow with intensity, never supporting the push off, scratching and biting at your bare feet. But, the soothing salt water rinses off the anger of the sand, and instead makes the sand cooperate, binding the pieces together, restoring unity between the runner and the sea.

In the woods where I run, the trees bend down. They are the admirers of the creatures who can move, living their movement through the footsteps of the runners passing by. And the path carries my red shoes for the miles, but strikes back if I step too hard, reminding me I am only human and my fragile legs can be hurt if I run too long. But, the bond between runner and nature grows, as I run my same path day after day, and look down to see my own footsteps still etched in the soft dirt from yesterday’s run, or the day before. The path remembers the energy and rejoicing between my soul and the soul of my Creator experiencing creation, and preserves the reminder that I have been here. I have seen what too many people pass by. Each puddle is a hurdle, each bird is cheering the runner by, each twig that snaps is a word to endure from the earth who understands what it is to grow tired, and to be overused, out of breath.

Why do I run? Because. Because I can. Because that dull pain which starts throbbing in my muscles is really just the story of another adventure; on the beach, through the words, in the city, traversing the world. Because it is the one place in which all of my senses interact to make me feel at home, to make me feel complete. My mind, my body and my soul. I hear the sound of the waves, or the  stillness of the woods. I feel my body creating a rhythm and all parts of my working together to continue each step. I see the beauty around me, the sunshine and the sky, the sandpipers and the seagulls. I smell the salt, the fish, the pinecones and the dying leaves. And I taste the sweat that drips down my face, the chapstick which protects my lips and melts away as my run grows longer. There are more reasons than could possibly be explained by words, because it is a holistic “because” why I run.

Camouflage Travel

I have the privilege of writing again from my favorite place: the airport. Today as I sit in the Denver airport a thousand thoughts fly through my mind, with or without destination. With or without a place to land. I sat upstairs and ate my dinner while drinking a paper cup of jasmine green tea (thank you Target) and watched the rest of my fellow travelers walk by, always familiar, always strangers. Today, the airport was full of soldiers. They’re coming home for Christmas from wherever they have been in the world. Their families, wives, children, parents, girlfriends, and best friends will be waiting for them when they get home. And, after 20 days or so, most of them will leave again.

The aim of my blog at this point is not to express my opinion. I will not pretend to be learned enough to have something to say on every issue, and even if I do I will not be so presumptuous to think I have all the answers, or that I am anywhere near done forming my opinion on life. My views on the military have changed drastically in the last years. But, let us shed the mask of politics. I want to say what I see. Moving through the Denver International airport, I saw very few grown men. I saw so many young boys. Young ambitious boys, dedicated perhaps, lost maybe. And it doesn’t really matter which side of the issue we fall on at this point, because what I see are their faces. And I really wish I could give you a look at the photograph that is etched in my mind of this young soldier sitting alone on the floor of the airport. His eyes follow the people who pass, flitting from traveler to traveler. He wanders back and forth in front of our gate. As my mind replays the words of Howard Zinn in his book A People’s History of the United States, I think about our government and I think about the ambitions and missions of the empires of the past. I watch us fight what seems to be the same wars over and over…. And I see it in the eyes of this soldier.

But I watch camaraderie form between strangers as more soldiers join this one in front of our gate, and see fraternity that has been developed between them since the first day of boot camp, despite whether or not they knew each other before this moment in time. And, there is something that we all long for in finding a brother in every place we go. I sit and watch them smile and pace, waiting to be off the ground. And I desperately want to shed the presuppositions and the politics and instead see stories. Why is it that we have clumped people into groups and prejudices so that we can more easily dismiss their humanity and assert our beliefs? Our very nation was founded on our efficiency in this area. If the land was “given to us by God,” it is simply righteousness which drove us to destroy the humanity and value of the Indians and claim that the earth held its destiny in the hands of our empire. What will it take to strip our eyes clean so that we no longer look at people and see a philosophical stance or membership to a movement, but the face of a human being, a child of God, a design, with innate not assigned value? I begin now, thinking that the first question I would like to ask this soldier is, “If you could build a house, where would it be and why?” Stories are the angles in which our existence takes place and they long to be told, bursting forth from the one dimensional plane of acquaintanceship into the deep, complex, and multidimensional planes of personhood and friendship.

Semester.

In three words I can sum up everything I've 
learned about life: it goes on.
-Robert Frost

Another semester draws to a close. I don't think anyone can really complain. As I reflect on this semester I cannot say that it was a semester that was a particularly happy one. It was long, and hard. I had a lot of amazing and good times, but I walk away very tired. There is something very melancholy about watching everyone leave campus and seeing the parking lot empty out. It's like the real beginning of winter. The end of the semester is never bad, just cold I think. 


I walked out of my Anatomy/Physiology class Monday afternoon after finishing the final, and I was genuinely sad. This semester I changed the direction of my career completely, though most of my goals remain the same. But, leaving behind medicine has been exciting, and now suddenly very sad. The dreams I had for so long about becoming a nurse or a doctor remain in the seat I had occupied this semester as I walk out to pursue new dreams. The vivid goals I had wanted to accomplish will stay behind and become some other young ambitious student's passion, as I chase down some new study. It's scary to let go, even for someone with so little attachments. Make no mistake, I do not regret changing to social work from medicine, I finally have peace. But, it was my consolation that my career would have meaning, that I would be successful. It was a fall-back identity. I am forced to stand on the raw truth straight from the mouth of God to know who I am, instead of upon the reward of a guaranteed meaningful career. 
 

At the end of this semester, I stand with frayed ends, and an unusual contentment at the prospect of returning to Joplin next semester. I will miss Ozark over Christmas strangely enough, it has brought me comfort this semester in my hard times, wisdom when I was helpless, and community when I found myself isolated. I look ahead, so excited to see what will happen, embracing the things that I love: writing, music, running, nature, friends, adventure, football!, philosophy, and new ideas. As I continue to process the vast amount of things I have experienced this semester, wisdom will come I think, and maturity. Growth can leave you ragged... but ready to run farther, study harder, and travel more. Even when exhausted, I have found the answer to my clouded mind to be, move. One day at a time we move, led sometimes only by the previous direction our feet were headed, and when the sun again shines, we'll have clarity. Time has no patience, it will not wait for us to be ready to handle what comes, we fight through and enjoy the times of rest when we are granted them. Thank God for Christmas break. 

The Traveler

The best part of my day got a little better today. My lovely friend Jordan stopped by my room right after I ran. Firstly, it's always great to see her face. Secondly, it's always wonderful to hear her thoughts and her heart. She came in and handed me a book, she told me it made her think of me. After she left, I read it. It's a deep little story, thoughtful and simple. The sketches are mostly done in black, gray and white, leaving only Charlie, the protagonist to carry the color. I just want to share my favorite parts.

Charlie seeks excitement, he wants to see the world. So he grabs a suitcase- and he packs up all his time.

"And pack up his time he did:

starting with his big, bulky decades,

then the round, squishy years,

the square, mushy months,

triangular, shiny weeks,

and raggedy days,

tons of silky, smooth hours

and crumpled-up minutes.

Charlie squeezed in loads of itsy-bitsy seconds for the journey,

too, even though they didn't seem to want to go."

In the end, after he's seen the world- the woods, the desert, the ocean; heard the languages and passed by all of the sites, none of them making him happy- he goes home, lonely. He realizes this is where he wants to spend his decades and years. But he finds he couldn't save his packed time. With one square, mushy month left, Charlie spends it with the prettiest girl he ever knew and the friends she brought him to.

"And as Charlie spent his final itsy-bitsy

seconds on his friends,

he was loved.

He loved.

It may not have been perfect,

but he was happy."

"Life is a journey..."

Blow Away

Today while I was walking I had the most magical moment of this fall. Anyone else who is still really quite a child inside will share this excitement.

The turning of the leaves is always the best part of the year, it's like the buildup in a song that leads to your favorite part. The grand crescendo, the climax of the story! And then it's silent, the gentlest part of the song: winter. And it brings with it all the peace and rest of the months, a sleep from the technicolored summertime. But the leaves blaze the way, in all their colors. And when their life is lost they fall to the ground to continue bringing to us a change in the seasons for all of our senses. I was walking across the campus at Missouri Southern, and as I passed under the road through the tunnel, I could hear the scratching of a leaf as the wind pushed it across the concrete. But, with my aviators in place I couldn't see it... until it was right in front of me. And I stepped right on it. It was hands down the most satisfying leaf-crunch I have ever experienced. It echoed in the tunnel. It was like it had been running right towards me. Because at this point in the season, most people are dreading the cold, hating the mess of fallen leaves, and despising the empty trees. This little leaf was a lone herald, begging for the continued beauty of fall to be appreciated and noticed, even in its fading life. And I did.

Running outside today was like a continuation of this high. I ran and looked up at the skeletal trees, with the curled up leaves hanging on for dear life. Yet, here on the dry trees they will find no nourishment. So, they flocked to the sidewalks, where my red running shoes enjoyed once more the percussion section of nature. I ran through pile after pile that the wind had selflessly made just for me. And it was beautiful. Every stick, every stone, every brown leaf. The bend, twist and knot in every branch that has fallen to the ground, blocking my path, causing me to hurdle, is a masterful piece of art. It's not just the sharp wind that brings tears to my eyes, but the act of loving my Creator by loving His creation, by crying out with the puddles in the woods, by slowing my pace just to watch the deer bound across the trail, by running- face towards the sky- feeling the pulsing air of the birds' wings. By listening to the leaves blow away, and stalling them with the sole of my foot.

Life as a House

This is another recycled piece of writing. One I enjoyed writing more than most. In another round the question game with a friend, I asked, "If you could build a house, what would it be like?" After watching the architecture of their house come together with words, I built one of my own.

If I could build a house now, it would be in a place where I could be near the ocean and in the mountains. Probably somewhere in Maine. It would be in a small town, maybe built around a lake in the mountains... where everyone's house backs up onto their docks on the lake. And you can swim looking at the mountains. It would be New England style with a high roof and wood floors... and bay windows. And there would be a room in the house that would look out to the mountains or over the ocean and it would be full of huge windows. The walls would be lined with them. And in it would be my piano and it’s there that I would write music. And the kitchen would have yellow walls. There would be an oak table. And red couches.

I want to have my home decorated with pieces from other people's stories. I like to re-use beauty. I think it makes me feel like the quality in the decor is not synthetic. I want to have paintings hanging in my house that my friends have done. My room will be green, the same green as the lichen that grows on the maple trees in Maine. And I want my house to be lived in. I want the guests who come in to feel like they live there too. I want my kitchen to constantly be full of people, cooking together, eating together. I want a big kitchen for that. With blue tile counters, that I have to clean every night so that they aren't smeared, but when they're clean, they're the color of a mountain lake. Deep blue, reflecting the ceiling. I want floral plates- they won't match. I'll buy them from all over. It will be a collection of recycled beauty.

I want a room whose focal point is a giant map on the wall. I want pictures and artifacts from everywhere I've been to be in this room. Maybe it will be my children's room so that they will always remember the value of exploration. No, it will be the library. Where I keep all my books. My children’s room will be white. They will be allowed to decorate the walls with their dreams and their favorite super heroes, their best art attempts. Because my children will know that what they create and what they dream is more important than having me decorate their rooms for them. And that their creativity is more beautiful than my inspiration to decorate. They will absolutely have a loft in their room. It will be their pirate ship, their fort, their stage, their space shuttle. Just like it was for my brother and I.

The windows in my house will always be kept open. I want to always remember that the world is bigger than my reality. And I want extra rooms, each with their unique qualities. Because I want enough room to give people who don't have a home a place to stay, or those without people to love, a family. Single mothers without a roof will find a home in mine. Missionaries, friends, neighbors, travelers and strangers.

The backyard will be unkempt. Or, it might be a lake. I don't know. But, it will be the source of many adventures. And it will be wild, because I love nature. And I want to see it in an explosion of freedom in my backyard- not untidy, just untamed.

Lastly. I want a red front door. It is the passage-way to bold adventures, so it deserves an electric color.

Takeoff

I’m sure I’ve said this before: my favorite place to write is 30,000 feet in the air. So here I am, looking out my window on my flight to Baltimore, Maryland on my way back to Missouri. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros sing my flight safely to the runway. I am accompanied by my tall Starbuck’s Christmas blend, and the happiness that is a good trip home.

I’m not attempting to be morbid, but I’ll be honest. If I could die anywhere, it would be right here, up in the air; on an airplane, embarking on a new adventure or returning from some exploration. My mind would be full of stories, my feet dirty with the memories of a new place traveled to, or an old one revisited. And it’s here, right up here, that I feel most at home: on my way somewhere. It’s my muse, my element, my passion.

Takeoff is a surge, sure of momentum, but for me, it’s my healing. Airports breed a whole host of emotions: aching at the departure of a loved one, anxiety at the prospect of being so far off the ground, ecstasy at the return of a missing piece, anticipation at the road ahead, fear of the unknown, and comfort in business routines. Despite anything I’ve been feeling prior to boarding the plane, it dissipates the moment the plane accelerates. It’s the deepest comfort, soothing my ever spinning soul, opening the flood gates for wanderlust to take over my mind, and to be safe knowing my longing will be fulfilled. Back to morbidity then: such contentment… this is where I would want to have my last breath. Here, this channel for such great journeys on earth, to be the gateway to the greatest adventure I’ve never tasted, death. New life. Completion, touching my Savior.

So, if ever my life ends en route to a new adventure, whether it be crossing a great ocean on the deck of a ferry, flying across the great mass of continents, or blazing through the miles of some beautiful country in a long black train, don’t cry for me. It will have been a reflection of every other moment in my life, always moving, a transient soul longing to taste all the energy of exploration. My bittersweet drug, always dragging me from one place I love, into the hurricane of lust for the next place.

Children screaming on planes...

It’s not always that we write for others. Sometimes the words that color the page are simply for ourselves. The thoughts we write help us understand who we are. Josh and I drove from Joplin to Kansas City last night, we talked about a lot, sometimes we actually spoke. But, interaction always takes place even when we are silent. We talked about how interesting humans can be… how strange we are. We are always so fascinated when we learn something new about ourselves. When we recognize a pattern or behavior that leads us to understand our own selves. It can take years, ironically, for us to understand even the simplest of things about us. I suppose that this is the broken relationship between man and himself. We go through these sort of self-destructive stages that eventually lead us into adulthood.

As children, we have no understanding that we should want to be any different than we are. And so we just say whatever we think, speak our minds, even with jibberish. We love who we love and we behave instinctively.

We get a little older, and the cruel reality sets in that we will not be allowed to continue in our courageous naivety. And a lack of sureness about who we are develops. We act out, misbehave, and cry for no reason. Is it possible that even as children we feel the weight of a broken world?

By our adolescence we believe we are not who we should be. So, we pretend to be someone else we think we should be, denying the entire time our own beliefs, our own affections, our own thoughts. We adopt the popular culture as our personality. Those who don’t are marginalized…

High school comes around and we have all become professionals at pretending we aren’t who we are. Some of us have even forgotten who we really are and our personalities become so fluid we could be anyone… and no one. Something itches to escape though, something that says we’d really rather be experiencing the things we deeply enjoy. Instead of listening to the music that puts us in a box of accepted society, or using the colloquialisms that fit us into our generation, something in us asks if maybe, possibly, we could just do the things that actually make us happy? I didn’t realize in highschool I was even doing this. I was always different, I never wanted to be who others told me. But I still acquiesced to this idea that I needed to suppress the wild child in me that could only produce irresponsibility and regret. How wrong they were. Due to the hot pursuit of a crazy God I finally realized…

Then college. Most of us finally come to that place where we throw out all of the facades that have been our crutch for so many years. Excitement at the prospect of just saying “f--- it” and being who we are. Going where we want, developing not into the model citizens our social constructs sent us the blueprints for, but instead into people with passions, opinions, goals, and individuality, who are part of a bigger community, maybe even a meta-narrative… we have a better way of being: raw. Josh made the observation: this is adulthood. This moment when we still have questions, but we have laid to rest our games of pretend, and taken hold of our own imagination and creativity, to love and be who we are.

But some never do. And the weight of an image that doesn’t fit their spirit remains the back stabbing friend of those who have lost their courage and the sight to grow out of the oppression of a culture that demands a globalized personality to its citizens.

This will label me a tree hugger for sure...

In the course of a question game with a friend with an imaginative mind, the challenge was posed to me: describe a tree. Simple enough I suppose. Unless you want anyone reading to be able to climb through the branches in their imagination, and know the tree like they're there. This small story was getting dusty just sitting on my computer so I'm blogging it... it's really just a rant, an outpouring of imagination and creation.

To smell, hear, see and touch a tree is like experiencing creation. It is unexplainable. The sap that is unwashable, staining your favorite jeans, and sticking in your hair. The small branches you didn't see that hit your face, and make your eyes water uncontrollably. Or, the unsteady branch that gives way when a child is too reckless. The spiders and ants that flow out of crevices in the tree, using its resources to continue their busy preoccupied lives. The smell of pine cones, and pine needles that seems to linger beyond the forest. Or the simplicity of the mechanics of helicopter seeds, dancing to the ground to begin new life... a glimpse of new creation, those seeds, sheltered in their vessel, disrupted by the chubby fingers of a child and their mother, exploring the fall ground.

Peeling the white bark of a birch, not realizing as a child that skinning the slender tree was killing it. How can curiosity be disruptive? I suppose the trees just smirk through their pain that children can be so unknowing. The callouses on barefeet that fade only in winter, from grasping at the thick bark and low branches, to hoist oneself up from a sad existence attached only to the ground. A restorative pain when your hands are bleeding from swinging from the branches. Fueling our essays and our newspapers by providing the last of their usefulness to an uncurious city. But, in the woods, no one dares look down. Only, the utmost respect and adventure to look up, and feel that childhood inspiration.

Good habits.

Sometimes I forget I have a blog. Well that's not entirely true. For the last 6 months I have felt I literally have had nothing good to say. I don't feel particularly different today. I just miss writing. There's something about being able to create something, a new combination of words no one has ever put together quite the same way, even if it's just a period in a different place, that is slightly addicting. I suppose lack of inspiration could be a product of learning nothing new, or maybe being overwhelmed from too much learning. Either way, I hate to just blog about my mind, I feel vain. So I will blog about a monastery.

This weekend I had the opportunity to spend a weekend in silence and solitude up in Eureka Springs at a retreat center run by a monastery. On Sunday I got to go to mass at the monastery and was given a little history and tour of the place. I will tell you honestly I was floored. I've never quite experienced something like that. The monks and nuns were Franciscan but also Benedictine. They were so accepting and hospitable. And real. There was an awareness of reality, the importance of also being in the world, not just in their community. So their community consists of the monastic community up in Eureka Springs or other monasteries that have opened, and also the domestic members, who live all over America... and 3 or 4 other countries. And they had a grasp on something I see go misunderstood in my own denomination too often: non-denominational Christians do not have a monopoly on salvation. They are ecumenical and stand with wide open arms to begin healing the divisions that have formed in the church... not claiming they have everything right, but with humility and brotherly love. I was speechless (well mostly I was anyway because I had a weekend of "silence") at the beauty of their community. They had it right. We ostracize our celibates. We push our singles into marriage. We push our married couples to have children. And we put the families in our churches on a pedestal. They live together, all of these: celibates, singles, married, families. The celibates have families in their brothers and sisters, down to having a community kitchen with their singles brothers and sisters, because cooking and eating together fosters more community than anything I know in domestic life. The children in the community (in the words of Sister Carolyn) "are everyone's children... they have no idea how lucky they are to be loved by so many people." They don't. They are provided with more support and investment than most children. Their family lives will be complete. And the celibates, who will never have children of their own, get to nurture and parent children. It's beautiful.

As much as I wanted to stay, here I am in my dorm room. What I saw and experienced provoked questions that need answers. The more I look at life, the more I live life, the more I see that we all want reform. There is something in us that wants something better. We are to bring the Kingdom of God now. Praying the Lord's Prayer at Mass 3 times this weekend was a precious reminder that we are the answer. And, the inspiration for a new kind of life continues as God forms a picture of how He longs for His church to love in my heart and mind.

Writer's block conquered. Inner blogger back, fed for now, soon to be longing to write again.

Girls are not for sale

Girls are precious
Girls are smart
Girls are courageous
Girls are helpful
Girls are bold
Girls are beautiful
Girls are NOT for sale.

Girls are heroes. Rachel Lloyd of New York State is the founder of the only organization in NY that helps girls and young women who have been trafficked or sexually abused. GEMS (Girls Educational & Mentoring Services) has made huge strides in helping young women caught in trafficking to get out of "the life" and back to being just girls. Normal girls, who go to school and get married, who have children and are allowed to grow up. After all, the average age of girls trafficked in NYC is 13. Do you remember what you were doing when you were 13? I ran cross country and was on stage in the local theater. But, there are hundreds and thousands of New Yorkers who are being prostituted, played, and manipulated by pimps who swear they love them.

Girls are powerful. Rachel Lloyd knows what that is like. As a teenager, she also was sexually exploited. It only takes one girl to touch the lives of thousands. In 1999, she started GEMS, a one woman operation from her kitchen table. It has grown to be one of the largest organizations that provides aid and an alternative life to commercial exploitation of young women. Girls at GEMS are allowed to be girls. They are encouraged to remember their dreams, and to make the choices to get them there.

Girls are fighters. In 2007, a documentary by David Schisgall called Very Young Girls was produced outlining the stories of several girls who have been involved with GEMS and of the history of GEMS itself. It has won several awards for its inside look at girls in "the life" in NYC.

Girls are able. That's where Lloyd started. She came to the US as a missionary wanting to reach out to women exiting prostitution, and she found herself fulfilling her purpose. She has spoken to the UN, NYU and other prestigious universities, done profile interviews for major news stations and magazines and in 2006 won the Reebok Human Rights Foundation award. Her response to this award was : "This award recognizes for the first time publicly that the sexual exploitation of children in our country is a human rights issue. You look at places like the Philippines, and Thailand and the Ukraine and we talk about trafficking and sexual exploitation and yet when it's happening two blocks from this auditorium, when it's happening in Bedford Stuyvesant, or in Hudson Point or in Queen's Plaza, we look the other way. We recently saw the Academy Award for Best Song go to 'It's Hard out Here For a Pimp,' well let me tell you, it's hard out here for a 13 year old girl who has run away from home, who sells her body every night who is beat and raped by a man who is old enough to be her father, who is bought and sold by adult men."

Girls are not for sale.

I miss the Kerouac days...

It seems to me the more that I study the more I realize I am so hopelessly ignorant. In my ambition, I want to be able to read the most books, understand the most concepts and have the grades I find so appealing. And yet, that's not the point... For all my theological truth and all of my reason, I will not be changing the world. Of course, I think that there is value in education and learning, but if all I do is spend my time with books and papers, I will never see the truth, experience the truth I so avidly and passionately seek. It is in living the reasons I profess to believe that my life is changed and the lives around me are transformed.

I miss simplicity though. It feels like I am pressured to be able to name drop every famous philosopher and my favorite of their works. That's not why I study philosophy- it never has been. If the philosophy I know cannot teach what Jesus would have me say, it is useless. What are concepts and beliefs if they do not help me to die to myself a little bit more? What is my temporary pleasure and pride in the face of hopelessness that needs the solution I have? I read Kerouac, and for all his troubles and his pain, he had a simplicity of joy and contentment of being human about him. He was always running for the next thing, but his essence was alive, so human. He did not need the foundation of "intellectual snobbery" in order to change the lives around him, in order to grasp, understand, and be passionate about his purpose. What is it that I am missing?

I feel very affected by my culture, very oppressed by certain constructs and expectations. I feel I spend too much of my time defending why I do what I do, or say what I say, or even why I have such an outspoken character instead of being able to live these things. The burden of academia and society weigh heavy on my shoulders as I delve deeper into trying to understand the world around me. My hope is that I will be like Kerouac. May I dispose of society as a way of life and instead enjoy the beauty I find in it, as I freely continue my purposeful journey, running to whatever place will best help me to reflect Power in my weaknesses.

Avatar for real?

For too long we as an American population have chosen to be ignorant or silent in the face of issues involving companies in our own country. For the past 17 years, a lawsuit has been in trial against Chevron (Texaco) based on horrendous damage they did in the Amazon regions of Ecuador. Several indigenous tribes are on the brink of collapse due to contamination of water. Cancer is prevalent in their small groups, rancid 18-19 year old kids. Small children suffer from skin diseases because there is nowhere else to bathe but in water polluted with oil. Chevron designed a system which dumped crude waste right into riverbeds, streams, and pits dug in the areas. There is no clean water. There is no immediate access to healthcare for the poor living conditions and no money to pay for cancer treatments.

Each side has had their trials in presenting a clean case. Evidence the plaintiffs brought forward was not always supported by hard evidence. Their young lawyer, Pablo Fajardo, had only been a lawyer 1 year when he took the case over in 2003. More than 30,000 Ecuadorians are demanding that Chevron pay and clean up their damages. The defense has not argued a solid case either, and I have observed them using red herring after red herring to distract from the issue. The case which has been revealed to the public has Chevron pushing the blame all on the Ecuadorian oil company PetroEcuador (which partnered with Texaco and took over the oil company after they left the Amazon) and saying that the plaintiff only wants a profit. Which, ironically is what Chevron is being sued for.

This entire case breaks my heart. Because of the ambitions of American oil companies, the lives and cultures of the Ecuadorians have been exploited. Sure, the world runs on oil, but with such innovative means of preserving the environment we see propagated in the US, could we not have found a way to extract oil ethically? Is there not a way to avoid digging 627 pits to improperly dispose of waste in the rain forest? And why can companies not take responsibility for the damage they have done? Is the profit really worth so much more than the lives of the people who have succeeded in preserving a resource as precious as the Amazon for thousands of years? The trial is not finished yet, though the last judge involved in the case recommended that Chevron pay up to $27 billion in recompense. However, observers think that the case could go on for up to 8 more years, each side now attempting to undermine the case of the other. A new judge has yet to be appointed to rule on the case.

He who has no sin...

I watched a heart-wrenching movie last night titled The Stoning of Soraya M. It is the story of an Iranian woman with 4 children in an abusive marriage. I will not give away any "spoiler" details, but the woman, Soraya, is wrongly accused of cheating and stoned by her own family and town. The story was uncovered in 1994 by a French-Iranian journalist and turned into a book, later adapted into a movie. As I lay in bed and thought about the reality of oppression I cried. I thought about how many people in our reality are tortured by injustice and left to die.

I thought about the church, and I wondered where we have been. And, then I wondered if we can even do anything. I looked at the world and the way that we have twisted beauty and the things that used to be good, and I wondered if we can even do anything at all. I was overwhelmed by the amount of pain. But, most of all, I thought about the women. It's not that there are not men who are unjustly imprisoned and beaten. It's not that there are not men who are manipulated and pushed around. It's just that I am a woman, and I am free. And there are so many women who aren't. I lay in bed and I wondered about how many women have cried out to Allah to help them as they are stoned even today, how many women dig in trash piles to try to provide for their homeless families. I thought about the thousands of women roaming the streets in Red Light Districts and the women who climb up the corporate ladder just to rise above their lack of identity. And my heart breaks. What are we to do, in a society where it is acceptable and even expected that women are a sexual icon and a household hero? What are we to do when religion promises that women are inferior and deserve to be punished for their gender? What are we to do when there are no men to intervene and to protect the beautifully created woman from cultural slaughter?

I don't know.

And my last thoughts before I fell asleep were, what would Jesus have done if He had been there with Soraya M.? He was there, with a different woman, thousands of years ago. And he stood there, and He declared that the man without sin should throw the first stone. He delivered the "adulterous" woman from death, to life. He crossed the culture, and He stepped between her and the stones. He intervened. When, how, will we stand in between the stones and the condemned and not simply be horrified at the sight of blood?

I don't know. May God have mercy on me when I see, feel, and understand and do not move.

Ragged role models

Sometimes I forget I have a blog... In other news:

I think I need to be more like the homeless men I saw.

Last Tuesday, I was at the bus stop in San Jose, California. It was Spring Break and Rachel and I were on our way to Santa Cruz to enjoy the sun and watch the surfers. While checking the times for the arrival of the next bus, we passed a young man who was evidently homeless. We passed him again on our way to sit down and he asked me if I had any spare change. He had a soft face, he couldn’t have been more than 28. He had various tattoos on his hands and dirty clothes. Of course I was carrying cash, I had to pay to get on the bus. But I wasn’t trusting him with any of it. I watched him chase down a cigarette from a young kid and he sat back down on his ratty blanket. His face had no blemishes at all and I wondered who he was and where he was trying to go. He must have had an interesting story. Another man sauntered up. He too was evidently homeless. He was older, with a big beard and brght blue eyes. He wore navy Chucks and seemed real relaxed. He sat down a few feet away and I watched his shaky hand as he smoked a cigarette. I wondered what made his hand shake, if it was drugs, if he’d ever overdosed. Our bus cam and we got up to board. Both guys got in line behind us. The young man must have asked for change from the older man because he pulled out a wad of 5’s and 1’s and a handful of quarters. He gave the young man the bus fare he needed. I tried not to cry.

I think I need to be more like these homeless men.

Two lessons that I cannot seem to learn I saw come alive today in the lives of two of “the least of these.” I cannot fit through the eye of a needle. We admire people like the man on the train behind me. He announced loudly that he had just gotten out of jail for a minor offense: statutory rape. As he told his story to a girl who listened I heard him accept no responsibility, assume no guilt. He blamed society and circumstances instead. Or, we want to be like th shrewd business man behind him on the bus. He makes money, hates taxes, despises when people ask him for money. He provides only for those closest to him; his white collar life is starched and organized.

I’d rather be like the homeless men. Each of them are a lesson. The older man was generous. He had nothing more than the wad of cash in his pocket. He was selfless and compassionate on the young man. He could empathize with him, he lived on the same streets and searched the same alleys. Asked the same people for spare change. Yet, the young man is not pitiful or weak. He had faith that someone would provide for him. He trusted that he would be able to get to where he needed to go. In confidence and faith he asked each passerby if they could just give a little bit, only a small amount of the great wealth that lines our pockets. He had patience, I wonder what percentage of people really provided for him that day. He waited until he had it all, and he waited without being anxious.

Yes, I’d rather be like the homeless men.

No Pain

Rocky is my hero. I find myself day dreaming about boxing and Philly accents. But really, what is it that makes Rocky so different than the other boxers he stands beside or stands against. He has heart. In facing the machine Ivan Drago the Russian champion amateur boxer in Rocky IV, Adrienne, who never steps away from Rocky's side insists "You can't win!" Drago is the Michael Phelps of boxing, his genetic perfection and inhuman strength makes him essentially impossible to beat. And initially, Rocky has no interest in fighting Drago. But, the death of his friend, the boxer who led him to a huge victory is killed by the enemy in the ring. And what other choice is there? His heart is what makes him better, what gives him the edge. Rocky's no wimp, are you kidding me?! That man is a MAN. But he loves. The way he treasures Adrienne and fathers his son are the passions behind his fighting.

And, that's what I'm always missing. I want to be a hero, I want to fight the people and circumstances that hurt the people around me. I want to stand between ideas that have no consideration for the conditions of humankind. I want to go with courage and to finish the task that has been left for me. I want to do, and I want to fight. Yet, I am no better than Drago if I have no heart. What is the purpose in me fighting? Glory fades so quickly, human accomplishments can always be outdone by the next ambitious activist. And so what is it if I fight for my sake? It isn't about fighting so that I can fulfill my own individual purpose, so that my life is satisfied by my skills. Even if I can be victorious over the force which attacks everything I stand for, it means nothing if I turn and become just another heartless force.

I want to be active in stopping pain, I want to stand in the gap of injustice, I want to interfere on behalf of the weak and helpless. Without a heart purpose that expresses a living connection to a God who envisions the world how He designed it to be, any results I achieve are only finite and temporary. How does it matter if I relieve pain only in the here and now in a dying world, and yet abandon humankind to suffer unimaginable pain for eternity. I must not forget the heart, the why, the reason why I intercede. My God, who is the ultimate necessary being, and who is the living, active, highest form of Love, expresses this love in many ways, one being JUSTICE. This matters to me. May I learn to fight and to bleed, to sweat, to fall, to lose, to surround myself with people who love me, and to let my Heart be my passion. May I be like Rocky.

Breathing and Disbelieving

I understand that life moves in seasons. But, I quickly moved from a vibrant, colorful summer into what feels like a very long winter, with no sign of a thaw in the next few months. I understand that I am learning, but it feels very monotonous sometimes. In comparison to the fast paced, ever fluctuating experiences I had last year, I'm stuck in a bit of a rut where I'm at right now. I can't deny that I've changed, and I've progressed in achieving my goals, but discouragement has never ceased to hold my hand. A friend said a beautiful thing to me the other day, and it was so simple. As I relapsed into complaining about my oh-so-difficult life, he said to me nonchalantly,

"You're not being unproductive, you're just taking a breather."

After a year of hyperventilation and severe oxygen deprivation, this season has provided the rest and rehabilitation I need. The stress I feel in my lungs is only building strength. I will run again. And as much as I feel at times that God wants to see me miserable, I also know that my own assumptions about His motives have always been disproved by my experience of His grace. I was listening to a song, and the simplicity of this statement spoke volumes to my perspective on my current state of following God's will:

"If you believe me, it means you have to disbelieve yourself."

At first I thought that was really stupid. But I realized that all too often I value my bold opinions over God's merciful whispers. I've got to learn to disbelieve myself sometimes in order to grasp a vision that is bigger than the parameters of my theories.

As usual, Jack Kerouac has echoed my life in his writing. My memories often resonate with his passages and observations on life. In his book the Big Sur, Kerouac describes his beatnik friends all living together in a flat in Frisco. It was like looking into a mirror of my partners in crime in Roxburgh Place. We lived like the moment was all we had, like the bottle would disintegrate were it not consumed immediately, like sunrise and sunset were inconsequential to our actions. The road came at us.

"It's a wonderful place but at the same time a little maddening, in fact a whole lot maddening... and at night there are bottlecrashing parties usually supervised by wild Pascal who is a sweet kid but crazy when he drinks... the kitchen was also the main talking room where everybody sat in a clutter of dishes and ashtrays and all kinds of visitors came-...the phone rang consistently- even wild hepcats from around the corner came in with bottles... there was Zen, jazz, booze, pot and all the works but it was somehow obviated (as a supposedly degenerate idea) by the sight of a 'beatnik' carefully painting the wall of his room."

As the dripping blue spray-paint on the wall in my brother's Brooklyn apartment reads "Look at us, young Bohemians just trying to find our way in the world." And so we do.