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.