This morning while on my way to fetch cat food and pay the water bill I caught most of Diane Rhem's interview with pianist Simone Dinnerstein. Dinnerstein is an accomplished pianist and writer who has taken to teaching children music using Bach as inspiration, she calls it "Bach-packing." One of the bits that stood out most for me was her explanation of how to create separate "voices" with the left and right hand on the piano, taking two different songs essentially and weaving them together to make a cohesive piece. The way she teaches children this idea is to ask half her classroom sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on a loop and the other half sings Row, Row, Row your Boat. As a relative dumb-dumb on how music really works, it's was as surprising to me as it was to these kids hearing how well the combo works. One of the callers during the interview joked about how he couldn't convince his hands to play different tunes which is why he now plays the saxophone. It's a riveting interview and you can check it out here. She explains that everyone has a dominant hand and teaching even seasoned adults how to bolster their secondary hand can expose a vulnerability that can be devastating to morale'.
When I was in third grade or so my folks realized I had some balance issues. I guess it stemmed from my inability to figure out how to ride a bicycle without training-wheels. While most of my neighborhood peers had it down several years before, I couldn't get it. This, paired with poor grades and a distractibility in the classroom at school, worried them. As fate would have it, a business called Sensory Systems Integration was renting the basement classrooms of our church during the week. I don't remember much about the technical side of their practice, but they ran all sorts of exciting tests on me trying to figure out where my brain was having its complications. I remember getting messy playing in shaving cream, sifting through a giant box of dried beans for pennies I was allowed to keep, pulling myself through obstacle courses on a little wheeled-block, looking at Rorschach test images, and swinging in a chair hanging in the center of the room. Along with christmas ornaments and other prominent knickknacks from my childhood, a few years ago my folks bequeathed the "Occupational Therapy Evaluation of Sensory Integration" official test results from 1988. It summarized my issues in cold, calculating language, that sort of hurts to read now, ultimately assessing I had a mild learning disability. But all I remember from that time is the fun I had trying to make my body do and feel things.
After this assessment, an occupational therapy plan was approved and the therapies I mention above took place, to get my mind syncing more with my body. I remember enjoying the hell out of therapy! Play in shaving cream? Sounds great! Every time I see it I envy the dude who jumps into a pool of caramel in some candy bar commercial on TV, sounds like a hoot! I think therapy lasted for 6 months or so and was discontinued in the summer after the therapists saw the progress they wanted to see.
Since first grade I had been playing "Dad's Club Softball" as well. Given my sensory complications...I had a pretty hard time with various facets of the game. Namely, all of them. In the spring of third grade, amidst the therapies, it was suggested I try playing softball left handed. My mom and sister were lefties and though I seemed to favor my right side, writing was the only advantage it concretely had, so it didn't seem like too much from left-field to try it. (you like that? left field...left handed...eh? come on!)
And so, as I had with my sister's jeans in the past (what, we were about the same size and it was the 80s), I borrowed her left-handed glove mid-season just to see how it'd feel. I don't remember much about the first game as a lefty up until the final inning. The opposing team was at bat with 2 outs, they were down 3 runs, and the big kid known for big hits was at bat, one giant hit and the game was over.
Like they did with all the scrubs in DCSB, I was in the outfield, right-field specifically. As Casey came to bat (probably not his name, but might should've been) all of us scrubs crapped our pants. Low and behold he hits a humdinger right in my direction, the game is over because, what, I'm going to catch it? Right. And wouldn't you know it, my skinny, lacking-in-musculature-according-to-the-test-results, right arm with a newly acquired left-hander glove worn for the first time, MADE THE CATCH! I didn't hear it, but my dad recounts the story with him yelling from the bleachers: "THAT'S MY BOY!!!" And for the first time my teammates pat me on the back for something.
Hearing Simone Dinnerstein playing Bach's "inventions and sinfonias" with battling "voices" tit-for-tatting each other on the piano in perfect harmony blows my mind. Imagine the synapses that must be happening in the brain to get the body to do such things! I can only dream of playing an instrument that well. As well, I can only dream of having the ambition to try and play an instrument that well. But that's another topic for another day. I feel like a pretty self-aware person, but I still wonder if these sensory issues play out in ways I'm unaware. Their spectre haunted me for a moment my first semester in college when I flunked a Psych. 101 test. Graciously, my folks talked me into using a tutor and I got past it. These days I tend to see it as a lack of effort and improper understanding of consequences, but that may be some denial on my part. I got through the rest of school just fine after that and hit my best stride in my last year. Perhaps I just needed to feel failure. Luckily, through it all, I'm a pretty sweet bike-rider and whenever the topic of ambidexterity comes up, I'm able to say "well, i'm not properly ambidextrous, but I play baseball and anything with swinging left handed" followed by my best Goofy "Ah-Hilllt" laugh. Who knows where I'd be or what I'd be doing without that shaving-cream...
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Sunday, February 16, 2014
"Canvasing time and space..."
I can still see it so clearly, 2 words written permanently into my mind on the blackboard in the basement: Chronos and Kairos. My dad had given a lesson at "children's time" that previous Sunday about these words. Chronos is Greek for time and implied simply the time that passes around a clock. But Kairos, Kairos is the meat here. It loosely translates to the times of our lives and this is the word that made Dad grin and well-up just explaining it to us. All of the experiences that we deem major-life-moments are Kairos.
In lyric-writing I've repeatedly used, or alluded to, the phrase "time and space." It's even become a stupid little quip I utter when someone is reminiscing: "time and space, man...time and space." It's those moments when the mind's eye can picture perfectly who we were, who we were with, where we were, and what we were there for. Kairos exists in the sites, sounds, smells, tastes, and feels of the time and space we're in.
In 2003 I moved from Grand Rapids to St. Louis, Missouri, simply because I could. I scored a job and moved with one car-load into a studio apartment in The Loop. I was a Teacher-Assistant at a school for "adjudicated youths" (court ordered because of bad behavior) in a "secure" facility (magnets locked all the doors), and we had padded rooms to hold kids when they'd violently act out. Before the school year started I was trained on how to properly restrain and physically disable kids when they posed a threat to themselves or others. I don't want to say they could smell my fear, but certainly they could sense my naivete. My love of extreme music, vegan-straight-edge lifestyle, and general unfamiliarity with all things pop-culture baffled them, which should've given me some sort of advantage, but really just made me feel disconnected from their world. As the lone, young white guy on staff I was often a focal point of ranting and raving when these children lost control and tumbled down their behavioral rabbit-holes. One particular time, I remember being encircled by staff who were trying to talk this older kid down as he spit his rage at me. As he called me every name in the book and threatened me up and down, I had to sit in silence in order to prevent escalation. It was demoralizing, but I was patted on the back for doing the right thing in that moment. But I think that was a turning point where I realized I didn't want to be a Teacher-Assistant much longer. During the summer program we received notice that that boy died in a car crash fleeing police. And I have a pit in my stomach because I can't remember his name.
It was a grueling experience that I cut short to follow greener pastures after a year, but boy do I remember so much of that year: the ring from my first Nokia cell phone, the florescent gas station light across the street that never went off, the sounds and smells of rush-hour traffic clogging up the intersection at Skinker and Delmar, the sound of coffee beans grinding at Meshuggah's coffee shop, the excitement I felt browsing used CDs in Vintage Vinyl record store, the taste of apple-cinnamon pop-tarts - specially delivered to our room because they were vegan, the vision of 6-feet-200-pound Lavon sleeping on his desk immediately upon arrival every day, Tremaine covering up some mischief in his devious smile with beaming braces, sweet Josh's poor acne covered nose (he was my favorite), Ms. Kim standing in the doorway beckoning a student in her ever-so-Delores-Umbridge sort of way, tossing frisbees at shattering-against-the-wall speed after school with Coach in the gym, seeing The Passion of the Christ in the theater and quickly regretting that choice, discovering the Vietnamese market sold "mock-duck" and making my version of tuna-fish out of it, being sonically-floored by Modern Life is War at the Lemp Arts Space, napping after work and waking up at midnight to realize I just had to go back to sleep, running through the adult playground they call the City Museum, staring up at the great Arch in downtown, and I could go on...and on. These moments are so clear in my mind.
One of the major focuses of the program at the school was good decision making; trying to get the kids to think about what they were doing as they were doing it and convincing them to choose a better behavior. It sounds like TV crime shows, but we'd often say "you don't have to do this," unfortunately, most of the time it was too late. The behavioral pattern was already in play and they'd already determined there was no turning back. I was 23 and felt out of step with the world, and most days, at least at work, I felt the shiver of survival in some way or another. My stint in St. Louis was a minuscule blip on my life's radar, but it was such a vital time.
I often wonder within moments if they'll be something I remember in years to come? Will they be as visceral as 2003? Will they turn out to be Kairos? And then I immediately scold myself for not allowing myself to be in that moment. The phrase itself, "the times of our lives," just sounds whimsical and makes me want to drift into memory-dreamscapes where all the light and fluffy things jump out and hug me. But without adversity perhaps those things wouldn't be as memorable. As I canvas the time and space of the "times of my life," luckily, for the most part, feelings of gratitude outweigh my sense of hardship. From the time Dad explained it to me I always felt Kairos celebrated the positive things in life, that must've been his natural take of it, thankfully, it rings true for me too.
In lyric-writing I've repeatedly used, or alluded to, the phrase "time and space." It's even become a stupid little quip I utter when someone is reminiscing: "time and space, man...time and space." It's those moments when the mind's eye can picture perfectly who we were, who we were with, where we were, and what we were there for. Kairos exists in the sites, sounds, smells, tastes, and feels of the time and space we're in.
In 2003 I moved from Grand Rapids to St. Louis, Missouri, simply because I could. I scored a job and moved with one car-load into a studio apartment in The Loop. I was a Teacher-Assistant at a school for "adjudicated youths" (court ordered because of bad behavior) in a "secure" facility (magnets locked all the doors), and we had padded rooms to hold kids when they'd violently act out. Before the school year started I was trained on how to properly restrain and physically disable kids when they posed a threat to themselves or others. I don't want to say they could smell my fear, but certainly they could sense my naivete. My love of extreme music, vegan-straight-edge lifestyle, and general unfamiliarity with all things pop-culture baffled them, which should've given me some sort of advantage, but really just made me feel disconnected from their world. As the lone, young white guy on staff I was often a focal point of ranting and raving when these children lost control and tumbled down their behavioral rabbit-holes. One particular time, I remember being encircled by staff who were trying to talk this older kid down as he spit his rage at me. As he called me every name in the book and threatened me up and down, I had to sit in silence in order to prevent escalation. It was demoralizing, but I was patted on the back for doing the right thing in that moment. But I think that was a turning point where I realized I didn't want to be a Teacher-Assistant much longer. During the summer program we received notice that that boy died in a car crash fleeing police. And I have a pit in my stomach because I can't remember his name.
It was a grueling experience that I cut short to follow greener pastures after a year, but boy do I remember so much of that year: the ring from my first Nokia cell phone, the florescent gas station light across the street that never went off, the sounds and smells of rush-hour traffic clogging up the intersection at Skinker and Delmar, the sound of coffee beans grinding at Meshuggah's coffee shop, the excitement I felt browsing used CDs in Vintage Vinyl record store, the taste of apple-cinnamon pop-tarts - specially delivered to our room because they were vegan, the vision of 6-feet-200-pound Lavon sleeping on his desk immediately upon arrival every day, Tremaine covering up some mischief in his devious smile with beaming braces, sweet Josh's poor acne covered nose (he was my favorite), Ms. Kim standing in the doorway beckoning a student in her ever-so-Delores-Umbridge sort of way, tossing frisbees at shattering-against-the-wall speed after school with Coach in the gym, seeing The Passion of the Christ in the theater and quickly regretting that choice, discovering the Vietnamese market sold "mock-duck" and making my version of tuna-fish out of it, being sonically-floored by Modern Life is War at the Lemp Arts Space, napping after work and waking up at midnight to realize I just had to go back to sleep, running through the adult playground they call the City Museum, staring up at the great Arch in downtown, and I could go on...and on. These moments are so clear in my mind.
One of the major focuses of the program at the school was good decision making; trying to get the kids to think about what they were doing as they were doing it and convincing them to choose a better behavior. It sounds like TV crime shows, but we'd often say "you don't have to do this," unfortunately, most of the time it was too late. The behavioral pattern was already in play and they'd already determined there was no turning back. I was 23 and felt out of step with the world, and most days, at least at work, I felt the shiver of survival in some way or another. My stint in St. Louis was a minuscule blip on my life's radar, but it was such a vital time.
I often wonder within moments if they'll be something I remember in years to come? Will they be as visceral as 2003? Will they turn out to be Kairos? And then I immediately scold myself for not allowing myself to be in that moment. The phrase itself, "the times of our lives," just sounds whimsical and makes me want to drift into memory-dreamscapes where all the light and fluffy things jump out and hug me. But without adversity perhaps those things wouldn't be as memorable. As I canvas the time and space of the "times of my life," luckily, for the most part, feelings of gratitude outweigh my sense of hardship. From the time Dad explained it to me I always felt Kairos celebrated the positive things in life, that must've been his natural take of it, thankfully, it rings true for me too.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Memories begetting memories.
Yesterday at work, zoning out while stocking frozen foods, as the satellite radio was pumping out Bon Jovi's "Bad Medicine" I started to wonder whether my coworker, who's in charge of ordering the frozen foods, had intentionally decided to start flipping the fish over to show the bottom-side label? Either he decided it was a good idea and is trying to enforce his preference, or it was just a naturally occurring thing that he conceded to because controlling what 80 other people do when they stock your section is a lesson in futility. The latter seemed more reasonable, having been the head-honcho in frozen prior, I knew this lesson well.
Either way, this pondering and my skepticism inspired Public Enemy's hit "Can't Truss' It!" to jump into my head. My friend Scott and I used this song along with Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" in a mock radio show we had to put together in Music class in 7th grade. Imagining that music classroom I was immediately reminded of walking into it having just spilled chocolate milk on the crotch area of my white sweatpants at lunch time. I guess in 1991 it was okay to wear white sweatpants to school? Of course I remembered my embarrassment walking into that classroom, but could not remember exactly how the milk fiasco went down. In fact, I couldn't remember the cafeteria, where it took place, at all. I created a mental map of the school's hallways but couldn't remember the goddamn cafeteria, until suddenly, I had a vision of being punched in the arm just outside of the cafeteria!
As I remembered this I actually said "ha!" aloud, which turned several eyes in my direction. Middle school boys seemed to be absolutely enthralled by punching each other in the arms. I saw bouts where boys would just go back and forth trying to see how much they could take - a show of strength, tolerance, or something...something I lacked. I don't know if it was my elongated, gangly muscles, a simple lack thereof, or what, but every time someone hit me in the arm they'd hit the sweet spot that made me just want to cry. Candice sometimes hits me for fun and her knuckles (which I like to call "knife-knuckles," really, you have to see them) are like heat-seeking missiles to the crying spot. This made me think of a high-school buddy who reveled in the game Bloody-Knuckles. Easily the stupidest game I've ever been coaxed into playing. He was the best, two hits from him and most people were done, I think one made me call it quits. He and I are no longer friends. That bums me out.
Not a day passes where I don't wonder "why on earth did that pop into my mind?" Sometimes it makes perfect sense, like the above, a streamlined flow of one thought leading to memories begetting memories. Most times I have no clue.
I've thought about keeping a notebook on hand to write down the memories that come to me during the day, but then I don't. And then I wonder if writing them down would ruin the natural flow of the memories that would come, almost like manipulating my thoughts to conjure memories...but then, what if even thinking about this thought process changes things. And yet again, futility sets in.
I fear that these memories, the good, bad, random, ugly, will someday be lost. My father has a line that I'm pretty sure developed once my sister and I were out of the house, he says: "I'd forgotten that." We recount stories...and he inevitably says "I'd forgotten that," which is a bummer, especially when it seems like something I could never forget. It makes me wonder what memories are randomly shooting into his head. I think about asking him if he'll write down memories he has of his childhood, or his 20s, or the few years of marriage before my sister and I came along, or my toddler years, but then I don't. And that naturally leads me to think I should be documenting my time here too, especially while Franny is so young, so I can avoid saying "I'd forgotten that" in the future, but then I don't.
With a family history of dementia looming in the back of my mind, I wonder what I'll have to deal with as my parents progress into true senior-citizenship. What if they lose who they are? What if that's in my future too? I suppose for now it's best to keep asking these questions.
Either way, this pondering and my skepticism inspired Public Enemy's hit "Can't Truss' It!" to jump into my head. My friend Scott and I used this song along with Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" in a mock radio show we had to put together in Music class in 7th grade. Imagining that music classroom I was immediately reminded of walking into it having just spilled chocolate milk on the crotch area of my white sweatpants at lunch time. I guess in 1991 it was okay to wear white sweatpants to school? Of course I remembered my embarrassment walking into that classroom, but could not remember exactly how the milk fiasco went down. In fact, I couldn't remember the cafeteria, where it took place, at all. I created a mental map of the school's hallways but couldn't remember the goddamn cafeteria, until suddenly, I had a vision of being punched in the arm just outside of the cafeteria!
As I remembered this I actually said "ha!" aloud, which turned several eyes in my direction. Middle school boys seemed to be absolutely enthralled by punching each other in the arms. I saw bouts where boys would just go back and forth trying to see how much they could take - a show of strength, tolerance, or something...something I lacked. I don't know if it was my elongated, gangly muscles, a simple lack thereof, or what, but every time someone hit me in the arm they'd hit the sweet spot that made me just want to cry. Candice sometimes hits me for fun and her knuckles (which I like to call "knife-knuckles," really, you have to see them) are like heat-seeking missiles to the crying spot. This made me think of a high-school buddy who reveled in the game Bloody-Knuckles. Easily the stupidest game I've ever been coaxed into playing. He was the best, two hits from him and most people were done, I think one made me call it quits. He and I are no longer friends. That bums me out.
Not a day passes where I don't wonder "why on earth did that pop into my mind?" Sometimes it makes perfect sense, like the above, a streamlined flow of one thought leading to memories begetting memories. Most times I have no clue.
I've thought about keeping a notebook on hand to write down the memories that come to me during the day, but then I don't. And then I wonder if writing them down would ruin the natural flow of the memories that would come, almost like manipulating my thoughts to conjure memories...but then, what if even thinking about this thought process changes things. And yet again, futility sets in.
I fear that these memories, the good, bad, random, ugly, will someday be lost. My father has a line that I'm pretty sure developed once my sister and I were out of the house, he says: "I'd forgotten that." We recount stories...and he inevitably says "I'd forgotten that," which is a bummer, especially when it seems like something I could never forget. It makes me wonder what memories are randomly shooting into his head. I think about asking him if he'll write down memories he has of his childhood, or his 20s, or the few years of marriage before my sister and I came along, or my toddler years, but then I don't. And that naturally leads me to think I should be documenting my time here too, especially while Franny is so young, so I can avoid saying "I'd forgotten that" in the future, but then I don't.
With a family history of dementia looming in the back of my mind, I wonder what I'll have to deal with as my parents progress into true senior-citizenship. What if they lose who they are? What if that's in my future too? I suppose for now it's best to keep asking these questions.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
A vow of holy silence.
At work I joke a good bit about our roles as "Section Leaders." It's a typical retail scenario: we bring in product according to projected sales based on a percentage increase compared to previous sales...blah blah blah. It's all very technical, and not, at the same time. Essentially, I try to fill shelves, have extras to keep shelves full when they sell down, and push sales by having the right products in abundance. So when things sell better than expected and our shelves look cruddy, I like to say "it's a tough racket this whole 'predicting the future' thing." It's a good one, people love it.
As the parent of a 2 year old, I feel like I actually can predict the future sometimes. I make sure the cup of juice is in the center of the table...otherwise it will end up spilled on the floor. I put the cookies in the cupboard after a late night binge...otherwise they will be obsessed over when seen first thing in the morning. I put the safety on the chainsaw...otherwise...no that one's a joke! But you get the picture. There's a language that cause-and-effect speaks and parenthood allows you to decipher it in a way that perhaps nothing else can. Not just because getting juice stains out of the carpet is a pain-in-the-neck, but because consoling a child who's hurt herself doing something you could have prevented feels rotten.
The other day I was talking with a friend about her teenage daughter and the complications that have followed since that simple term teenager was applied. She was lamenting the paralysis she's felt watching her daughter make choices she doesn't see as best for her, but knowing any advice or consultation might be ill-received simply because she's Mom. Attempting every day to convey her availability, she patiently waits to be invited into the emotional whirlwind guiding her beloved's decisions; hoping to rejoice when they allow compassion and justice to prevail, console when they do not, or simply hold when these triumph but still break her baby's heart.
What happens when the person dearest to us asks for our silence when we can so clearly see the future of their decisions?
Years ago I brought a girl home to meet my parents over Christmas. I was clearly smitten with this girl and had just months prior uprooted my life and moved across the country to be near her. Convinced she was the one, I wanted my family to meet-the-hell-out-of-her and prepare for our inevitable future together. As young romances often turn out, she ended up breaking my heart and pulling tears out of me in a way I never thought possible. After I was able to function like a regular person again my parents confessed they immediately felt something was off about her, like she was hiding something. My sister felt it too. And as I learned, she was hiding something. Last night I called my folks to see if they remembered these early feelings and whether or not they wished they'd said something to try and help me avoid the heartache that eventually followed. My mom said she and Dad agreed they'd honor my freedom to choose who to love, regardless of their reservations. And so they held me when I chose the very path they'd suspected might hurt me.
Two years and five months into parenthood I can't begin to imagine holding my tongue when I see danger down the road. Likewise, I can't quite imagine the sorrow that must come with wiping away tears when that danger proves harmful. Luckily, I have plenty of time to listen to those before me who've survived their vows of holy silence.
As the parent of a 2 year old, I feel like I actually can predict the future sometimes. I make sure the cup of juice is in the center of the table...otherwise it will end up spilled on the floor. I put the cookies in the cupboard after a late night binge...otherwise they will be obsessed over when seen first thing in the morning. I put the safety on the chainsaw...otherwise...no that one's a joke! But you get the picture. There's a language that cause-and-effect speaks and parenthood allows you to decipher it in a way that perhaps nothing else can. Not just because getting juice stains out of the carpet is a pain-in-the-neck, but because consoling a child who's hurt herself doing something you could have prevented feels rotten.
The other day I was talking with a friend about her teenage daughter and the complications that have followed since that simple term teenager was applied. She was lamenting the paralysis she's felt watching her daughter make choices she doesn't see as best for her, but knowing any advice or consultation might be ill-received simply because she's Mom. Attempting every day to convey her availability, she patiently waits to be invited into the emotional whirlwind guiding her beloved's decisions; hoping to rejoice when they allow compassion and justice to prevail, console when they do not, or simply hold when these triumph but still break her baby's heart.
What happens when the person dearest to us asks for our silence when we can so clearly see the future of their decisions?
Years ago I brought a girl home to meet my parents over Christmas. I was clearly smitten with this girl and had just months prior uprooted my life and moved across the country to be near her. Convinced she was the one, I wanted my family to meet-the-hell-out-of-her and prepare for our inevitable future together. As young romances often turn out, she ended up breaking my heart and pulling tears out of me in a way I never thought possible. After I was able to function like a regular person again my parents confessed they immediately felt something was off about her, like she was hiding something. My sister felt it too. And as I learned, she was hiding something. Last night I called my folks to see if they remembered these early feelings and whether or not they wished they'd said something to try and help me avoid the heartache that eventually followed. My mom said she and Dad agreed they'd honor my freedom to choose who to love, regardless of their reservations. And so they held me when I chose the very path they'd suspected might hurt me.
Two years and five months into parenthood I can't begin to imagine holding my tongue when I see danger down the road. Likewise, I can't quite imagine the sorrow that must come with wiping away tears when that danger proves harmful. Luckily, I have plenty of time to listen to those before me who've survived their vows of holy silence.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Do you miss those things?
When I started thinking about doing this I wasn't sure how comfortable I'd be with actually putting it out there for others to read. Writing has always had a therapeutic quality for me, and part of me wondered if others would care or 'get it' (see 'Prelude' for conclusions I guess I came to...) or I worried about whether others reading might hinder my ability to write as the truest version of myself. (What is a true version of ones self? For future entries.) Another concern in using this avenue was that IF others found interest and wanted to engage in a back-n-forth about some of these things would I have time and wear-with-all to do that? Well, sort of. So, Lily, here's a bit of a reply...hoping to respond to your question.
You said: "I occasionally lament my lack of spirituality; I envy the anchor, the path that God provides (do you miss those things?). But I can't convince myself to believe."
Last summer my dad came over to help finish painting the exterior of our house. We had lunch, I served him food he usually wouldn't cook himself, and he enjoyed it. Then he said something, something I'll never forget: "Son your mom and I were talking the other day about something you'll probably not want to hear; We feel that you won't find your niche' in your career and feel satisfied as an individual until you come back to the faith." Before you want to vilify my dad for this, that, and the other, know that besides this mis-step, he's always been extremely understanding and compassionate toward my doubts and ultimate renouncement of the faith. It must be hard to show grace as your son walks away as an adult from the belief system you've spent your whole life cultivating and believe IS the way, truth, and life.
Without expounding upon my reply, I can basically sum up my response with these words that I'll probably drive into the ground well before I should: Dad, it's much more complicated than simply returning to the faith.
Though I hated being unable to have sleep-overs on Saturday nights, I generally loved being a Pastor's kid. My dad was a bona-fied small scale rock star! He stood in front of 60-100 people every Sunday and shared his peace and wisdom about every issue applicable from the Word of God. Sometimes he pounded his fists for emphasis. Sometimes he glanced intensely at his audience over his glasses when he needed us to zero in on exactly what was at stake in his words. (This look still makes me shutter today because it's the same look I received when he needed me to know exactly what was at stake in his words.) Often he would tear up because the Word is about suffering and judgement, compassion and sacrifice, life and death. Not easy topics to bring new light to week after week and year after year. He sang solos in a high tenor on holidays. He greeted and got to know everyone who came through his doors.
On top of it, I had ultra-perfumed, grandmother figures kissing me at every turn, hand shakes from distinguished elderly gentlemen with wise eyes that reflected the joys that lay ahead for me as I grow up, and sprawling families hugging generously and welcoming me as one of their own. Both my parents sang in the choir, what they lacked in numbers they made up for in heart. The holiday crescendo to Christmas...forget about it! Of course a major role in why I get so pumped for the holidays. This was my life every Sunday and then some.
But amidst all of this, as the trust of youth began to shed itself, I started to realize that though I loved all these aspects of the community of faith, the reason to have faith no longer seemed real or made sense to me.
Do I miss it all? I miss the sense of belonging. I miss the idea of life having a purpose beyond the here and now. I miss the emotional vitality that faith seemed to provide.
But most of all, I really miss the sense of wonder that comes with youth. Youth is what really gives these ideas wings. How people transition into adulthood and maintain faith as their compass doesn't quite make sense to me. For me the foundation starts to crumble with what seem like the simplest of questions. Everything that once seemed true and right, even the absurdities that believing requires, all stem from the trust I put in those around me as a child. Were any of these ideas presented to me as an adult without the experience of my first 33 years I think there's no way I would even consider them as possibilities.
(If I were able to be an anthropologist I'd love to interview people who were raised without any semblance of faith and chose to believe in adulthood, I'm sure their stories would be worth telling.)
The only mantra I try to hold onto is a chorus I wrote that seems like ancient history in the life of my band:
Seek joy while breathing.
You said: "I occasionally lament my lack of spirituality; I envy the anchor, the path that God provides (do you miss those things?). But I can't convince myself to believe."
Last summer my dad came over to help finish painting the exterior of our house. We had lunch, I served him food he usually wouldn't cook himself, and he enjoyed it. Then he said something, something I'll never forget: "Son your mom and I were talking the other day about something you'll probably not want to hear; We feel that you won't find your niche' in your career and feel satisfied as an individual until you come back to the faith." Before you want to vilify my dad for this, that, and the other, know that besides this mis-step, he's always been extremely understanding and compassionate toward my doubts and ultimate renouncement of the faith. It must be hard to show grace as your son walks away as an adult from the belief system you've spent your whole life cultivating and believe IS the way, truth, and life.
Without expounding upon my reply, I can basically sum up my response with these words that I'll probably drive into the ground well before I should: Dad, it's much more complicated than simply returning to the faith.
Though I hated being unable to have sleep-overs on Saturday nights, I generally loved being a Pastor's kid. My dad was a bona-fied small scale rock star! He stood in front of 60-100 people every Sunday and shared his peace and wisdom about every issue applicable from the Word of God. Sometimes he pounded his fists for emphasis. Sometimes he glanced intensely at his audience over his glasses when he needed us to zero in on exactly what was at stake in his words. (This look still makes me shutter today because it's the same look I received when he needed me to know exactly what was at stake in his words.) Often he would tear up because the Word is about suffering and judgement, compassion and sacrifice, life and death. Not easy topics to bring new light to week after week and year after year. He sang solos in a high tenor on holidays. He greeted and got to know everyone who came through his doors.
On top of it, I had ultra-perfumed, grandmother figures kissing me at every turn, hand shakes from distinguished elderly gentlemen with wise eyes that reflected the joys that lay ahead for me as I grow up, and sprawling families hugging generously and welcoming me as one of their own. Both my parents sang in the choir, what they lacked in numbers they made up for in heart. The holiday crescendo to Christmas...forget about it! Of course a major role in why I get so pumped for the holidays. This was my life every Sunday and then some.
But amidst all of this, as the trust of youth began to shed itself, I started to realize that though I loved all these aspects of the community of faith, the reason to have faith no longer seemed real or made sense to me.
Do I miss it all? I miss the sense of belonging. I miss the idea of life having a purpose beyond the here and now. I miss the emotional vitality that faith seemed to provide.
But most of all, I really miss the sense of wonder that comes with youth. Youth is what really gives these ideas wings. How people transition into adulthood and maintain faith as their compass doesn't quite make sense to me. For me the foundation starts to crumble with what seem like the simplest of questions. Everything that once seemed true and right, even the absurdities that believing requires, all stem from the trust I put in those around me as a child. Were any of these ideas presented to me as an adult without the experience of my first 33 years I think there's no way I would even consider them as possibilities.
(If I were able to be an anthropologist I'd love to interview people who were raised without any semblance of faith and chose to believe in adulthood, I'm sure their stories would be worth telling.)
The only mantra I try to hold onto is a chorus I wrote that seems like ancient history in the life of my band:
Seek joy while breathing.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Champion of Reason.
In the past couple months two people I love dearly have made wild, sweeping generalizations or accusations that have nearly put me in a violent state of mind. I won't get into what exactly the statements were, while I was inclined to then, now is not the time for debate. Within this debate, a question offered by the offending party, a reasonable question amidst the myriad of convoluted, un-evidenced, and downright stubborn rationales being defended, has stuck with me:
"Why do you need to change my mind?"
No matter how badly I would like to sit and scour for evidence and craft the perfect argument to bring forth grande epiphanies and be crowned the champion of reason, this question seems more important.
What is it about existence that beckons for us to prove ourselves right?
Could it be our nature? A biological inclination to outwit the competition? Is it an ingrained notion that being seen as right ultimately lends itself to the survival of our clan? What happens when these killer instincts show themselves to our kin and we turn on the ones we're supposed to be protecting?
Or can we point the finger at the nurturing village that raised us? Is it the result of not being acknowledged enough in our most vulnerable moments of development? Is it a reaction to the cruel world of popular kids and teachers who laughed at our best guesses? Or is it simply a moment in time when we need a triumph amidst so many tragedies?
Whatever the answer, or perfect hybrid of answers, the indirect answer to all these inquiries is grace.
This word comes naturally to me because it's in the language I was raised with. If that word is not familiar, let me elaborate. Grace implies mercy, it is a bestowing-upon and giving-away-of without pretense of personal gain. It is altruistic, if we can claim that anything we do is that.
Earlier I was listening to an audio track of a conversation between the members of a band called Between Earth and Sky (http://betweenearthandsky.bandcamp.com/) about their songs. One of the members claimed that no matter how hard we try to impress that what we apply meaning to is important and worthwhile, after the people we know die, none of it will have mattered. Even hundreds of years from now, he said, if somehow our existence extended beyond our grave to influence other generations, time will show that it never mattered. Even figures who have withstood millennia because time will keep moving beyond humanity. A rather bleak mentality, but one that resonates with me.
Why do I need to change your mind? I don't know, I just do. For Justice, For Reason, For Pride. For Sanity. None of which are reason enough to warrant the kind of frustration that bubbles inside.
The grace in this instance that I was unable to conjure would've been to simply say 'thank you for all you do, I love you.'
The same person who inspired this inquiry also once notoriously advised I not "sweat the petty stuff" but "pet the sweaty stuff," know that I'm trying.
"Why do you need to change my mind?"
No matter how badly I would like to sit and scour for evidence and craft the perfect argument to bring forth grande epiphanies and be crowned the champion of reason, this question seems more important.
What is it about existence that beckons for us to prove ourselves right?
Could it be our nature? A biological inclination to outwit the competition? Is it an ingrained notion that being seen as right ultimately lends itself to the survival of our clan? What happens when these killer instincts show themselves to our kin and we turn on the ones we're supposed to be protecting?
Or can we point the finger at the nurturing village that raised us? Is it the result of not being acknowledged enough in our most vulnerable moments of development? Is it a reaction to the cruel world of popular kids and teachers who laughed at our best guesses? Or is it simply a moment in time when we need a triumph amidst so many tragedies?
Whatever the answer, or perfect hybrid of answers, the indirect answer to all these inquiries is grace.
This word comes naturally to me because it's in the language I was raised with. If that word is not familiar, let me elaborate. Grace implies mercy, it is a bestowing-upon and giving-away-of without pretense of personal gain. It is altruistic, if we can claim that anything we do is that.
Earlier I was listening to an audio track of a conversation between the members of a band called Between Earth and Sky (http://betweenearthandsky.bandcamp.com/) about their songs. One of the members claimed that no matter how hard we try to impress that what we apply meaning to is important and worthwhile, after the people we know die, none of it will have mattered. Even hundreds of years from now, he said, if somehow our existence extended beyond our grave to influence other generations, time will show that it never mattered. Even figures who have withstood millennia because time will keep moving beyond humanity. A rather bleak mentality, but one that resonates with me.
Why do I need to change your mind? I don't know, I just do. For Justice, For Reason, For Pride. For Sanity. None of which are reason enough to warrant the kind of frustration that bubbles inside.
The grace in this instance that I was unable to conjure would've been to simply say 'thank you for all you do, I love you.'
The same person who inspired this inquiry also once notoriously advised I not "sweat the petty stuff" but "pet the sweaty stuff," know that I'm trying.
Prelude.
This is the first of hopefully many posts where I share my thoughts on things. I'm going to leave it about as vague as I can because who knows where this thing will go? I certainly don't, but there are many moments littering mundane days where I think "I should write about this!", but then I don't. Sometimes because the idea is fleeting and life is busy, but more often because I remind myself I'm not important enough to share my thoughts nor would anyone like to read them. When everywhere we go we're bombarded with the thoughts and intentions of those who deem themselves all too important, I've decided it's often best to stay quiet. I've prided myself on my humility when surrounded by the airings of those who think they have the answers (how about that sentence?!?), but ultimately, it's just hard to feel like sharing matters.
I was born into 'the faith' as the son of an American Baptist minister. I know, BAPTIST! Well, to be fair, ABs try to distinguish themselves as progressives, meaning that they believe the 'word' to be true and truly inspired by God but not to be taken literally in every passage. While in doctrine they may be considered conservative I never felt, in our household at least, that it was a practice of conservatism. This is me trying to massage any knee-jerk reactions to the word Baptist.
One of the ideas my parents tried to ingrain in me was that 'God cares about me so much that even the hairs on my head are numbered.' There's a passage somewhere that refers to that, but I can't remember where. Unfortunately, this was paired with an idea that, from perhaps the first time pondering it at a young age, felt much more reasonable: 'There is nothing new under the sun.' We've all heard that expression before. It probably doesn't originate from Proverbs, but that's where I discovered it. It was touted in college here and there as inspiration to think 'outside the box' or....something.
As my faith waned, the former inclination was easily outweighed by the latter. And so, somehow, through a myriad of influences and realizations since, I've cultivated a real sense of futility about who I am and where I'm going in life. And of course, this affects my sense of whether my thoughts are worthy of sharing.
But, I've decided to write, regardless of what may be judged worthwhile by myself or others. And though I may find nothing new, hopefully the sun shines brightly enough to remind me, no matter how much wisdom I may think I've obtained: It's complicated.
I was born into 'the faith' as the son of an American Baptist minister. I know, BAPTIST! Well, to be fair, ABs try to distinguish themselves as progressives, meaning that they believe the 'word' to be true and truly inspired by God but not to be taken literally in every passage. While in doctrine they may be considered conservative I never felt, in our household at least, that it was a practice of conservatism. This is me trying to massage any knee-jerk reactions to the word Baptist.
One of the ideas my parents tried to ingrain in me was that 'God cares about me so much that even the hairs on my head are numbered.' There's a passage somewhere that refers to that, but I can't remember where. Unfortunately, this was paired with an idea that, from perhaps the first time pondering it at a young age, felt much more reasonable: 'There is nothing new under the sun.' We've all heard that expression before. It probably doesn't originate from Proverbs, but that's where I discovered it. It was touted in college here and there as inspiration to think 'outside the box' or....something.
As my faith waned, the former inclination was easily outweighed by the latter. And so, somehow, through a myriad of influences and realizations since, I've cultivated a real sense of futility about who I am and where I'm going in life. And of course, this affects my sense of whether my thoughts are worthy of sharing.
But, I've decided to write, regardless of what may be judged worthwhile by myself or others. And though I may find nothing new, hopefully the sun shines brightly enough to remind me, no matter how much wisdom I may think I've obtained: It's complicated.
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