Our university president explained one time how he challenged himself to pick up a new hobby and learn something new every year or so. That year he was learning how to program and play an electronic drum set and he gave a demonstration in chapel one day.
I liked the idea, in part because it was funny to see such a stately older man discovering electronic drums, but perhaps mostly because my range of interests is wide and my attention span short, and so doing something of the sort would allow me to dabble while keeping pressure low, until my collection of hobbies would resemble my collection of instruments that I don't really know how to play.
But then life happens, and things like busyness and stress and a desire for ease and comfort squash such trivial aspirations. If you can't seem to find the time for hobbies, what makes you think you can find time for new hobbies? Not to mention learning takes effort, and effort takes energy, and energy is a limited resource.
In September I decided to go for it. I started saxophone lessons. My wife gave me a needed solid nudge in the right direction, and then as if he knew I would need it even the professor took the initiative and suggested a meeting time instead of waiting for my call. There was no escaping: good thing.
OK so it's not exactly learning something new. But after 15 years (!) of collecting dust it might as well be. It's moreso an attempt to finish what was started, and sometimes that's just as hard, and the process is proving to be just as valuable. I've been thinking that learning something new is a strange sort of spiritual discipline.
Perhaps it's as simple as any discipline being spiritual discipline. The forcing of oneself to do something that doesn't come naturally, there is something deeply spiritual about that. Progressing on the saxophone is at its most basic a matter of finding time, making time, or just taking the time to practice, an activity that is both laborious and boring, a tiring drudgery. And yet, this banality and the discipline required to carry it out are the only means to reach the much more enjoyable and interesting end. It's a striving, an ongoing fight, and that sounds familiar.
When I arrive early to my lesson I hear the professor -- a member of the national orchestra in Versailles -- practicing a few things himself. Or, there are the moments where he plays the piece I'm working on "just to give me an idea." He sounds like a warm silver knife melting through butter, and though I'm no squawking rookie, next to him I am convinced my saxophone sounds something like a hedge trimmer piped through a bullhorn. To make matters worse, I'm trying, he's not. It's work for me and play for him. Do I let his effortless example demoralize me and give up? Or will I let it inspire me and press on? I suppose others might be wired differently, but I know my instincts and in these moments I've got to fight them off. Will I choose pessimism or optimism? Or to put it more spiritually, cynicism or hope?
No matter what the new hobby might be, an inherent humility comes into play. You'll be forced to admit that you know nothing, and you'll be pushed to ask for help. You will have to admit a need. In the case of getting that help from a teacher, coach, or mentor, you'll expose yourself to endless criticism, even if it is constructive, and a submission to their authoritative experience will be required.
I've had my student model saxophone for 25 years and it was bought used. The first question I got was "What kind of sax you playing?" and the quick response was, "Never heard of it. And after so long it's going to need a tune up." But in all those countless critiques -- flat notes, uneven volume, clacking keys -- I'm waiting for him to blame my instrument as a convenient scapegoat. There have even been times I've sheepishly suggested it. But no, apparently the problem is still me, and that's a healthy humble pill to swallow at every turn.
As we get older it becomes increasingly natural to pursue the path of least resistance and remain inside the safety of what we know and what we've mastered. Within our comfort zones, we can pick and choose what we pursue in order to minimize embarrassment and thus reinforce our pride. It's a question of control, and it can be a relatively cozy place to live. But in the Christian life we are called to live by faith, existing in a place of trust, being pushed outward into unknowns, called to weakness so that the Spirit's power might be revealed. This is harder for some of us than others, and these are muscles to be developed in the spiritual discipline of learning something new.
My saxophone case still has a bunch of embarrassing stickers from all the Christian ska, punk, and hardcore bands I listened to last time I played. No respectable saxophonist listens seriously to punk and he wouldn't dare to tarnish a sax case in such a way. To make matters worse, these bands aren't even known, many would say they aren't even good! I hesitated for a moment and almost ripped them all off before my first lesson, then decided to let it go, to own it as a piece of my history. The prof sees them, the smugs at the music conservatory glibly grin at them, I even paraded all over Paris with them when I went to the instrument repair shop (where I noticed nothing but clean black cases on the shelves). Or there was the time the prof asked me what saxophonists I listen to. I knew he wasn't asking about ska bands so I named the first I could think of and had trouble naming a second. I did, but when I got home I looked it up to find he was actually a piano player. He rattled off names and I confessed my ignorance to his surprise. He wrote them down for me to discover them in my own time.
The point is, there will be many moments in learning something new where you'll risk looking stupid and feeling foolish. This is a spiritual experience, for the Christian believes a truth that is foolishness to onlookers. For those of us afraid of humiliation and attempting to maintain a certain image, the Christian life will be inherently difficult. I suppose it's the continual question of basing your identity on what others think of you versus on the security found in what Christ has done for you.
And then, there's wonder. It happens as I walk out of my lessons, or when I left the saxophone shop in Paris: I feel like a saxophonist again, a title I flippantly cast aside at the turn of the century. Since then I've picked up the bass, but have never been a bassist; I've picked up the accordion, but have definitely never been an accordionist, and the list could go on. In those moments, I've had the flashback more than once of opening my new saxophone for the first time and the age of 9 in the family living room. It was shiny, complex, heavy, half my size, and it was mine, and there was a new world to discover. It's good to get that back again, a wondrous homecoming of sorts.
In these experiences, horizons are opened to new dimensions. And each time we learn something new about the world we learn something new about its Creator.
I'd much prefer either sticking to what I know or dabbling in something that comes easily and looks good. Neither are good or realistic options. The other option is at times messy, embarrassing, painful, or tiring. The spiritual parallels are many. The payoff is worth it.
Tuesday, November 03, 2015
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Mix Tape: Doubts at the end of the world
The kid and I recently finished reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader a tale of sea adventures that lead to the very end of the world. It's a surprising tale of courage, especially surprising when the most courageous of all is a tenacious and volatile mouse who will do whatever necessary to uphold his vows of honor.
In this song, Kristian Matsson of The Tallest Man on Earth walks to the end of the world in Sagres, looks across the ocean, and upon hearing harrowing tales, decides to walk away from the beckoning adventure. Reepicheep would be disappointed. But then again, so is Matsson.
The first time I heard it, I labeled the song as bland and uninspired, but it has only continued to grow on me since then. In a progression of just six chords Matsson sets up a profound wistfulness and restlessness, a tension that seems to be lurking under the surface in many of us. It's not that it's uninspired, but rather that the songs evenness serves to communicate a persistent malaise, a pervading numbness. What is left of us? he asks. The song doesn't exactly build, but it does lead to a definitive climax where the music stops and he mutters the tired answer into the microphone: it's just all this doubt.
In Dawn Treader Aslan reminds Lucy of a lesson she's already been taught: nobody is ever told what would have happened. But, he reassures her, anyone can find out what will happen.
This is a song for those who lament not knowing what would have happened, those who regret knowing what could have happened, and those reluctant to find out what will happen.
And the unknowns of the ocean just keep calling us all the same: there's only one thing left to do.
What's brilliantly paradoxical about the progression is that it could also just as easily serve as a soundtrack for sailing across the open waters, holding out a hope of freedom for those still stuck wrestling with doubt.
"Your way was through the sea." Psalm 77:19
In this song, Kristian Matsson of The Tallest Man on Earth walks to the end of the world in Sagres, looks across the ocean, and upon hearing harrowing tales, decides to walk away from the beckoning adventure. Reepicheep would be disappointed. But then again, so is Matsson.
The first time I heard it, I labeled the song as bland and uninspired, but it has only continued to grow on me since then. In a progression of just six chords Matsson sets up a profound wistfulness and restlessness, a tension that seems to be lurking under the surface in many of us. It's not that it's uninspired, but rather that the songs evenness serves to communicate a persistent malaise, a pervading numbness. What is left of us? he asks. The song doesn't exactly build, but it does lead to a definitive climax where the music stops and he mutters the tired answer into the microphone: it's just all this doubt.
In Dawn Treader Aslan reminds Lucy of a lesson she's already been taught: nobody is ever told what would have happened. But, he reassures her, anyone can find out what will happen.
This is a song for those who lament not knowing what would have happened, those who regret knowing what could have happened, and those reluctant to find out what will happen.
And the unknowns of the ocean just keep calling us all the same: there's only one thing left to do.
What's brilliantly paradoxical about the progression is that it could also just as easily serve as a soundtrack for sailing across the open waters, holding out a hope of freedom for those still stuck wrestling with doubt.
"Your way was through the sea." Psalm 77:19
Friday, October 02, 2015
The Hymnal of DMST
I've always listened to much of Sigur Ros as a window to heaven, meaning I consider their work to some degree heavenly music in the true sense of the word, otherworldly at least, in some way reflecting a glorious grandeur that we'll one day know.
Well, I finally solved the problem of the absence of a record player in this house, and I am slowly but surely rediscovering my vinyl collection. Yesterday I got to Do Make Say Think's You, You're a History in Rust. And if I hear Sigur Ros as heaven, I hear this as hymns.
There is something not only transcendent but also inherently corporate about their music, and the songs come together in a way that not only expresses the full range of emotions loud and clear, but also as if one instrument is proclaiming to another. The songs are all at once declaration and dialogue. There's a vertical dimension and a horizontal dimension. At times reflective and restrained, other times ardent and jubilant. Improvised and spontaneous, deliberate and calculated. All this is what makes good hymnody.
It is particularly the series of tracks "A With Living," "The Universe!," and "A Tender History in Rust" that inspires this tribute.
The other week in the metro I stood next to a man with a Do Make Say Think t shirt. He looked just as nerdy as me. I fought the impulse to hug him.
Well, I finally solved the problem of the absence of a record player in this house, and I am slowly but surely rediscovering my vinyl collection. Yesterday I got to Do Make Say Think's You, You're a History in Rust. And if I hear Sigur Ros as heaven, I hear this as hymns.
There is something not only transcendent but also inherently corporate about their music, and the songs come together in a way that not only expresses the full range of emotions loud and clear, but also as if one instrument is proclaiming to another. The songs are all at once declaration and dialogue. There's a vertical dimension and a horizontal dimension. At times reflective and restrained, other times ardent and jubilant. Improvised and spontaneous, deliberate and calculated. All this is what makes good hymnody.
It is particularly the series of tracks "A With Living," "The Universe!," and "A Tender History in Rust" that inspires this tribute.
The other week in the metro I stood next to a man with a Do Make Say Think t shirt. He looked just as nerdy as me. I fought the impulse to hug him.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Who's sneakier
The other kid is quite a collector. His primary obsession is bottle caps, but it pretty much includes anything small, shiny, not shiny, unusual, or ordinary, almost always dirty and laying in cracks of sidewalks, including corks, soda tabs, seashells, rocks, capucine seeds, hazelnuts, acorns, berries, flowers, etc.
Today he came home extremely proud of his prize marron, a type of chestnut. "Papa, guess what I found at school today" was the first thing out of his mouth to greet me, quickly revealing what he was hiding behind his back without giving me time to respond.
"Was your teacher proud of you for finding it?" I asked.
"No, she didn't see it, I hid it in my pocket, because if she would have seen it, she would take it," he said dramatically.
"Ah, you're sneaky."
"Yeah, but she's sneaky, because she's really good at finding our marrons and stealing them."
Today he came home extremely proud of his prize marron, a type of chestnut. "Papa, guess what I found at school today" was the first thing out of his mouth to greet me, quickly revealing what he was hiding behind his back without giving me time to respond.
"Was your teacher proud of you for finding it?" I asked.
"No, she didn't see it, I hid it in my pocket, because if she would have seen it, she would take it," he said dramatically.
"Ah, you're sneaky."
"Yeah, but she's sneaky, because she's really good at finding our marrons and stealing them."
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Hope in Disorientation
We saw Sufjan Stevens last week. Though it was not quite the performance I expected or hoped for, it was a uniquely strong communal experience, and more impressive than the songs, compositions, or light-show themselves was the way the collective breath of 2,700 people was held, the wind knocked out of us, our stomach in knots. This was more than attending a funeral, this was sitting in silence for the week following, like the friends of grieving Job. No one spoke a word, for they saw that his suffering was very great. It was unexpectedly intense, living loss together.
This performance by Sandra McCracken strikes me the same way, an expression of loss and disorientation, and it's not difficult to enter into it and live it with her, evident that she's singng from experience. The only difference is a resolute hope, a tenacity that yearns toward the light that surely exists at the end of the tunnel, and that important difference is certainly a tad healthier than the few passing references offered us on Carrie and Lowell.
To be honest, feeling lost has been a recurring and overwhelming theme over the course of the past 4+ years. Many have looked at me as if they don't understand and don't care to understand, but one man listened carefully, lived it with me a bit, and asked me to read Psalm 43:3 to see if it spoke to the feeling.
Send out your light and your truth;
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling!
It was basically the first time I paid attention to the verse. It's become an anthem since, and in the past few months so has this song, as it captures fully the essence of weary waiting and orients me again in the one and only direction I know is worth heading.
This performance by Sandra McCracken strikes me the same way, an expression of loss and disorientation, and it's not difficult to enter into it and live it with her, evident that she's singng from experience. The only difference is a resolute hope, a tenacity that yearns toward the light that surely exists at the end of the tunnel, and that important difference is certainly a tad healthier than the few passing references offered us on Carrie and Lowell.
To be honest, feeling lost has been a recurring and overwhelming theme over the course of the past 4+ years. Many have looked at me as if they don't understand and don't care to understand, but one man listened carefully, lived it with me a bit, and asked me to read Psalm 43:3 to see if it spoke to the feeling.
Send out your light and your truth;
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling!
It was basically the first time I paid attention to the verse. It's become an anthem since, and in the past few months so has this song, as it captures fully the essence of weary waiting and orients me again in the one and only direction I know is worth heading.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Little maman
There are plenty of things fascinating and adorable about the girl tirelessly taking care of her three baby dolls. Like the way she immediately agreed the third should be named Gladys, and consequently explained to her repeatedly, "Yername, Gladys."
But most fascinating and most adorable is the way she whispers to herself small words of reassuring self coaching like every French parent does as she tends to their every need : allez, hop, tac, and voilà.
But most fascinating and most adorable is the way she whispers to herself small words of reassuring self coaching like every French parent does as she tends to their every need : allez, hop, tac, and voilà.
Friday, September 04, 2015
On Consolation
It was early Monday morning when I definitively learned I would help a friend bury his dad the next day. They didn't know exactly what they wanted, but they wanted an homme d'église saying something, anything as they lowered him down. Ils avaient raison. Because saying goodbye to a dad with no one speaking truth by our sides is desperately hopeless indeed.
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
Tuesday, August 04, 2015
An analysis of pebble beaches in a list of pros and cons
1) no sand castles
2) kills your feet after a while
3) get pelted when waves crash in
4) kids are constantly throwing rocks into the water...in the direction of swimmers' heads
Pros:
1) does not enter your car or travel home with you in all of your belongings
2) kids are not tempted to eat it
3) the sea water makes them magnificently smooth and round and they glisten like gems when they're wet
4) when the water moves out and drops them they make a mesmerizing sound like shaking a sack of marbles
5) makes for a surprisingly comfortable bed
Friday, June 26, 2015
Unless a grain of wheat dies.
Calvin on Jean 12:24-25
For not only do we think that we perish in death, but our life also is a sort of continual death (Col 3:3). We shall therefore be undone, unless we be supported by that consolation which Paul holds out: if our outward man decays, the inward man is renewed from day to day (2 Cor 4:16). When, therefore, the godly are distressed by various afflictions, when they are pressed hard by the difficulties of their situation, when they suffer hunger, or nakedness, or disease, when they are assailed by reproaches, when it appears as if they would every hour be almost overwhelmed by death, let them unceasingly consider that this is a sowing which, in due time, will yield fruit.
In short, to love this life is not in itself wrong, provided that we only pass through it as pilgrims, keeping our eyes always fixed on our object. For the true limit of loving life is, when we continue in it as long as it pleases God, and when we are prepared to leave it as soon as he shall order us, or--to express it in a single word--when we carry it, as it were, in our hands, and offer it to God as a sacrifice. Whoever carries his attachment to the present life beyond this limit destroys his life; that is, he consigns it to everlasting ruin, devoting it to destruction.
For not only do we think that we perish in death, but our life also is a sort of continual death (Col 3:3). We shall therefore be undone, unless we be supported by that consolation which Paul holds out: if our outward man decays, the inward man is renewed from day to day (2 Cor 4:16). When, therefore, the godly are distressed by various afflictions, when they are pressed hard by the difficulties of their situation, when they suffer hunger, or nakedness, or disease, when they are assailed by reproaches, when it appears as if they would every hour be almost overwhelmed by death, let them unceasingly consider that this is a sowing which, in due time, will yield fruit.
In short, to love this life is not in itself wrong, provided that we only pass through it as pilgrims, keeping our eyes always fixed on our object. For the true limit of loving life is, when we continue in it as long as it pleases God, and when we are prepared to leave it as soon as he shall order us, or--to express it in a single word--when we carry it, as it were, in our hands, and offer it to God as a sacrifice. Whoever carries his attachment to the present life beyond this limit destroys his life; that is, he consigns it to everlasting ruin, devoting it to destruction.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Wandering
Today I walked the platform among a mass of people descending from the same train as me making the typical pilgrimage to which we've grown accustomed and looked over them feeling the lostness of modern man.
I listened to the fascinating noise that echoes in the center hall of a metro station with the beeps of daily passes clicks of rotating turnstiles clops of hurried leather shoes and the dull drone of confused mutters.
I read about Muslims only having 2,500 mosques in this country with a desire to double that number and thought it a curious statistic knowing we have almost as many churches with a desire to triple the number.
I searched for space invaders and found a few.
I heard a man make a millennium of church history simple in a matter of minutes and wanted to hear more.
I had the luck of falling upon the band of Balkan men with their dulcimer and upright bass and accordion and two full and soaring clarinets whose music has a strange capacity to fill me with life and stopped to listen before stepping on the long rolling sidewalk.
I watched two shots of espresso drip into a plastic cup half-full of tap water and heard the kind Frenchmen warmly call my first name as if I had arrived home from work after a long day.
I peered into the dark windows of an 'exceptionally closed' Burger King to find a ghost-town of lifeless abandoned booths and upon looking closer was surprised to see a Muslim man among them kneeling on a mat to say his mid-afternoon Ramadan prayers. Evangelical church planters are not the only innovative ones and perhaps abandoned fast food restaurants could answer the need for more mosques.
I wrestled incessantly with myself over a variety of trivial matters and tried to feel again whatever it was in the first place that got me to where I am wondering what in God's name could be next and how in the world it might unfold recalling countless dreams and brainstorms that were never pursued largely out of fear preferring to tackle projects that are instead surefire and easy to finish.
The death of self-importance is long, hard, slow, and painful and it's a stubborn zombie of a beast that just when you think has been killed once and for all comes right back to continue haunting you. The cross we are called to bear is a daily one.
I listened to the fascinating noise that echoes in the center hall of a metro station with the beeps of daily passes clicks of rotating turnstiles clops of hurried leather shoes and the dull drone of confused mutters.
I read about Muslims only having 2,500 mosques in this country with a desire to double that number and thought it a curious statistic knowing we have almost as many churches with a desire to triple the number.
I searched for space invaders and found a few.
I heard a man make a millennium of church history simple in a matter of minutes and wanted to hear more.
I had the luck of falling upon the band of Balkan men with their dulcimer and upright bass and accordion and two full and soaring clarinets whose music has a strange capacity to fill me with life and stopped to listen before stepping on the long rolling sidewalk.
I watched two shots of espresso drip into a plastic cup half-full of tap water and heard the kind Frenchmen warmly call my first name as if I had arrived home from work after a long day.
I peered into the dark windows of an 'exceptionally closed' Burger King to find a ghost-town of lifeless abandoned booths and upon looking closer was surprised to see a Muslim man among them kneeling on a mat to say his mid-afternoon Ramadan prayers. Evangelical church planters are not the only innovative ones and perhaps abandoned fast food restaurants could answer the need for more mosques.
I wrestled incessantly with myself over a variety of trivial matters and tried to feel again whatever it was in the first place that got me to where I am wondering what in God's name could be next and how in the world it might unfold recalling countless dreams and brainstorms that were never pursued largely out of fear preferring to tackle projects that are instead surefire and easy to finish.
The death of self-importance is long, hard, slow, and painful and it's a stubborn zombie of a beast that just when you think has been killed once and for all comes right back to continue haunting you. The cross we are called to bear is a daily one.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Praying with Flannery
I dove into Flannery O'Connor's prayer journal last night. It's a plain, intimate and fascinating affair, even if it feels at times intrusive to read. I don't anticipate it being a source of model theology, yet it is certainly a worthy model of frank and vulnerable praying. For me there is added interest as it was written just a few years before being diagnosed with Lupus. A distant and sterile introduction by a scholar and friend does not ascribe much to the reality of the recipient of her prayers, yet he tends to affirm that prayer does in fact change things, that many of her prayers were, in one way or another, and even with a bit of irony, answered. I could quickly turn this blog into a record of appreciated quotes, lines I might be led to pray with her, and in that way the book is therapeutic, cathartic, perhaps not unlike some of David's intensely personal prayers becoming the corporate songbook of the church.
So, this was last night's...
All boils down to grace, I suppose. I am afraid of pain and I suppose that is what we have to have to get grace. Give me the courage to stand the pain to get the grace, Oh Lord. Help me with this life that seems so treacherous, so disappointing.
So, this was last night's...
All boils down to grace, I suppose. I am afraid of pain and I suppose that is what we have to have to get grace. Give me the courage to stand the pain to get the grace, Oh Lord. Help me with this life that seems so treacherous, so disappointing.
Friday, April 24, 2015
Added track to sleepy-time mix
Yes, I am still gradually adding to the sleepy time mix, which, if I've done things correctly, is downloadable here (without this song).
So, here's the newest addition. Is there a more beautiful song with which to tuck in your children and prayerfully end a day?
So, here's the newest addition. Is there a more beautiful song with which to tuck in your children and prayerfully end a day?
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
John My Beloved
I'm not nearly ready to try and say something worth reading about this album, except that it's exceptional. So far this is my favorite track. There's a lot of reasons why, though I recognize I've always been immediately partial to songs using a sustained note over the entire chord progression... (see also: this song, 10 years old this year and that sustained note halfway through still gets me)
Working on the non-verbals
Now that the girl has fully mastered norwegian babble, she's been working on things more sophisticated than actual words, like non-verbal communication.
Since the other day, she's been offering elaborate conversations, all in babble, but accompanied with complex movements of the head, eyes, eyebrows, mouth, shoulders, arms, and hands. Hips are not excluded, either. She knows exactly what she's saying. We don't, though we are certain she is drop dead serious; there's no mistaking that.
There are very clearly multiple levels of communication going on: explanation, exclamation, negotiation, rationalization, interrogation, collaboration. All that in the hands, though mostly in the shoulders lately.
She's really concentrating on developing her shrug. It's already close to perfection. She'll lift the arms and twirl the hands for extra expression. She'll do it repeatedly to get it just right. It may be a shrug to express delight or to shift the blame. The repetition gives us several tries to understand, as if it weren't clear the first time.
She's furrowing and raising eyebrows. Shaking, nodding, bowing, tilting, turning the head. Raising, folding, flapping, crossing the arms. Pointing, wagging, waving fingers.
I could go on and on. I didn't know the body was capable of such expression, especially not from a 1-year old. Scarier: she's observing all this elsewhere, carefully recording this, seeing, studying, downloading and installing, learning and practicing.
Maybe even from us.
Since the other day, she's been offering elaborate conversations, all in babble, but accompanied with complex movements of the head, eyes, eyebrows, mouth, shoulders, arms, and hands. Hips are not excluded, either. She knows exactly what she's saying. We don't, though we are certain she is drop dead serious; there's no mistaking that.
There are very clearly multiple levels of communication going on: explanation, exclamation, negotiation, rationalization, interrogation, collaboration. All that in the hands, though mostly in the shoulders lately.
She's really concentrating on developing her shrug. It's already close to perfection. She'll lift the arms and twirl the hands for extra expression. She'll do it repeatedly to get it just right. It may be a shrug to express delight or to shift the blame. The repetition gives us several tries to understand, as if it weren't clear the first time.
She's furrowing and raising eyebrows. Shaking, nodding, bowing, tilting, turning the head. Raising, folding, flapping, crossing the arms. Pointing, wagging, waving fingers.
I could go on and on. I didn't know the body was capable of such expression, especially not from a 1-year old. Scarier: she's observing all this elsewhere, carefully recording this, seeing, studying, downloading and installing, learning and practicing.
Maybe even from us.
Wednesday, April 08, 2015
La Vie des Gens
Our cinéma closed in September. There is one that's even better, but it requires a 30 minute drive on country roads. It's worth it.
This was at least the third occasion to go out on a weeknight to hear a director humbly present their film. Each time it's been an immense privilege. I like country cinemas that show good films and invite their directors, films and directors that otherwise would remain unknown. And it was also a privilege to realize, halfway through the director's talk, that I was understanding what he was saying. I was not lost, I was enjoying it as much as anyone else was.
This is probably not a film that will make its way subtitled to the states, and for that I'm sorry. It's a year of following a firecracker of a visiting nurse and her host of patients that become like family. We don't always fear death; we fear growing old, the limitations and the ailments and aches and the pains that come with it. And in spite of it all, there are smiles and bright spots, most often due to the visits of caretakers, those moments when solitude and loneliness are broken.
It's a tribute to humanity, and to those who give of themselves for others.
The title is simple and brilliant: it's about the life of people.
If Christianity is about visiting the sick and caring for the widows, we could all learn a thing or two from Françoise.
Monday, March 23, 2015
Friday, March 13, 2015
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Dad Troubles
The train home was set to depart in one minute when the other kid announced he needed to pee. The trip home was set to take well over an hour. The alert sounded, the doors closed, and we started the journey.
He said he could hold it.
The train has small signs pointing to a bathroom. I see people coming and going from what looks like one. I take the kid, we go down the steps, through the train car, to a door marked as a toilet. I try the door and it's locked. I ask the girl on the phone if it's occupied. "No, I don't think so." Does it work? "No, I don't think so." I try again to be sure with no luck.
I begin looking for rare corners where a bladder could be relieved with even less luck. I ask him if he wants a diaper. He reassures me he can hold it, but the small dance and look of discomfort on his face aren't terribly reassuring. He goes back to sit with mama while I sweat it out.
We could jump off the train at the next stop and find some place, but we don't have enough time to get back on and the next train wouldn't pass for a long time. As I'm trying to figure it all out, I watch a woman walk to the bathroom, pull out a tool for unlocking the door, and enter. The girl on the phone looks back at me with large puzzled eyes and shrugs; I see her recounting the story in disbelief to the person on the other end once the woman leaves.
I go back to the diaper plan. Erica and I have done some strange things on trains involving the needs of our children, but how do I discreetly remove the underwear of a three year old and replace it with a diaper among the other passengers? I set up a modesty booth using the reserved spot for a wheel chair, my coat, and our stroller, and I'm ready to do the job with confidence, but when I announce it to him he starts wailing. He's exhausted from our day, irritated from a bladder that's about to burst, and on the verge of falling asleep, peeing his pants, and throwing a temper tantrum all at once. He's yelling "I WANT TO GO TO THE TOOOIILLEEET" so loudly that I abandon the idea rather quickly and return him once again to his seat where it's even more visible that this thing is gonna blow sooner than later.
The woman across from us puts down her book to interject, saying there's a toilet on the train further back. I'm skeptical but we go immediately. We pass through at least two cars with no luck when we finally see an agent. The train comes to a stop and he says goodbye pleasantly to the descending passengers when I pull him aside to ask him if there are any working toilets on the train. No, sorry. So I ask: if I hop off to let my kid pee on the train platform can you hold the train? Yes, of course, but it'd be better at a platform that's less crowded. (The stations further out in the country are perfect places to pee, he's implying, and he's not wrong.) I understood and agreed. Can the little guy wait 10 or 15 minutes? With that I expressed my hesitation. Doubtful. Go ahead, and he waved me off.
We run to the nearest discreet corner and unload as quickly as possible. In my haste to get back to the train, I yank his underwear and pants up so hard that I lift him right off his feet into the air and he pitches forward, almost doing a face plant but catching himself on the wall next to him. The Agent's watching the whole thing and laughing at my misfortune. The kid cries, "I DON'T LIKE YOU WHEN YOU DO THAT!" I pick him up and we run back to the train, he's over it with a timid giggle of glee, the agent blows the whistle, the doors close behind us.
We hustle back toward our car and when he spots Mama on the other end he yells, announcing proudly and enthusiastically in front of all the other passengers, in English no less, "HEY! WE PEED OUT THERE!!!"
This is parenthood, and its absurdity never ceases to amaze me.
He said he could hold it.
The train has small signs pointing to a bathroom. I see people coming and going from what looks like one. I take the kid, we go down the steps, through the train car, to a door marked as a toilet. I try the door and it's locked. I ask the girl on the phone if it's occupied. "No, I don't think so." Does it work? "No, I don't think so." I try again to be sure with no luck.
I begin looking for rare corners where a bladder could be relieved with even less luck. I ask him if he wants a diaper. He reassures me he can hold it, but the small dance and look of discomfort on his face aren't terribly reassuring. He goes back to sit with mama while I sweat it out.
We could jump off the train at the next stop and find some place, but we don't have enough time to get back on and the next train wouldn't pass for a long time. As I'm trying to figure it all out, I watch a woman walk to the bathroom, pull out a tool for unlocking the door, and enter. The girl on the phone looks back at me with large puzzled eyes and shrugs; I see her recounting the story in disbelief to the person on the other end once the woman leaves.
I go back to the diaper plan. Erica and I have done some strange things on trains involving the needs of our children, but how do I discreetly remove the underwear of a three year old and replace it with a diaper among the other passengers? I set up a modesty booth using the reserved spot for a wheel chair, my coat, and our stroller, and I'm ready to do the job with confidence, but when I announce it to him he starts wailing. He's exhausted from our day, irritated from a bladder that's about to burst, and on the verge of falling asleep, peeing his pants, and throwing a temper tantrum all at once. He's yelling "I WANT TO GO TO THE TOOOIILLEEET" so loudly that I abandon the idea rather quickly and return him once again to his seat where it's even more visible that this thing is gonna blow sooner than later.
The woman across from us puts down her book to interject, saying there's a toilet on the train further back. I'm skeptical but we go immediately. We pass through at least two cars with no luck when we finally see an agent. The train comes to a stop and he says goodbye pleasantly to the descending passengers when I pull him aside to ask him if there are any working toilets on the train. No, sorry. So I ask: if I hop off to let my kid pee on the train platform can you hold the train? Yes, of course, but it'd be better at a platform that's less crowded. (The stations further out in the country are perfect places to pee, he's implying, and he's not wrong.) I understood and agreed. Can the little guy wait 10 or 15 minutes? With that I expressed my hesitation. Doubtful. Go ahead, and he waved me off.
We run to the nearest discreet corner and unload as quickly as possible. In my haste to get back to the train, I yank his underwear and pants up so hard that I lift him right off his feet into the air and he pitches forward, almost doing a face plant but catching himself on the wall next to him. The Agent's watching the whole thing and laughing at my misfortune. The kid cries, "I DON'T LIKE YOU WHEN YOU DO THAT!" I pick him up and we run back to the train, he's over it with a timid giggle of glee, the agent blows the whistle, the doors close behind us.
We hustle back toward our car and when he spots Mama on the other end he yells, announcing proudly and enthusiastically in front of all the other passengers, in English no less, "HEY! WE PEED OUT THERE!!!"
This is parenthood, and its absurdity never ceases to amaze me.
Monday, March 09, 2015
fitting music
it's a rare gift when you stumble upon some music that seems to catch the mood of life at the moment.
this is what life sounds like lately.
this is what life sounds like lately.
Wednesday, March 04, 2015
Finding Vivian Maier
She had an eye for the bizarre, the grotesque, the incongruous. She liked headlines that revealed the folly of individuals, where you could say 'I told you so.' Some man murders his wife then gets caught in cold blood. I told you so. The things that revealed the folly of humanity. If you look at her art, she sees the bizarreness of life, the incongruity of life, and the unappealingness of human beings.
This description of Maier and her work made me think that she's a kindred spirit to Flannery O'Connor, a woman only one year her elder. Certain aspects of their work make a lot of people flinch, but they'd most likely have left one another unfazed, and certainly could have produced some interesting, albeit dark, collaborations.
Another question: why did we ever stop using Rolleiflex cameras?
And while this edge to Maier's personality and body of work can't stay unacknowledged, it's an overstep to reduce her work to this single dimension. Like the self-employed journalist she pretended to be, she did an incredible job of capturing and reflecting the full spectrum of the human condition in its honest entirety, good, bad, and ugly, be it a moment of tenderness, beauty, absurdity, or darkness. The vast scope of her work is precisely the reason it resonates as it does. She had a curiosity for the details of who we are and what we do, and in my mind that's most often what makes a good artist.
There are moments where I like that cliché conversation starter: what will you ask God when you get to heaven?
I imagine sitting down with Him for a long chat about mental illness. What is it? and Why? and Is it really illness? and Why do the mentally ill so often serve as artists, and as such, chosen as prophets? Why do the mentally ill seem to actually have a better grasp on some things than those of us who are "sane"? Who's really mentally ill here? What's the real delusion?
(cross reference to the lunatic in Revolutionary Road...or Sufjan Stevens' Age of Adz...)
Zoom out to the human condition in which Maier was trapped and tried so desperately to capture, perhaps in an effort to escape. God, what's really going on here? What are you up to? and Why?
All photos stolen from vivianmaier.com. Film website here.
Monday, March 02, 2015
Grieving with St Vincent
What's in the box?
My wife.
She died? ... Sorry Vin, for your loss.
I never understood why people say that.
They don't know what else to say.
How about What was she like? Do you miss her? or What are you gonna do now?
This quote came back to me the other day when I learned a friend's dad died and I thoughtlessly fumbled an "I'm sorry" in his direction. But it took me a while to remember where the quote came from.
Saint Vincent attempts to pack a little too much sappy fluff into one movie, but its message carried by Murray's terrific performance remains a worthwhile one. Wisdom will always come from unexpected places to those with eyes to see and ears to hear. This scene was just one example, where Vin gives great advice on grieving with those who grieve, probably because in his own way that's what he's done most his life.
My wife.
She died? ... Sorry Vin, for your loss.
I never understood why people say that.
They don't know what else to say.
How about What was she like? Do you miss her? or What are you gonna do now?
Saint Vincent attempts to pack a little too much sappy fluff into one movie, but its message carried by Murray's terrific performance remains a worthwhile one. Wisdom will always come from unexpected places to those with eyes to see and ears to hear. This scene was just one example, where Vin gives great advice on grieving with those who grieve, probably because in his own way that's what he's done most his life.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Boyhood
"So what's the point...of any of this? Of Everything?"
"Everything? What's the point of everything? I sure don't know. Neither does anyone else. We're all just winging it. But the good news is you're feeling stuff, you know? And you gotta hold on to that. You do. You get older and you don't feel as much. Your skin gets tough."
Boyhood, as is typical of Linklater, is so understated it's hard to appreciate it on first watch.
But even that says something. Sure, every critic is making a big deal about its innovation in being filmed over the course of 12 years. But don't forget the film doesn't make a big deal of it, and that's important. If it were filmed with the same cinematography as Tree of Life--a similarly profound Texan coming-of-age broad-scope story--there'd be more to immediately draw you in and appreciate. But humility, simplicity, subtlety, understatement: that was the road chosen in every regard. It doesn't make the movie an easily-digestible blockbuster but it does lend itself to transcendence.
It's tempting to wonder if the film would be any good if it wouldn't have been filmed over the course of 12 years, if it could stand on its own without this "gimmick" to lean on. But the two can't really be separated in such a way. It's not so much a gimmick as it is the story itself. The film is the 12 years, the 12 years is the film.
It's in the details of life passing: video games and clothing and music and food and haircuts and milestones and motivational pep talks and a slow, awkward evolution in and out of phases. For me, all these important slices of life captured and displayed in Boyhood were easier to appreciate after the fact, compiled in a trailer or the highlight reel of a critic, and that in turn made me more deeply admire the film as a whole.We tend to think all those phases stop in adulthood, as if growing up is restricted to boyhood and stops at the age of 18 or 21, as if it's just something to endure and survive, but we see here those phases continue all the same.
It's in the human experience: making sense and moving forward on a long road of pain and beauty, never quite arriving, and learning to be okay with that.
It's in the hard questions of an unfolding life: when making immature choices give their natural consequences, and when making supposedly mature choices don't work out like the world says they should.
It's the peculiar irony of life. Because this mom and dad, ready to give so much to their kids, would have in the end really made a great team and saved themselves a lot of trouble if they had stayed together. Hindsight is 20/20. And yet, even in the brokenness of the situation and the tumultuous experiences that come with it, they do still make a pretty good team all in all. The absent father we might have considered a deadbeat and a slacker isn't at all as absent as we thought. He is in fact the most stable, constant thing these kids have. The hot rod he drives giving him an air of rebellion becomes in fact one of the safest and steadiest homes they know. In spite of all the less-than-ideal circumstances, as seems to always be the case in this wide world of unexpected grace, all is not lost.
And perhaps the familiar motto we mutter to ourselves all through the movie becomes a pretty good theme for summing up all of life: My, how you've grown!
Yes, you've grown, and you're never done growing.
"Everything? What's the point of everything? I sure don't know. Neither does anyone else. We're all just winging it. But the good news is you're feeling stuff, you know? And you gotta hold on to that. You do. You get older and you don't feel as much. Your skin gets tough."
Boyhood, as is typical of Linklater, is so understated it's hard to appreciate it on first watch.
But even that says something. Sure, every critic is making a big deal about its innovation in being filmed over the course of 12 years. But don't forget the film doesn't make a big deal of it, and that's important. If it were filmed with the same cinematography as Tree of Life--a similarly profound Texan coming-of-age broad-scope story--there'd be more to immediately draw you in and appreciate. But humility, simplicity, subtlety, understatement: that was the road chosen in every regard. It doesn't make the movie an easily-digestible blockbuster but it does lend itself to transcendence.
It's tempting to wonder if the film would be any good if it wouldn't have been filmed over the course of 12 years, if it could stand on its own without this "gimmick" to lean on. But the two can't really be separated in such a way. It's not so much a gimmick as it is the story itself. The film is the 12 years, the 12 years is the film.
It's in the details of life passing: video games and clothing and music and food and haircuts and milestones and motivational pep talks and a slow, awkward evolution in and out of phases. For me, all these important slices of life captured and displayed in Boyhood were easier to appreciate after the fact, compiled in a trailer or the highlight reel of a critic, and that in turn made me more deeply admire the film as a whole.We tend to think all those phases stop in adulthood, as if growing up is restricted to boyhood and stops at the age of 18 or 21, as if it's just something to endure and survive, but we see here those phases continue all the same.
It's in the human experience: making sense and moving forward on a long road of pain and beauty, never quite arriving, and learning to be okay with that.
It's in the hard questions of an unfolding life: when making immature choices give their natural consequences, and when making supposedly mature choices don't work out like the world says they should.
It's the peculiar irony of life. Because this mom and dad, ready to give so much to their kids, would have in the end really made a great team and saved themselves a lot of trouble if they had stayed together. Hindsight is 20/20. And yet, even in the brokenness of the situation and the tumultuous experiences that come with it, they do still make a pretty good team all in all. The absent father we might have considered a deadbeat and a slacker isn't at all as absent as we thought. He is in fact the most stable, constant thing these kids have. The hot rod he drives giving him an air of rebellion becomes in fact one of the safest and steadiest homes they know. In spite of all the less-than-ideal circumstances, as seems to always be the case in this wide world of unexpected grace, all is not lost.
And perhaps the familiar motto we mutter to ourselves all through the movie becomes a pretty good theme for summing up all of life: My, how you've grown!
Yes, you've grown, and you're never done growing.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
You have the words of life.
I ran into these words as I read on the train yesterday. They struck me so strongly that I felt inspired to stand up and, in an act of freedom of expression and something resembling street art, write them in the foggy window with my finger. I didn't. I probably should have.
L'homme n'aboutit à rien par lui-même.
Vers qui irions-nous?
L'homme n'aboutit à rien par lui-même.
Vers qui irions-nous?
From John 6.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Another observed difference between boys and girls.
When boys get hair in their eyes, they leave it there. They jerk their head. They blow it. They cut it. Maybe, on a good day, they brush it over with their hand: swiftly and rough.
When girls get hair in their eyes, they tilt their head gracefully, sweep the hair gently to the side with their hand, and then the hand slowly continues down to their cheek, further petting the side of their neck, following down to their chest while never lifting from their body until it finally returns to their side, as if they are dramatically auditioning for a shampoo commercial or the like.
These strange creatures and their instincts are marvels.
When girls get hair in their eyes, they tilt their head gracefully, sweep the hair gently to the side with their hand, and then the hand slowly continues down to their cheek, further petting the side of their neck, following down to their chest while never lifting from their body until it finally returns to their side, as if they are dramatically auditioning for a shampoo commercial or the like.
These strange creatures and their instincts are marvels.
Saturday, January 03, 2015
Reasons I Enjoy My Kids
When a parent finds himself on vacation, what he most wants is calm and quiet, a respite from whiny requests and runny noses. He wants to enjoy luxuries, like being able to think, or being able to hear himself think. But the kids are on vacation too, and calm and quiet are hard to find. What vacation becomes, then, is a time to actually enjoy those kids. Without the typical worries of a day, those runny noses are not a distraction nor a nuisance, but a strange pleasure. Vacation is a rare opportunity to see the kids for who they are, to relish them and all their quirky neediness, to watch them as if watching a cinematic masterpiece.
A parent staring at his sleeping child, fascinating creature that he is in that eery state of calm, can't help but wonder what he's dreaming of, in what wild ways his subconscious is processing the events and filing the information of his day, to what strange worlds he is traveling, where and with whom he is exploring. It was with great delight, then, that we heard the kid calling casually in the night from the next room over, for the first time revealing what we've always wanted to know : "Mama! There's a movie in my head about a cat who eats everything!!"
Having an 18 month old strapped to your front does not make a winter's hike more comfortable, but it does make it more enjoyable. I like the way the warm air from her nostrils forms droplets of condensation on the top of her pacifier. I like the way she arches her back and cranes her neck to see the snowy trees. I like the way she sleeps, lets me kiss her in her sleep. I like the way she, when finally the end of the hike is reached and she's liberated from the harness, walks like a cowboy staggering into a saloon just descended from his horse.
When the other kid is overcome with joy but feels a bit shy about it, he opens his jaw wide but keeps his lips tight, hiding a grin and making his face long, then looks out the side of his eyes and closes them slowly and repeatedly, batting his outrageously long eyelashes. It's a look that is crackingly sweet, like he's about to burst but doesn't want you to know it. It's a look he shot back to his mother and I, walking behind him, over the shoulder of his grandfather who had just agreed to carry him up the trail a ways.
The golden age of cuteness is between 18 months and 4 years. After that I'm rather convinced kids grow in awkwardness as they stretch out, lose some innocence and struggle to make sense of the world. Still, there are plenty of delights. Like our six year old who is beginning to tell genuine jokes and new bright ideas through his charming toothless grin. And the way he was more than glad to play the role of scout on our hike, leading the way stomping through snow, never once complaining about the hike and instead declaring at its end that he enjoyed it. This is new, he is growing up, and it's a pleasure.
Playing a high-speed matching game with the kid, his little brother asked to join in. He did much better than I expected, and with each match found he raised his fist triumphantly in the air, shouting between giggles, "I WON!!!" But he was just as excited for the others, shouting to me each time I found a match, "You won, papa!!!" sometimes with an enthusiastic hug.
Besides dreams, another subject of parents' curiosity is what the kid talks like on the playground. Childish playground banter is inherently selfish and absurd, defying logic and ultimately determined by who insists most strongly, or most cleverly, or with the threat of the worst force, or by who wins the most admiration according to any given criteria du jour (ie coolest shoes, best Pokemon cards). What makes all of this even more fascinating for us, of course, is that the only playground banter our kids know is in French. So when it was time tonight to decide who got out of the bathtub first, the kid employed playground rule. His version of eenie-meenie-miney-mo is Scooby Doo est malade, mentioning something about the hospital being closed and ending with an inevitably rigged 1, 2, 3. When I insisted it fell on him so he must get out, he quick-wittedly claimed "Mais non, ça a rebondit sur lui !" pointing to his brother and then adding in what should have been obvious explanation with a shrug of the shoulders, "C'était invisible." And as they got out and played with the whirlpool forming in the drain, the kid said in his show-off voice, "Mais attends, regarde, je vais faire un truc de malade !!"
And what's most meaningful is watching a bond form between siblings. Amidst fights and giggles and wrestles and tricks and games and scares and jokes, the strongest of bonds is forged. The girl scoots in to sit in the lap of her biggest brother, or she sits next to him and gently rubs his back. Or at bed time, we overhear the sweetest sound of the other kid employing his most nurturing voice, calming his sister who cries, singing her a song until she agrees to settle. It's in the way they say good night to each other as they crawl into bed, they way they greet each other with a good morning as they rise.
A parent staring at his sleeping child, fascinating creature that he is in that eery state of calm, can't help but wonder what he's dreaming of, in what wild ways his subconscious is processing the events and filing the information of his day, to what strange worlds he is traveling, where and with whom he is exploring. It was with great delight, then, that we heard the kid calling casually in the night from the next room over, for the first time revealing what we've always wanted to know : "Mama! There's a movie in my head about a cat who eats everything!!"
Having an 18 month old strapped to your front does not make a winter's hike more comfortable, but it does make it more enjoyable. I like the way the warm air from her nostrils forms droplets of condensation on the top of her pacifier. I like the way she arches her back and cranes her neck to see the snowy trees. I like the way she sleeps, lets me kiss her in her sleep. I like the way she, when finally the end of the hike is reached and she's liberated from the harness, walks like a cowboy staggering into a saloon just descended from his horse.
When the other kid is overcome with joy but feels a bit shy about it, he opens his jaw wide but keeps his lips tight, hiding a grin and making his face long, then looks out the side of his eyes and closes them slowly and repeatedly, batting his outrageously long eyelashes. It's a look that is crackingly sweet, like he's about to burst but doesn't want you to know it. It's a look he shot back to his mother and I, walking behind him, over the shoulder of his grandfather who had just agreed to carry him up the trail a ways.
The golden age of cuteness is between 18 months and 4 years. After that I'm rather convinced kids grow in awkwardness as they stretch out, lose some innocence and struggle to make sense of the world. Still, there are plenty of delights. Like our six year old who is beginning to tell genuine jokes and new bright ideas through his charming toothless grin. And the way he was more than glad to play the role of scout on our hike, leading the way stomping through snow, never once complaining about the hike and instead declaring at its end that he enjoyed it. This is new, he is growing up, and it's a pleasure.
Playing a high-speed matching game with the kid, his little brother asked to join in. He did much better than I expected, and with each match found he raised his fist triumphantly in the air, shouting between giggles, "I WON!!!" But he was just as excited for the others, shouting to me each time I found a match, "You won, papa!!!" sometimes with an enthusiastic hug.
Besides dreams, another subject of parents' curiosity is what the kid talks like on the playground. Childish playground banter is inherently selfish and absurd, defying logic and ultimately determined by who insists most strongly, or most cleverly, or with the threat of the worst force, or by who wins the most admiration according to any given criteria du jour (ie coolest shoes, best Pokemon cards). What makes all of this even more fascinating for us, of course, is that the only playground banter our kids know is in French. So when it was time tonight to decide who got out of the bathtub first, the kid employed playground rule. His version of eenie-meenie-miney-mo is Scooby Doo est malade, mentioning something about the hospital being closed and ending with an inevitably rigged 1, 2, 3. When I insisted it fell on him so he must get out, he quick-wittedly claimed "Mais non, ça a rebondit sur lui !" pointing to his brother and then adding in what should have been obvious explanation with a shrug of the shoulders, "C'était invisible." And as they got out and played with the whirlpool forming in the drain, the kid said in his show-off voice, "Mais attends, regarde, je vais faire un truc de malade !!"
And what's most meaningful is watching a bond form between siblings. Amidst fights and giggles and wrestles and tricks and games and scares and jokes, the strongest of bonds is forged. The girl scoots in to sit in the lap of her biggest brother, or she sits next to him and gently rubs his back. Or at bed time, we overhear the sweetest sound of the other kid employing his most nurturing voice, calming his sister who cries, singing her a song until she agrees to settle. It's in the way they say good night to each other as they crawl into bed, they way they greet each other with a good morning as they rise.
All this is sacred. All this is vacation.
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