Katahdin

I just got back from a two week trip to Maine in the very Northeast corner of the US.  We drove all the way there from Florida.  It was my first time seeing many of the Northeastern states.  And while I didn't get much time to understand them, my initial impression based on traffic, road conditions, interactions with a few people, landscape, etc, is that most of those are places I never desire to go again. 

Ironically, the states I thought would be the worst were actually pleasant.  Namely, New Jersey and New York.  The roads were well maintained.  The people were friendly, drivers were efficient considerate, etc.  But my absolute least favorite state was Connecticut.  If you live there, I'm sorry for you and you can be reasonably certain you'll not see me there ever again if I can help it.  Pennsylvania is a close second.

But travel issues aside, Maine was a beautiful place.  I was surprised by the intense amount of pesky and biting insects for such a cold climate, but I guess they can only survive for such a short time, they come out in force.  Interestingly, in Florida, the bugs are more common in the shade because the sun is too hot.  In Maine, it was the opposite.

I was also struck by the profound impression that Maine is composed almost entirely of rock...various sizes and constructions, but it was by far the rockiest place I've ever been.  I took particular notice since I favor the barefoot style of shoes, so I felt EVERY stone.  My feet are now much tougher.

We stayed one afternoon and night in Bangor.  I found this to be a delightful city and could easily see myself living there.  Even the culture seemed to be very suitable.  I've never seen so many piercings, tattoos, and dyed hair outside of little enclaves and gatherings. It was pretty much everywhere there.

But then we camped at the base of Katahdin, the highest peak in Maine.  It's a great thrust of rock covered in more rock.  It generates its own microclimate, making the area an unpredictable mix of rocks, clouds, and trees.

My goal was to reach the peak, but on the first day, bad weather was predicted.  So we climbed South Turner Peak, which looks over at Baxter Peak (the highest).  It was a short trail, but went virtually straight up across...of course...large rocks.  (I'm pretty sure the trail designer was a mountain goat who owned stock in steel shank shoes.)  But my Tabi boots held good and my son and I had lunch atop a sunny peak in a cloud of black flies before rock hopping back down.

Turned out the bad weather didn't show til about 7pm, so we would have had ample time to get to the top of Baxter, but we were listening to Rangers and trying to play it safe.

What followed was a full day of rain.  So that day, we ascended part way up Baxter to Chimney Pond, which is a picturesque glacial pond surrounded by soaring granite cliffs that make up Baxter Peak.  On the way up, we met a Ranger who I instantly hit it off with.  He was lean like us and dancing from rock to rock like us.  He wore soft soled shoes, like us, and loved my boots.  He realized our experience and determination and didn't try to dissuade us from climbing Baxter, even in the rain, though he told us good options.  We had decided to skip Baxter that day since it would be shrouded in cloud so he recommended Pamola Caves, which was a branch off of Chimney Pond.

So we took that route and quickly found this guy was serious!  Pamola was a series of huge boulders that we had to, alternately and in combination, jump, scramble, spin, slide, skirt, and crawl under.  There is nothing like straddling a four foot gap in the rain with cliff on one side, and a dark hole filled with uneven rocks 20 feet below.  My 12 year old son, did beautifully, even where we had to climb down a waterfall.  But the most intense place for me was the narrow squeezes in which we had to leave our packs and shimmy sideways and up through crevices where even my slim 90cm chest touched one face and my back the other.  Then we had to crawl through a tunnel and climb up a pipe of rock.  I did it with ease, but realized, I have no love for caving.

After awhile we returned and bounded our way through rocks and mud back to our campsite.  It was here that I realized these trails were like none I have hiked in Japan, Hawaii, or Appalachia.  Essentially, they remove vegetation, and then leave the rocks and all for people to navigate.  It's like walking in a rocky stream bed, which indeed it becomes in the rain.  Even where the inevitable washouts occur, most trails install a small pipe, a horizontal ladder, or log bridge to cross them.  Here, they simply pile up some rocks in the trail and let the washout flow between.  The hiker has to climb over the rocks, into the wash, and back out the other side, or jump the gap.

So after two days of this intense hiking, our feet and legs were baked.  But the next morning was fair and we determined to do Baxter Peak, come what may.  It was our last opportunity.  So foot sore, and leg tired, we ascended the Chimney trail again.  Then we chose the Saddle trail up to the peak.  Though it was a bit longer, it was the least intense and we were tired.  Of course, by least intense we mean that the vertical portion of the climb was only about a kilometer over loose gravel and rocks.

We were slow moving when we finally crested the ridge and entered the alpine tundra.  Then we were treated with another surprise, which Thoreau described as if raw materials for a planet were dumped up there, awaiting incorporation.  Millions upon millions of grapefruit sized loose rocks were strewn everywhere.  The trail was like walking of sharp edged, shifting softballs that adjusted and settled with each step like giant sand grains.  About 2km later we reached the peak.  Which on this first sunny day in a week, was full of people.  There was an Appalachian Trail through-hiker ending his journey. A couple south-bound starting theirs.  A guy proposing to his girlfriend at the peak, about 35 kids of varying ages up with a few summer camps, and sundry others.

I was sitting on the rocks exhausted with throbbing feet.  But I was there.  I sucked water, gnawed beef jerky, and chomped some nuts.  Then we started down.  It was a slow painful walk and I was certain it would have been much better if I wasn't three days into some serious hikes on backpacker rations.  The climb down was without event.  We took it slow and all four of our legs were noodling, but we did it without injury or incident.

I was not surprised by the peak, though the trail certainly was unexpected.  Peaks are usually crowded in high season.  I partly wish I had done it in the rain, but that climb up the slide would have been tricky.  At least then we'd have been more alone at the summit.  But in the end, I know for me, hiking is about the journey.  And I don't mean that in the cleche since.  Quite literally, I don't care about the views.  I don't even want to stop at the top.  I'm content to reach it and keep right on moving.

The reason for this hit me profoundly as we started back down the sunny tundra.  Dancing along those loose stones, my son asked my why I never want to stop at the top. We had quickly left the crowd (all still at the summit) and I looked out over this alien landscape with clouds sweeping up like something from a Miyazaki movie.  I was impressed dramatically with a simultaneous sense of relief at having accomplished the hardest of three difficult hikes in as many days, wonder at the scene, and a distinct sense of 'now'.  I explained the above to him and told him of Augustine's description of time:  That the future does not exist, the past is gone, and all that exists is the present moment.  If you focus your attention down on the smallest unit of time you can perceive, you'll realize that reality is flying by in an ever-present and infinitesimally small 'now'.

That was when I slipped into that attention and was palpably impressed with the living sublimity of the moment.  My eyes teared up and overflowed, I almost lost my balance as I beheld for the briefest moment the way God sees the world.  This place, this distant, alien, unfriendly place was not made for us.  It was made by and for God himself.  And in it was a glorious thriving of motion and activity and life.  The ever-present now is where God lives.  I said this to my son.  And as sudden as it came it was gone, like the mists blowing across the dappled lichen.  Like Moses, I had climbed to the high place and glimpsed God as he passed by.  I was left with salt-stinging eyes, throbbing legs, and a profound sense of joy.  I had found something on that mountain, but as usual it was not where anyone would think to look.

God, help me.

Christians talk of love.  We're told to overlook, forgive, bear with, no one is perfect, don't judge.  And yet, in so many cases, this is entirely the duty of the listener and not at all reflected by the speaker or his organization.

It starts to sound hollow after awhile.  So I'm supposed to be eternally forgiving offences against me, some of which are grossly wrong...morally, ethically, personally wrong...and yet the person/people preaching this are the very offenders who then refuse to show it to me, to bear with me, to overlook, forgive, withhold judgement of my faults.

Now the moralist in me is screaming that two wrongs don't make a right and that one must do right regardless of how one is treated.  OK.  I know this.  But it doesn't change the bitterness and anger that rise up at it again and again.  And it isn't everyone.  I know many people who do live out their faith and have shown me great love, even when I don't deserve it.  So again, I blame the institution for creating the paradigm in which a man can stand over anonymous heads and orate without having to answer to the eyes and mouths of those he speaks to.  Where he doesn't have to feel the full and immediate effect of his words.  There has to be a better way.

I feel like I know that way too.  I have glimpsed it, smelled it, but can't quite apprehend it.  I'm not planning anything.  I'm over trying to work my own will in these cases.  I just don't have the energy any more.  But I want to understand, to walk in it, to help it grow where it sprouts.

Am I missing something?  I find myself cringing from certain aspects of the faith.  Embarrassed by them.  I don't want to be caught listening to Christian radio.  I don't even like the music.  I just need some uplifting, faithful, stilling presence and commercial radio (at least the genres I can tolerate) is all about degradation and glory in low things.  I hate to pray over meals in public, though I do it at home with a will and a desire to instill it in my son.

Am I embarrassed by the faith?  No.  I'm not.  I'll easily tell someone I'm Christian, that I go to church, that I believe in universal Truth and live morally, etc.  I'll discuss my faith at length and detail in certain contexts, not just amongst other Christians.  So I am not embarrassed by the faith.  So what is it?

If it was just hokey contrivances, I would not do them myself.  So I see value in them.  This means the issue must be deeper.  Perhaps a fear of seeming naive or backward.  Perhaps of being misunderstood.  I can't tell what it is.  My Evangelical background steps forward at this point and begins condemning me that those who are ashamed of Christ, he will be ashamed of.  Words from his own mouth!  And my heart quails.  But yet I find the same reactions persisting.

I am fickle and inconsistent.  And then I am reminded quietly of Peter who denied Christ three times after just proclaiming his allegiance and even using a blade against an armed troop of men to defend Jesus.  I am reminded of Paul who could not do the good he wanted to do, though he knew what it was.

And so this Sunday, when I was sitting in church, at odds with the place and myself, the pastor, whom I don't even know if I like and certainly don't yet trust, calls us to take Communion in a way that does not put me off.  Not single serving plastic wrapped.  Not greatly orated.  Simply saying that we will serve ourselves because, "you need no one coming between you and your God."  And so I go forward, looking into my own heart, wondering what I will say to Him in the moment, though I feel something must be said.  At the same time, I dred that my heart may burst out my eyes in front of everyone, as too often happens when I encounter God.  I take the wafer, dip it in the cup, and at that second, my heart cries out, "God, help me."

I don't even know where it came from...well I do really.  But I was not planning it, I promise you.  I felt my eyes well, clenched my teeth to stop it, and rushed back to my seat.  Then it came to me that this simple line is the essence of my faith, of all faith.  I don't know.  I can't do.  God, help me.

And on this rock, I can stand.  Nothing more, nothing less.  God, help me.  God, help me.

War

I recently heard someone speaking about Deliverance, with a capital D.  I hadn't heard of it before.  Honestly, I ended up in a position to hear him speak completely unintentionally.  Anyway, the word with a capital D refers to, the speaker said, "the casting out of demons." Yep.  I'm not kidding.  It's a thing.  He wasn't making that up.  I check everything.

So as he presented it, it's a system of counselling that focuses on removing demonic influence from people's lives.  To his credit, he was not at all pushy and delivered his talk in a very matter-of-fact and non-spooky way.  He did not come off as a charlatan.  I'd have walked right out.  I think he legitimately believes what he's saying and considers himself more reasonable than many he knows in the field.  Since he could approach it in a rational manner, I felt he deserved a fair hearing.

He didn't go into detail about the process, partly because he didn't want to spook people out (he said this) and partly (I think) because he had a seminar to plug and a 'ministry' to support.  Though he didn't ask for money.

He gave a few stories, but mostly just talked about the background principle.  The stories were sufficient to make me think.  I have enough experience of the spiritual to safely admit demons and other spiritual forces do exist and influence people. But the background principle is what didn't sit well.

He pulled verses from the Bible that seemed a bit out of context and misinterpreted.  But as is my bent, I began to consider what might be true in it.  Was I the one misunderstanding?  He admitted demons aren't behind every problem, but claimed they could be behind any problem.  He alluded to some sort of contractual type scenario in which people can, knowingly or not, give demons access to themselves.  He claimed that Jesus could save a soul, but that the body and spirit might still be "infected" as he put it.  The focus of Deliverance is to break those contracts and make people as free and healthy as possible.  He said that there was a process people had to participate in.  Alluding to some 'steps' and such people had to take to be sure they stay free.

I left mostly denying it, but with enough doubt that I had to consider more fully.  I talked it over with my wife and son.  I asked God to tell me what is true.  I even wrestled with it in dreams for a couple nights.  I debated calling a mentor of mine and discussing it with him.  Was I right?  What if I wasn't?  Could I be suffering from some seemingly medical ailments because of the doors I'd opened in my past?  What about beneficial suffering; the "thorn in the flesh"?  Wasn't Jesus sufficient?  Why wouldn't he cleanse everything?  Could I take the chance on that?  Was it worth the chance?  It didn't fit with my understanding of the universe, but it did echo many of the things I encountered and heard from people in the Spiritualist world that I had dabbled in fairly extensively years ago. 

So finally, I decided to look it up.  Though I was a bit scared of creeping myself out.  The speaker had said it was easy to find on the internet.  So I did a late night search and was quickly provided with an article from an ex-Deliverance counsellor who shed all the light I needed. Thank God for answering.

This long article described the Deliverance movement in such verbatim detail to the speaker that I had no doubt they were talking about the same thing.  In fact, they quoted the same people, same verses, same vocabulary.  The article described it as very real.  He had seen many amazing things happen.  But still he left it.  The reasons he left it encapsulate my very difficulties.

I'm not going to try to digest the whole article for you.  Look it up yourself if you're interested.  What resonated with me was, for one, that the Deliverance movement is a 20th century invention.  It claims roots to ancient times, but no more than Wicca can claim to the ancient pagans.  In other words, it's a modern supposition of what might have happened, and not a true religious tradition and therefore does not have the weight of history and community of consent behind it.  But more importantly, Deliverance is essentially a works-based faith.  Freedom is not obtained by the work of God.  It's made possible by that, but people then have to get the right prayers, the right lifestyle, the right program to be fully free.  And then only so far as they keep it up.  Further, it adds chains to people with the concept that when a demon returns, it brings more with it and makes the end condition worse.  Thus someone who is struggling lives in eternal fear that they may not only go back to the torment, but it may get worse.  And if you've never experienced spiritual torment of this kind, let me tell you, it's enough to make you high dive into concrete.

The article described it like a spiritual protection racket that Satan himself backs by putting on good demonic shows.  "Sure, cast me out, but watch how much of a fight I can put up. Get proud, feel special, feel afraid."  It's like the Fight Club assignment to pick a fight and lose.  It puffs up the counsellor and terrorizes (in the Terrorist sense) the victim who now has to look around every corner for the evil he knows "can get him at any time".

So is there another view that allows for demons and their influence but avoids this false paradigm of Spiritual Warfare?  Yes!  God is sovereign over all things.  Christ has put all powers beneath his feet.  The head of the serpent has been crushed.  Evil in fact, doesn't exist.  Philosophically proven, it can't.  What we call evil is the negation of a created thing which God called good.  A thing's evilness is exactly proportional to the degree it departs from what it was created to be.

There are far more verses in the Bible supporting this worldview.  Jesus sets free.   Nothing can harm me except as God allows and that means it will only be for my good, like chemotherapy that makes me sick so I can get well.  Or like physical training hurts so my muscles grow stronger.  The demons have no inherent power.  Only the illusion of it.  So what more would they want than to be attributed the power to control and manipulate us.  Sure they'll exploit it!  If we want a show, they'll be happy to oblige. 

Better to learn what Sarah had to learn in Labyrinth.  Not how to defeat her demons, but that they had no power over her in the first place.  With that it's all over.  This is echoed in my own life: dreams, studies, experiences, and reasoning.  It is the only way.  It is the Truth. 

Demons are real, but the conflict is not.  It's a bluff, a farse, a simulation of the Matrix.  God is sovereign and the truth is what is real.  As in War Games, we have to learn that, "The only winning move is not to play."

Majik...or something like it

People used to say that certain places had a strange effect on people.  It's picked up in stories, novels, movies.  There's a sort of Majik (I spell it this way to refer to the sublime natural sort of mysterious power as opposed to the trickery people do on stages or the evil sort of sorcery) that can make people get lost, hurt themselves, forget, disappear, or a variety of other things that vary in ominousity.  I've long known that the further away from the things of man one goes, the closer to the Majikal, one gets.  I've also always believed that many natural happenings are explained in a sort of mythical fashion as an innate way of transferring oral knowledge...like storytelling.  Thus there is truth in many myths.  Recently, I had occasion to take these beliefs out for a test run...Or rather I was tossed out of the boat with them, so to speak, and left to see what floats.

My bushcraft is pretty strong.  I've been in the woods, swamps, oceans, mountains, all my life.  Every week, I strip down to the barest means I can handle and run in the swamps that surround my area of Florida.  Mostly this means me in a pair of shorts and some Feiyue Tiger Claws, (think shaolin shoes). Sometimes I ditch the shoes too.  but no shirt, no phone.  Just me.  It's my time to "Walk with Him in the Garden".  It's my truest house of worship, just like Jesus went up in the mountains or gardens to pray.

Over time, I've gotten to know my favorite spots.  If you know the area, I start out in the Morris Bridge Trails.  It's a dirt lot with a trail head that hikers and mountain bikers frequent.  From there, I disappear into the woods, heading downhill into the slough, a ribbon like swamp of virgin cypress, elms, and other hardwoods.  Half of the year, it's under water, but at this time of year, it's mostly dry.  Trails slip through at various points, but in the deepest part, I frequently veer offtrail into the slough itself and "chase the spirits".  Here I can hop the logs, balance across spans, dodge cypress knees, and let go.  I'll frequently find myself exhausted and stop for a rest, where I encounter other denizens of the nonhuman sort.  I've eavesdropped on a coversation between a mama raccoon and her two kids. Talked with otters, charged and been charged by hogs, hopped with deer, and angered a good deal of squirrels just by being in sight.  I've also seen God part the veil and speak to me in amazing ways.  I'm totally at ease here.  I've even dozed off in the flowers once or twice.

After a bit, I'll make my way back to the trails and head back to civilization.  On occasion I've overshot my mark and had to run around the long way to get back or popped out unexpectedly in a place I didn't realize I was heading to.  But there are days, like this past Friday, where the world there is different.

This Friday, there was no sun.  It's rare here in the Sunshine State, but we do get a few totally overcast days where the brightness of the sun is not discernible through the grey blanket.  This day was one of those.  It makes the colors of the swamp come alive.  The greens and reds and yellows explode in vivid splashes.  Particularly at this time of year, the open areas under the trees are a solid field of yellow asters, waist high.  So on this day, I found a nice piece of chert, a type of flint.  I decided to try napping it into a tool, like our ancestors did.  So I plunged offtrail into the sea of yellow far enough to not be a distraction to the few bikers who might zip by on the trail in the early afternoon.

The smell of the flowers was dizzying.  Bees swung around full and drunk.  I found a large tree with a flat root, perfect as a base for chipping.  I protected it with bark and went to work.  In 15 minutes I had a useful hand ax and tried it on the branch of an elm sapling.  It cut quite nice for my unexperienced hand.  I then cached it and my striking stone in a hollow and headed back.

Running in the woods is different than walking.  You aren't focused on the distance as much as the nearest step, because you have to adjust your foot placement rapidly to avoid the many obstacles.  So it's common to zigzag a bit as you make your way back.  So when I didn't hit the trail where I expected, I figured it turned and I overshot it, so I veered left to meet it again.  Pretty soon, I realized, I must be much further east than I thought.  The trail was just not there.  The endless field of yellow was crisscrossed with hog and deer paths.  I even woke up one sleepy pig who stuck himself under a log and had to frantically dig himself out while I stood overtop encouraging him.  Nothing looked familiar, as it usually doesn't, so I just kept moving ahead thinking I'd hit the powerline eventually and work back that way.

About 30 minutes later, I hit a trail.  OK, I thought.  This must be my usual trail, just east of my turn, I've been there before when I overshoot, so I turned left and ran on.  But pretty soon the trail widened and I began to see horse prints, then manure.  I was in the Equestrian park to the south!  As shocking as this may seem, to be heading south instead of north, it has happened before.  That time, I fell asleep and then jumped up and ran the wrong way out.  With no sun, I couldn't tell.  But this time, I had not lost my orientation.  I had distinctly headed back north from the tree, the way I had come in.

So these woods, must be the majik kind.  It is a virgin swamp afterall.  It's not the first time trails had seemingly moved on me in these kinds of places.  But I could hear traffic, so I knew that must be the interstate.  In a few minutes, I should pop out on the edge of the equestrian trails and could shoot back north through a familiar part of the slough.  I ran on.

Then, I spotted the clearing.  But beyond it was not the mound of spoil I expected by the canal.  It was a house!  OK, I must be still east where the houses come up to the equestrian park.  I'll just head right and find the spoil.  (Keep track of these directions and see if I'm not correct.)

Soon, I hit a fence and a street.  There should be no street.  The houses back right up to the park.  I had no idea where I was and for the first time a larger than normal spookiness shot through me.  Still, experienced, as I am, I simply slid through the barbed wire and looked for a street sign.  200 meters down, I found one...My blood chilled.  I had no idea where this street was.  I looked left, then right.  I looked up at the grey blanket.  I had no idea if I was looking north or south, east or west.  I didn't know this street.  It could be anywhere around a large range of wilderness.  But not to panic.  I could always swallow my pride and knock on a door to ask where I was.  Then run very fast if the homeowner levelled a shotgun at the half naked man covered in mud and leaves on her porch.  I listened and heard traffic again very close.  I ran that way.  Over a short rise, I could see it.  It wasn't the interstate, so it had to be Fowler or Morris Bridge Rd.  For those out of the area, these streets are on the south and north of the wilderness respectively.  If Morris, I was closer to the parking lot than I thought.  If Fowler, I had a long run back, but no big deal.

At the intersection, I was stunned again.  This was neither of the streets I expected.  This was US 301!  This highway runs north on the eastern edge of the wilderness from east Tampa up into Zephyrhills.  I hadn't crossed a river, or a road, so I had to be on the west side of the road.  Plus cars were zipping from right to left, which at that time of day, must be northbound.  But I had no idea how far along the road I was.  I didn't recognize the intersection.  So I turned right, or south (I hoped) since I was praying to be close to Fowler.

That's when I saw that I was north of County Road 579.  Good grief, I was in Thonotosassa!  I couldn't have gotten farther from where I wanted to be without crossing a major feature like a river or other blatant directional landmark.  That takes a certain kind of bad luck; almost intentional.  I didn't know where my little street went the other way, and didn't want to get twisted up in the swamp again this close to dusk, so I decided there was nothing to it, but to hoof it along the road.

I ran, and walked some, and struggled to find saliva in my now dry mouth.  Then I ran some more, and some more.  I couldn't buy a drink because I had no money.  I couldn't go into a store because I had no shirt.  I couldn't call anyone because my phone, along with my water, and wallet, were in the truck at the COMPLETELY OPPOSITE CORNER OF THE DANG WOODS!

Eventually I debated sneaking up to a house and swigging some water from a hose, but in that part of town, the thought of shotguns and dogs were quite real, especially for a half-naked, dirty, long-haired mutt like me.  Of course, hospitality would have easily prompted anyone to spare me a cup if I'd asked, but I truthfully wasn't in that sort of need and didn't want to pretend to it, which would not only be dishonest, but would likely prompt them to also help me more than I wanted.  So I followed the tenet of "get yourself in, get yourself out" and pressed on around the Big Top Flea Market and up the canal toward relief.

After one more short detour around the mouth of the creek I had started in, followed by one more quick twist of directions in the woods, I wound up right back on the canal where I gave up and decided to cross through the caretaker's property despite the glaring signs prohibiting it.  Of course, right as I neared the sign on the far side of the property, my leg gave up and cramped.  And of course right as I hobbled on past it, the caretaker's wife rolled up in her truck and asked me if she could help me in that tone that says, "you know you shouldn't be here."  Having been thus humbled, I dropped my head and sheepishly declared I had gotten lost and just found my way out.  She nodded understanding, asked if I was alright otherwise, to which I responded by pointing to my truck a few hundred meters away.  She bid me a kind good day and I stumbled into the truck where I downed a bottle of water, answered some texts from my now worried wife, and drove home to a sick stomach, which was quickly cured with ample does of salt and simple carbs.  The only lasting injury is my pride, and that's for the better.

In the end, I was in no real danger, other than being overly tired and late.  I could find my way out to some point simply by following traffic noise, so I wasn't going to die in there.  I had prayed for God to do with me what he wanted on that run and he obliged.  I had asked for him to show me what he would, and he did.  Once more, I learned about myself, both my abilities and my limits.  I learned about His care for me, even in seemingly uncontrolled situations.  And I learned that my granddad knew something when he said in his slingblade accent, " 'ere's sump'm in 'em 'oods a'makes ee'n 'em 'at knows 'eysef go a bit auter hids."

Lull

I haven't written in a while.  Sometimes a lull occurs and I am grateful.  Not that things have been bad or perfect, or even dull.  Just relative peace in my mind and life.  I'm actually inspired back to write by a chance comment from an unknown reader.  But I don't know where this will go.

Holidays are finally over and it takes several months to recover some normalcy.  Some things never come back.  I wonder how many things, good or bad, are lost because of the American Holiday Season.  Some people like the change.  I think they wait all year to do the things they do in that season.  But I don't.  I don't see life as that long.  Truthfully, it isn't a conscious decision, just the way I am made: I see multiple pathways in everything and that includes the negative.  I may very well not have another opportunity, so I take them where they come.  This melds into and shapes my worldview to do only what God asks of us in the moment that he asks.  It's a curious chicken/egg, Daoish, paradox of influence.

But anyway, the point is, I do all year things that most reserve for the one time a year.  Therefore when the holidays come and everyone stops doing what they normally do for some unexplained cultural reason, my life grinds to a halt.  After 3 months of that, people (including myself) have forgotten what we were doing before that time and have to start all over.  What is recalled takes months to ramp up momentum.

In other news, my hand and wife are healing, so even more activities that have been on hold are slowly coming back.  Really, I think if it wasn't for these lulls, more would be accomplished.

Another factor contributing to the lull is that we finally completely dropped a major source of irritation and provocation...namely the church we've been going to for many years.  Being someone who commits slowly and moves circumspectly, I am also slow to completely drop something.  I keep trying and biding until all remnant of good is squeezed out of something and the one last straw falls.

The long and short is, I'm now much happier in that regard.  We've started checking out another place which is a very different character, yet not entirely alien.  I have no intention of jumping in too heavily, and anyone who wants to argue that I should do otherwise is welcome to step to.  I'll challenge anyone to walk in my shoes for a while and tell me they'd do otherwise.  Same goes for anyone who says you shouldn't change churches because we're all flawed.  I know where they're coming from.  I've been them before.  Just keep jawing what you don't know...you'll see.  And if not, then our paths are different and all the best on yours.

Seriously, I wish people would think a little more before they start spouting advice.  Does anyone ever really give good advice?  I remember hearing a friend whose job included listening to people's problems say he was done giving advice.  I thought I understood, but thought he was taking it too far.  Surely sometimes we know what someone else doesn't, I thought.  But now, I'm starting to see his point more clearly.  We are never in exactly the same place as another.  we might be passing nearby, but our lives come from and are going to different places, making it very difficult to ever truly tell someone else what to do with any accuracy.  Further, too many people can't see them selves clearly enough, or refuse to admit their own reality, to even see what wisdom you might offer.

I recently had a friend call me repeatedly (I have to tell him I HATE the telephone) to try to get "advice" but each time I clearly saw what he wanted to do and that he was just looking for an excuse to say he'd talked it over even though he'd really already made up his mind.  Self deception at it's finest.  And this is a smart and relatively good, well-adjusted person!

No, I think the best we can do is listen and reflect, perhaps share a story or thought sparked by what they say and maybe help each other discern our own paths at the moment.

Peace and Action

Peace is not lack of activity.  Action is not lack of peace.  I fear that committing to peace will make me soft.  But I know this is not true. 

It's not a new dynamic entirely.  I remember shedding hate years ago in a moment of bright flash, I realized that I was wasting so much energy on hating things and people.  I thought it was justified, righteous even, to hate what was evil.  I dropped it right then and there.  I was walking through Ybor City one afternoon before it was turned into a seedy party spot. (Contrary to popular belief, it was actually safer then...full of people like me and we got along for the most part, but that's another entry.)

But even that wasn't fully dropped.  I found lingering elements of hate locked away deep inside me.  Levels below the first set.  These only surfaced years later.  I probably wrote about it here, but don't remember.

So, I know how this works somewhat. But I'm unsure of how to walk it out.  How do I interact with people when the scripts I know are all strategies and battle plans?  Is there any reference to draw upon?  Sources for new scripts?

There are a few.  The Practice of the Presence is one.  Uncle George has a few too.  But in my own life and time, I have some.  I remember a time when I was all about actions to give a little wonder and joy.  Like an imp spreading good mischief, I was always looking for a way to surprise people with a little Amelie-style goodness, far before that movie, lest anyone think I copied it.  It may be time to resurrect these to some extent.  I'd stand in a crowd and say hi to people then give a dollar to whoever greeted me back.  I'd slip up behind some random acquaintance and slide some jewelry around her neck.  Pay for someone's meal behind me and walk away.  Climb into scenic overlooks and wave frantically back at people, swinging from a tree or some other feature.  (People always cracked up at this.)  Strike up conversations with strangers as if I knew them, never letting them tell me they didn't know me.  Physical clowning was always great.  Run into something, get sprayed in the face, dive into a sand trap on a golf course and then rake out all the prints but the body shape.  One I never did, but saw in an obscure movie years later and wished I had: buy objects at thrift stores with people's names on them and secretly deliver them to people with those names. 

Perhaps I never fully gave them up.  But I have largely lost this sensibility.  I think it's the slow dulling grind of daily routine that wore it away.  But I think these are seeds of a new mode of activity.  One which defuses and brightens, instead of stokes and obscures.

Man of Peace

Sometimes things get away from us before we notice them.  I'm convinced most bad things start as good ideas that get perverted in the application...probably by small unnoticeable steps.  I recently found myself being quite tense and angry.  Every little thing began to bother me.

Fortunately, I rather quickly realized that it wasn't a problem with the entire world, but with me.  Among the quite probable multiple errors I made in this, one I noticed was that I felt as if I was resisting a constant tide.  It was me standing strong, fighting forward, alone against the fray...metaphorically, in my mind.

Like I said, I don't think this is wrong in itself.  I think we need more people who stand up for what is right, demand that as far as their influence reaches, things are done well and honestly.  The probelm is this is very tiring, alienating, stressful.

The truth is, I don't have to fix everything, including myself.  In fact, I have to fix nothing.  The yoke should be easy, and the burden light, not the opposite.  Funny how fighting to take off burdens becomes a burden in itself.

But I don't want to dwell on the principles, I want to talk about the specifics in this case.  I am laying down my arms.  I have misunderstood the militaristic imagery of the Bible in my own way.  I have realized that I can't be any kind of hard-minded.  This includes how I think of myself.  I am shedding the Holy Knight's armor for the friar's habit.  I no longer want to be the warrior monk, not even the standoffish Ranger exuding a watchful quiet that whispers of latent danger.  I want to be Brother Elias and Lawrence.  Bombadil.  Unaffected by the churning of the world. 

I don't mean to close myself off to the world, but to approach it differently.  I had become so focused on defending my flock that I lost sight of the fact that the flock isn't in any real danger.  Not circumstantially, but existentially, catagorically.  They are safe because they have been removed from the possibility of harm.

I love the epic story so much, it's easy to cast myself in that light.  But the truth is, the danger has been eliminated.  Truthfully, there never was any real danger.  God has always been in control, nothing occurs outside his will, and even the most dastardly schemes to do harm are woven back beyond impotence to actually work good and the will of the Father.  This is the Gospel.  The world is restored.

The people I most admire overcame terrible circumstances and even walked into horrific death, not as steely gladiators, afraid of nothing, but as simple people so convinced that the world had been set right that even their present suffering was not a blip on their radar.

This is who I want to be.  And I can't do that with my fist clenched and my fangs bared.  So I'm laying down my guard, laying down my weapons.  I'm sure there is a place for those feelings, but I can't use them right now.  They are too tainted, carry too much possibility of consuming me.  So while I may still feel those urges, I am offering myself up to a new perspective and can only pray that I do not go the way of Mendoza in the Mission.  I want to be a man of peace.

What this means for me is that I will not associate myself with or flood myself with images of fighting.  I will not style myself that way any more.  My physical training will shift: rather than preparing to face the foe, to be ready to snatch the helpless from the jaws of the beast, I will move out of joy and celebration.  I will look for and acknowledge the good.  I am choosing a path of peace...not pacifism, but understanding conflict, it's roots, and moving beyond it.  I have to learn to let God fight for me and not the other way around.  I think I'll find that there will be no fight to have because all the variables are in God's control.

I'm sure this makes little sense and is far too internal to be of much use to anyone else.  But this is the key to my cage.  I'm opening the door and walking out to find it was never locked.