Saving everything

is an ambitious task for

my brain, so, forget.

-

Absurd downloading

is perhaps what we all do

inside, everyday.

-

Absurd downloading

haikus save me from really,

thinking, about it.

-

Apparently, four

millenniums are full now

on the internet.

-

After all that time,

still there is plenty of time for us

to download alone.

-

Downloading it all

is more than I intended

to do this morning

-

As it worked, he said

someday all will be hidden,

and I ignored that.

Filed under: Absurdity, Haikus

At Tara in this fateful hour,
I place all Heaven with its power,
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And the fire with all the strength it hath,
And the lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the wind with its swiftness along its path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the Earth with its starkness
All these I place
By God’s almighty help and grace
Between myself and the powers of darkness

Madeleine L’Engle is my hero. I’ve read her books over and over and they have strongly influenced me.  I named my first truck—my first safe place from which to explore the world—after her. When I fought with a close friend, the exchange of a Madeleine L’Engle book helped soothe feelings and continue on. Twenty-five years after I began reading her books, I still return to L’Engle’s concepts regularly in my own thinking and writing. This year, A Wrinkle in Time turns 50 years old. I want to write about what her work has meant to me.

At first it was the science that drew me in. Tessering, mitochondria, farandolae, chordates, and echinoderms are just a few words I first learned from L’Engle. I remember asking a librarian if a tesseract was real, and the kindly librarian finding me some basic physics books. In Wrinkle, Charles Wallace explained dimensions and mathematical squares to me. L’Engle also introduced me to a completely new use of words through echthroi, kairos, and kything. I first read the phrase “a suspension of disbelief” in a L’Engle novel.

L’Engle’s approach to science, not as a bunch of stuff to be memorized, but as concepts that effect our lives, fascinated me and showed me an entirely new way to engage with science.

But ultimately, it wasn’t the science of L’Engle that made the biggest impact on me. Instead, it is her compassionate treatment of the human condition that I still contemplate. Inside her stories she provided a safe place from which to begin exploring complicated and painful events, and our actions and reactions to these events.

Terrible things happen to lovable characters in L’Engle’s books: children lose limbs, loved ones die, fathers leave their children. One of the most horrific scenes I’ve ever read is in a Madeleine L’Engle book. At first it is a joyful, happy scene: children enjoying a carnival ride while the parents watch. But the scene shifts to complete horror as the ride malfunctions, going faster and faster, eventually bursting into flames, killing the children.

L’Engle doesn’t avoid terrible events. But she does provide her characters, and her readers, tools to deal with them. Wisdom comes from grandfathers and uncles, from mothers and sisters and wives. Pain isn’t denied, but it isn’t allowed to rule, either.

The characters are complex: clergymen bully retired pianists, beautiful young woman manipulate trusting young men, world leaders threaten nuclear war, brothers rape sisters. Again, without denying how complex the world is, a strong belief in people, in family, and in life is clear in L’Engle’s stories. The recurring themes of love, the importance of small actions, the acceptance of differences, and authenticity of her books hugely affected my thinking about these concepts.

This blog is about the ordinary contradictions of life, and Madeleine L’Engle wrote about many ordinary contradictions. The following example is from A Ring of Endless Light, as the two characters are talking about authenticity:

Were you thinking about you?

No.

But you were really being you?

Yes.

So that’s a contradiction, isn’t it? You weren’t thinking about yourself at all. You were completely thrown out of yourself in concentration on Basil. And yet you were really being you.

I leaned my head against Adam’s shoulder. “Much more than when I’m all replete with very me.”

His right hand drew my head more comfortably against his shoulder. “So, when we’re thinking consciously about ourselves, we’re less ourselves than when were not being self-centered.”

I loved discussions such as this one about how to be you, how to be authentic. The dialog and the ideas rang true with twelve-year-old me, and they still do today. As an adolescent, ideas such as how to be authentic, and was it okay to be you, were an incredible escape from the uniformity my middle-school culture demanded and I failed to produce.

The concept that has stayed with me the longest is what L’Engle refers to as caring about the fall of the sparrow. I’ve since learned that “the fall of the sparrow” is a biblical phrase, but L’Engle’s meaning isn’t quite the classic theology meaning. Her idea is this (from The Arm of the Starfish):

It was what he always said,” Adam choked out, “about the fall of the sparrow. . . . If you’re going to care about the fall of the sparrow you can’t pick and choose who’s going to be the sparrow. It’s everybody, and you’re stuck with it.

If we’re going to be compassionate human beings, we can’t pick and choose who we will be compassionate towards. I’ve thought about this concept over and over, applying it to events big and small. In my mind (I don’t know if L’Engle would have agreed with me), this concept applies to gay marriage, to endangered species, and to three-legged dogs, to give a few examples in a world of many. I do think there are limits to this concept, times when boundaries have to be placed. But the concept itself, and the framing of it within the book The Arm of the Starfish, touched me deeply.

L’Engle’s books, for all the terror, intrigue, and death, are greatly compassionate places. In world that struggles to be compassionate, her books are stars fighting against darkness.

All these I place
By God’s almighty help and grace
Between myself and the powers of darkness

Filed under: Existential, What I'm Reading

Photo Credit: bterrycompton

One day I walked into the garage bay that was the fire cache and I spooked a little bird that must have been locked inside the bay all night. The bird immediately flew towards the ceiling and I walked under it, so that the way was clear to the open bay door for it to fly out. I waved my hands and yelled, but the bird was much higher than I could reach, and it didn’t seem to get that freedom was just out that door.

In one of her books, Madeleine L’Engle talks about the fall of the sparrow. It is a biblical term, but in her book it means something slightly different from the interpretation my local theologian gives me. Here’s my paraphrase of L’Engle’s concept: if one claims to care about even the most mundane and common of creatures, one can’t pick and choose specific individuals to care about. This concept has fascinated me for years, and here I had a real, live sparrow to care about.

I tried to get the bird out using a broom, loud noises, and even a fan. I left it alone for a little while, hoping that in the peace, it would get itself out. I recruited the help of two men, both taller than I, and the three of us waved brooms and even a net in the air.

Years later I remember the sparrow in the fire cache when I go to Denver International Airport. Lots of sparrows appear to be trapped inside the airport. I don’t really understand how they got in, or what they eat once they are in, and I always feel bad for them. Although perhaps they are “city birds,” acclimated to eating junk-food crumbs, happy to be out of sight of raptors, inspiring poems such as this one by Brian Doyle.

In the fire cache, as I’m really beginning to despair–I mean, what else can we do to get this bird out of here–something finally clicks, and it flies out into the late afternoon sun.

Filed under: Uncategorized

Image Credit: Vectorportal

Walking to my  car in downtown Knoxville, a red-tailed hawk falls out of the sky, landing on the sidewalk less than three feet in front of me. For a moment I can only stare at the bird, checking in with myself–am I certain that I’m awake? Reality confirmed, I size up the bird–it is a big bird and it is mad. Or scared, more likely, but it’s not going to let me get any closer. Obviously hurt, I figure it probably flew into some power lines, broke a wing, and crashed, almost on top of my head. Eventually I call a few friends, asking what they do when raptors crash in front of them, then call the Department of Wildlife.

Living in Tucson, Arizona, I’m trying a past-life regression, and I’m lying on a couch, slightly uncertain about the entire experience. After being in what feels like a meditative state for about an hour, I wake up, remembering only one image. A raven, feet grasping a branch, slowing twirling around the branch, the same way a trapeze artist does. Slowly, gracefully, clearly under control, and with a great sense of joy it goes around and around the branch. In its Edgar Allen Poe voice (of course), the raven says “Play. You must play.”

Sleeping on the wood porch of the small cabin my grandfather built in the Wasatch Mountains. It’s a perfect summer night, impossible to miss Scorpio and Sagittarius to the south, the Corona Borealis and the Pleiades up there somewhere, but hidden behind the roof and the trees. Every single time I climb into my sleeping bag it makes me happy and I always wonder if that feeling will ever wear off, but the feeling is still with me tonight as I burrow deep into my bag, closing up the mouth so that everything is covered except my eyes. I sleep the deep sleep that only happens outside, just barely aware of the faint, downslope breezes moving across my face.

I dream a bald eagle is watching me, sitting on one of the outdoor light fixtures, turning its head in that eagle-specific way. For some reason, instead of the normal bald eagle white head, this eagle’s head is neon pink.

Running late for work one morning, if I don’t leave soon I’ll really be late. The back door is open so the dogs can go out if they wish, but one dog is lying on the couch and the other dog is with me in the kitchen, hoping I drop some of the lunch I’m making. I’m deep in thought about being late and lunch and chores that must get done now, fast, when a rhythmic tapping sound enters my consciousness. I realize I’ve been hearing the sound for a few seconds but am just now aware of it. Too strange to ignore, I go into the dining room and find that a large raven has come in the back door and the tapping sound is it hopping around on the wood floor.

Ravens are big birds, with long, curved beaks. At least twelve thoughts simultaneously jump into my brain, a few thoughts about the fact that if the dogs scare this bird into flight then I will never get it out of my cathedral ceilings,  some thoughts calmly musing about the symbolic significance of a raven, my playful raven, coming into my house, and other thoughts reminding me that I was still late and really didn’t have time to deal with a raven in the house right now. Could we do this later? my concerned-about-being-on-time brain wanted to know.

Clearly not.

In a decisive action I put the dogs outside and shut the door, only to realize that now I’m inside with a raven and perhaps that wasn’t the best decisive action. I’m beginning to suspect this raven is also hurt; otherwise wouldn’t it be flying? Armed with a broom, I open the back door and get the raven outside, and unfortunately right into the mouth of my white dog. Instantly picturing a horrible eye-pecking scene I try my best to get the dog to drop the raven, but I also notice what an interesting contrast my white-white dog and the black-black raven make. Luckily, the dog is as startled to find a raven in her mouth as I was to find a raven in my house, and she lets go, and the raven runs under my shed.

I put the dogs in the house, and am relieved that all the animals are now on the appropriate sides of the walls.

Walking over to the shed, I bend over and see black, beady eyes staring out at me. At this point I’m late, and “there was a raven in my house” is about as good of an excuse as dogs and homework. But now there is a raven under my shed, inside a fenced yard. The fence is only four feet tall, generally not a problem for flying creatures, but I’m seriously questioning the skills of this bird.

I try calling my trusty wildlife friend, but she isn’t answering her phone. After a few attempts to get the raven out from under the shed, I reason that the bird is at least outside, and I make a trail of bread crumbs from under the shed to the gate of the fence, which I leave open.

That’s all I can do for you, I tell the raven, hating the fact that I can’t do more, and go about my day.

Filed under: Absurdity, Emotions, Existential, Urban Wilderness

Summer 1998, Montana fire season. We’re high in the Bitterroots, after crossing the Selway River that morning. The storm has been brewing visibly for about four hours, clouds getting puffier and puffier with the July sun and we’ve just made the call to get down and return to camp–fast. Having packed up our stuff, Jen starts to take one last weather reading before heading down.

That was when the downdrafts started. Within five minutes, the Kestral measured first a twenty mile-per-hour gust, and then a thirty-five mile-per-hour gust. “Let’s go!” Jen, our lead, yells over the wind. As the least experienced, I was in the middle of our three-person line, moving down the steep slope as fast as possible. Stepping off a rock, I turn and grab a ponderosa sapling for support; simultaneously throwing some words towards Suzy, “We always have to leave just when it’s getting exciting!” She laughs and follows, using the same tiny tree for balance that I had used.

I love approaching storms. Yesterday as I walked, there were whitecaps on the lake and I could feel the temperature dropping. To the north: blue skies and cirrus clouds; to the south: ominous, gray snow clouds. The dogs checked in a little more often than usual, giving me slightly uneasy gazes; as they walked into the wind their ears’ were blown back on their heads. I was exhilarated.

I love the anticipation, the heightened awareness, the sense of urgency that blows in before a storm. With the dropping temperatures and increasing winds my excitement level rises and my focus sharpens. I like preparing, battening down the hatches, making sure all the windows are shut, the house is secure. I like being on the edge between the calm and the storm.

I also love approaching storms in the metaphorical sense. When there is a big project or problem I go into high gear. I imagine myself pushing and pulling wooden crates, a huge stack of them, with all my might. I get them into place, lining up the corners, securing with tie-downs and nail-guns. Everything cleanly in its place. I single-mindedly work on the project, giving it my entire focus, sometimes at the expense of eating and sleeping.

I am exhilarated.

During this time I often complain about how busy I am, how much reading or writing or housework I would be doing if I wasn’t giving the project so much energy. At the time I mean it–I envision myself curled up in my chair, reading scholarly journals at a leisurely pace. I would accomplish so much, I think, if it wasn’t for ________. 

But then I finish the project. For a few moments, perhaps even a day, I’m relieved and think I really will turn my attention to smaller, more mundane tasks. No longer summoned by the storm, my energy is quickly waning though, and soon I feel let down. I miss the project and the pressure. I miss the urgency and the need for preparation. Those things I thought I would do if I had time–the scholarly journals–suddenly aren’t as interesting or worthwhile.

I begin searching for another storm.

Filed under: Emotions, Existential, Motivation