Recycling

I have a friend who collects aluminum cans.  Not to keep them, but to recycle.  She's the one at picnics trying to grab all the cans before they get put into the trash, and if folks move to fast for her to do that, she'll pull them out of the trash.  She is a sweet soul, not a militant can hoarder.  Some folks passionate about their various causes do harm to others in the process, and I wonder sometimes if perhaps they care more about having a cause than about the cause itself, but this friend isn't like that.  She does her thing kindly, gently, persistently.  She's not obnoxious as she chides us for throwing away cans.  She just has a thing about recycling.

After years of her kind and persistent influence, I finally added to our home a wastebasket that is dedicated to aluminum cans.  We have gradually gathered them and now have several bags taking up space in our garage.

In an odd way, our little recycling basket has come to matter to me.  Seeing it reminds me of little things that add up.  Like dust, the cans are small and accumulate somewhat slowly, but this slow accumulation adds up to something significant over time.  I think of the things in my life that I don't want to keep around -- mostly habits and behaviors that I am tempted to justify as small and insignificant, but which, when taken together, add up to a kind of character that I don't want to have.  The excuse that "it's just a little thing" doesn't work.

Our basket of cans matters to me, too, because these cans are to be recycled rather than just thrown out.  What could simply become troublesome waste is instead able to serve a purpose, being re-formed into something good.  Aluminum cans can be "redeemed," and so can the broken-down, used-up, troublesome waste in the rest of life.

So, I signed up for recycling.  They'll take cans, papers, cardboards, and plastics -- in other words, most of the junk that fills up our trash during much of the year.  This may be an "eco-conscious decision," and I am glad to be helping out the environment.  But it is also a symbolic decision, representing deeper realities of being human.

I'm looking forward to recycling.

Running Away

Evan Ratliff as himself

We live in a great big world, which should make it pretty easy to disappear.  Still, there are a lot of connections in this world of ours, which makes it a lot more difficult.  How hard would it be to vanish in this age of so many electronic tools and so much electronic communication?

In August 2009, author Evan Ratliff partnered with Wired.com on a contest in which Ratliff would try to disappear for thirty days and anyone interested would try to find him.  The goal wasn't just to remain hidden, but to do so while still staying engaged in some of his usual activities, including a degree of online presence.  He wrote a brief account of the chase, published here.

Ratliff in disguise at a soccer game

The digital communications part is worthwhile, though this situation was skewed by a number of factors, like promising to keep some significant habits and enticing a large crowd of people to find him.  So... something to think about, but not what I find most interesting, and it's not what I'm talking about here.

For me, anyway, Ratliff's experiment speaks more to relationships than to technology.

One part of this -- He wrote about trying to "reinvent" himself, even for just a short time, seeing if he can leave the past behind and start over.  He wasn't alone in this line of thinking, as he received notes from strangers asking about the experience.  Some were intrigued as they pondered the idea of starting over in their own lives, while others were trying to understand after being "left behind" in some way by a loved one.

That got me thinking.  It is normal to wish for a new beginning, a fresh start in an attempt to escape past mistakes and old regrets.  Yet simply wishing things had been different does not make it so.  Leaving the situation without dealing with the issue means carrying the mistake forward into what may otherwise have been a fresh start.*

The idea of quietly disappearing has some understandable appeal.  Still, when it comes down to wishing for a clean slate because of regrets, I think there is a way which is usually slower, often more difficult, and consistently better -- the way of honestly acknowledging what has happened and naming the regrets, seeking forgiveness where needed, forgiving where needed, recognizing limits, determining priorities, establishing healthy boundaries, and figuring out how to move forward from there.

This can be a daunting task.  But it's got to be better than living with one's soul on the run.

*There are sometimes issues of safety which must be addressed wisely and decisively.

Lemonade Stand

I was on my way out of the house yesterday morning, heading for a meeting.  The neighborhood was very quiet -- no motion, no voices, not even a breeze.  As I put things into my car, though, a little boy approached and started talking.  He was probably around three or four years old.  It took a few tries to understand him, but we were both persistent and eventually I discovered that he had a small table set up in front of his nearby house to sell lemonade for twenty-five cents.  He was asking if I'd like some.

Well, no, not really.  It was kind of early in the day for lemonade, not yet hot enough to make it really refreshing.  I wasn't thirsty.  I wasn't craving lemonade.  I had somewhere to go.  And I had just brushed my teeth.

But sometimes those things don't matter so much.

I engaged the child in conversation, learning his name and finding out (to my relief) that he was not entirely alone -- his brother was across the street by their house.  I asked the young one to retrieve a lemonade for me while I dug around looking for a quarter.

A cup of lemonade was not worth twenty-five cents to me on that morning.  But this little boy?  He brought his whole little self over to where I was and engaged in conversation.  He was intentional, purposeful, friendly.  He took appropriate risks.  When his sales plans weren't working out very well, he adapted.  A simple conversation with him was a lovely start to my day.  I am glad he lives in my neighborhood.  With all of that, it was worth every penny.

Clutter

"Clutter" is a great word, descending linguistically from clotter -- "to form clots, to heap on." Go further back in history and it comes from the German Klotz, from which we get klutz.

Doesn't that just make sense?  Clutter in the surroundings is like lumps that form in awkward, perhaps even dangerous, places, creating blockages that interfere with movement.  It becomes harder to move forward, harder to be flexible.

And it's not just about physical space.  Something similar happens in the mind and in the soul.  Without regular sorting of thoughts, events, and so forth, figurative masses form that get in the way.  It becomes more difficult to think clearly, to be fully present, to experience life fully.

Tomorrow is Sunday.  We'll go to church, spend time with people we love, take naps, read.  Along the way, we'll find our souls restored.  Sabbath is a gift, a day of blessed de-cluttering, and I am grateful.

Resistance

We had a sudden and rather spectacular windstorm the other day.  The wind picked up, the roof began to creak loudly, and I went to the sliding glass door to see if there were any cows flying by.  Nope, no cows.  Just moments later, the wind settled down to a reasonable level and I headed back to the task I'd been engaged in.  That's about the time a handful of boys from our neighborhood showed up on our doorstep.  "Your fence fell over!"

Sure enough -- a 4x4 post snapped and we had a sixteen-foot-wide opening between our back lawn and the rest of the neighborhood.  Sixteen feet!  Drat.

Sirius is our aging Labrador retriever, and he's a pretty good dog, but he's not that good.  It was apparent that where I saw a gaping hole, he saw The Gateway to Big Adventure.  He wanted to go outside, often.  And I went with him, every time.  He would casually stroll toward the hole in the fence, I would bring him back, we would go inside, he would beg to go back out, and we would repeat the whole thing.  I got tired of that routine pretty quickly.

So... once I realized it will take a little while to get the fence rebuilt, I bought a tie-down cable.  We've been getting some beautiful weather, after all, so I wanted to give him more freedom to enjoy the outdoors, and to give me more freedom to not watch him every moment of it.  It's a long cable, giving the dog twenty feet in each direction.  I clipped him to it and sent him outside.  I was happy.  Sirius was happy.  Everyone was happy.

But not for long.  As Sirius started meandering onto the lawn, his rear foot landed on the cable so that when he leaned into the next step, it tugged on his collar.  He stopped, looking back toward me with his big brown eyes, seeming to wonder why I'd so unfairly limited his freedom.

I hadn't, of course.  The only thing holding the dog back at that point was the dog stepping on his own leash.  Accustomed to the limits of the leash, he assumed that any resistance he met came from me.

Made me think of how we respond as people sometimes -- making false steps and assuming the resulting resistance comes from another source, mistaking self-imposed limits for insurmountable rules, shortening our reach unnecessarily, staying too close to "home" because of little tugs backwards.

It is good to live within appropriate limits.  It's sad, though, to live within false ones of our own foolish construction.

Mowing the Lawn

I like mowing the lawn. There are days when I'd rather be doing something else, of course, but I can usually appreciate lawn time.  I like being outside, being active. I like the smell of fresh-cut grass. Most of all, I like the sense of order in a world that sometimes feels chaotic.

It's just the lawn, and all I'm really doing is making the grass shorter.  Even so, I like mowing the lawn.

Being Heard

" Being heard is so close to being loved that,

for the average person,

 they are nearly indistinguishable. "
-- David Augsburger

Sometimes I have worthwhile perspectives and am able to communicate them effectively.  Other times I flounder in ways that make even well-developed thoughts inaccessible to others.  I am grateful for those who listen well, seeking understanding before concluding and certainly before responding.

I've been thinking for months about Augsburger's statement about being heard, and it still has weight.  To listen well is an act of grace.  It communicates that there is room for error, that one's value is inherent in his or her personhood and exists separate from merit.

I am immensely grateful for people in my life who listen well.

I am blessed.

Citizens

My friend Chris was one of 193 people to take the oath of citizenship yesterday in Salt Lake City.  I was honored to be invited and pleased to attend.  The United States has become Chris's home.  She has put down roots here, become established in home and relationships, given of her time and energy to help others.  The "American" name fits, and I trust she will represent it well.

Naturalization ceremonies are scheduled monthly.  I have attended (I think) five of them over the past eight-ish years.  In many ways, it is pretty much the same every time -- location, schedule, sequence of events, and so forth.  It would be easy, I suppose, to see it as simply routine proceedings, and so I am particularly appreciative of the presiding judge.  Each time, he has communicated great respect for the process and for the people involved.  His demeanor and words remind us that each one of the 193 people is unique, with a unique and worthwhile story.  He honors their histories and their countries of origin.

 

The judge has a story of his own, too.  He has shared pieces of it -- enough to connect his story to the others, always stopping well short of allowing his own story to take center stage.  I am glad that he focuses on others.  At the same time, I would love to just sit with him awhile and hear his story, too.

Throughout the ceremony, and even before it begins, there is a consistent theme of gratitude for those who have served in the military.  Honor is given, recognizing the significance of their sacrifices for our country.  As I sat and listened to words like "armed forces" and "military" and "those who served," I recognized and honored them collectively.  More than that, though, I thought of individuals -- people like Eric, Perry, Mr. B, Mark, Gene, Dan, Ernie, Bruce, Wil, Ryan, Grandpa J, Jeff, Scott, and many others.  I thought of their stories, their families, their commitment.  We are blessed to have such people among us.

I am grateful.