Seeing People

While introducing a song recently, the radio guy talked about someone (the artist, perhaps?) whose heart has been captured by the reality of the humanity all around him. As a result, this fellow is intentional about really showing up more fully in his interactions -- not just with family and friends, but in gas stations, coffee shops, and all sorts of other everyday places. He learns the names of people working at places he frequents most regularly, as one little step forward in showing respect for their individuality and perhaps even getting to know them a bit along the way. He described seeing those around him more as people now, "not as if they were props in a movie about me." That is a great perspective, and an example I want to follow.

Encountering Nature, Part 2: Mutual Threat

The school where I taught was mostly surrounded by fields with cows and horses, so it wasn't entirely uncommon for the critters of nature to find their way onto the grounds. And, because I was the science teacher, people tended to bring them to me, figuring that science teachers like such things. (I had a different perspective -- but it's the thought that counts.) One of the biggest, hairiest spiders I've ever seen (other than tarantulas) was bottled up on my desk one day. Another time, someone excitedly yelled for me to come, so I went running -- into a small room where he'd found a black widow. There were a few rodents, a bat which had taken up residence on a back wall, and various other creepy-crawlies during my years there.

I'm a bit squeamish, mostly because I really don't like being surprised and the little buggers are sneaky. Still, I know lots of good reasons to appreciate these animals, and really didn't mind them too much under reasonably controlled circumstances. I even took a field trip where I intentionally set an example for my students by holding the animals handed to me -- not just a bird, but also a tarantula, a Madagascar hissing cockroach, and some rather large snakes.

Fast-forward to the present...

I returned home and suddenly noticed this at our porch:

After a few moments of "Auugggh! Snake!" I recovered my senses and approached.

Yes, this was indeed a snake, but I reminded myself he's just a little guy, and not really hazardous. These ones tend to respond cautiously to the world around them, slithering away from perceived threats rather than attacking. And really, even an attack isn't much of an issue for a me-sized mammal. In fact, I eventually decided that he was small enough to be non-threatening while still big enough that his back half was a decent distance from his mouth, so I took a deep breath and reached out to touch him. True to his species, he quickly slipped into that cement crack, out of sight.

Fear faced and disaster avoided... right?

Except that the place his slipped into is a snake-sized crack where the steps have shifted a little bit away from the porch as the ground has settled. And when I came out of the house a little later, I found that he'd returned to that same spot to sun himself, as snakes do.

He slid back behind the steps when he decided I was too close again.

...and then came out yet again awhile later.

The snake rustles noticeably as he drops back into the soil and dried leaves which have slipped into that crack and accumulated there, so it sounds like a much bigger creature, or even (to my active imagination) like a wild snake party back there. Unfortunately, I really can't see much from any angle:

It's just a snake.

Just a harmless little garden snake.

And he's more frightened of me than I am of him.

But I still wish he were not hanging out at our front porch.

Encountering Nature, Part 1: Mountains

When I was a kid, our house was surrounded by trees. Not a few trees, nor an orchard of trees, but entire forests of trees. I spent many hours walking through the forest with my collie dog, Shadow. More of a city dweller now, and planted in a desert rather than a rain forest, nature still draws me.

I drove to Evanston and back yesterday, and admired the mountains. They stand bold and sturdy against the sky, colors reflecting the season they're in, shaped slowly by the forces of nature.

"I lift up my eyes to the hills --

where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,

the Maker of heaven and earth."

(Psalm 121:1-2)

Meaningful Space

I have an office at home now, which is awesome. It is pleasant space, intentionally created. I'm not very artsy, not very design-oriented. But the process of moving in here has been significant to me in pondering what is important and beneficial, both in "practical" terms and in the deeper parts of being human.

There are three sturdy, adjustable bookcases -- enough for the books which really "fit" in my office, without being so much that I'd try to put all of the other books in there, too. So the books I use are pretty much all within arm's reach, which is convenient.

These books represent significant influences in my life, people who have played a part in shaping my thoughts and my character. I haven't met most of the authors, of course, but have been changed in some way by many of them. Even more, they remind me of real-life people who have challenged and encouraged me in so many ways. As I work, the books around me stand to silently proclaim that none of us exists in a vacuum, none stands alone.

The bookshelves have other stuff on them, too, including a handmade doll, movie action figure, clay cup, stuffed bear, and several sculptures. They are touchable, holdable. Their value is far beyond monetary, far beyond mere intellectual ideas. These items represent significant people, a-ha experiences, and line-in-the-sand moments. All hold stories -- of hope, transformation, challenge, purpose, legacy, life, love. These are stories close to my heart, the kind that come to mind often in conversation, though not always spoken aloud.

There is a storage cabinet in the office, too, and I am trying really hard to figure out how to use it well. Office supplies are a potential source of constant clutter, which I'm trying to eliminate. But the stuff in here is actually useful and gets used, and I've narrowed it down to what truly belongs here. The biggest exception, of course, is the Dust Bunnies on the top shelf, who stand watch against excess clutter forming in their cabinet domain :)

The window is south-facing, so the sun streams in with the warmth of its light. In the winter, I will be able to see the dawn from the cozy warmth of this little room. The progression of the day is apparent through this window, too, a reminder of the passing of time, of the importance of each day -- and all the more clear as I look out into this neighborhood with its people whom I am still just beginning to get to know and love.

And, in my little home office, pretty much every day is Take Your Dog to Work Day. Once he's been fed and outside in the morning, Sirius naps awhile, usually settling nearby on the rug. He snores and twitches occasionally, and sometimes meanders to a new spot and walks in little circles to create a virtual little nest like his relatives in the wild. He doesn't do much, and I enjoy having him nearby. He doesn't have to be useful to be loved. None of us does.

Hopeful Signs of Order

We moved over to our new place a few weeks back. Getting my office set up -- mostly books! -- has been pretty high on my priorities list since we arrived. I ran into a bit of a problem, though, because the bookcases came with more shelves than hardware to hold them up.

I went to one of those big hardware stores, where I was met at the door by a friendly fellow who offered to help me find things. I need some of those little doohickeys that stick into holes and hold up bookshelves, I told him. Ah, yes, he said with a smile of recognition, and pointed to a distant spot. Look in aisle 17, about halfway back, on the left.

Seriously? There are about a bazillion aisles filled with shelves upon shelves of screws, light bulbs, lawn mowers, plants, appliances, doorbells, carpet, lumber, network cables, and everything in between. He could direct me not just to the proper department, but within arm's reach of the little doohickeys I sought? As it turns out, yes, he could.

We humans are complex creatures living in a complex world. Little shelf doohickeys are a small thing in the greater scheme of things, but that interaction brightened my day. Like handing a package to the UPS guy and tracking its journey -- across the country in just a matter of days on multiple vehicles and through various warehouses! -- the guy at the hardware store provided a wonderful reminder of often-unseen order, and in the process, nurtured hope.

And now my books are home, too :)

Memorial Day

When I was a kid, I wrote a patriotic poem and won an award. It was read at an event honoring military veterans, probably on Memorial Day. The title of the poem was something like "What Freedom Means to Me." It was a decent poem, I suppose. There was really only one thing missing -- I had no clue what I was talking about. My words were simply that -- nice, patriotic words set in rhythm and rhyme.

The poem was not written in disrespect, only ignorance. My strongest memory of that day is a sense of disconnect, recognizing that I really didn't understand why this group of old men had gathered, or why they were still thinking about long-past wars. I was missing something, and couldn't quite catch it.

Thirty years later, that day's experience stays with me. To remember, to memorialize -- these come from the same linguistic root, which speaks of being mindful. On this Memorial Day, nurtured by stories of hundreds of veterans, I am far more mind-full -- of veterans whose lives were lost in war, and of those many others whose lives have been forever changed. While I will never fully understand, I am far more connected now to such individuals as those who gathered in that old V.F.W. hall thirty years ago. I respect the experiences and stories which draw them together, and honor their memories of long-past wars.

Seeing Differently

"A life of total dedication to the truth also means a life of willingness to be personally challenged. The only way that we can be certain that our map of reality is valid is to expose it to the criticism and challenge of the other map-makers. Otherwise, we live in a closed system … rebreathing our own fetid air, more and more subject to delusion." (Scott Peck)


A friend approached me after an informal group lunch: "I don't know whether you realize what you just did." I thought back over the previous half hour or so of conversation among us, eventually landing on the (blatantly obvious, in retrospect) moments to which my friend was referring. And while I remembered quite clearly what had been said, I'd completely missed the hurt I had caused in the process.

Another time, a colleague called me up: "I'm working through a problem and I keep going in circles. Can you help me find my way through it?" I started asking questions to help me understand the problem at hand, and before I'd even gotten a solid handle on it, my friend had gained his own understanding and found his way through the problem. I've called him on occasion since that day, with similar intent and similar results -- because his assumptions are different from my own, the questions he asks open doors to discovering what is foundational and distinguishing what is not.

My current Sunday School class is an adventure to facilitate, because I never really know what will come up. We read a passage from the Bible, and then we talk about it -- listening first to the text and also to each other, making connections to other passages in scripture and to our lives, sifting both individually and together through what is brought up, seeking together to hear and understand each other and, through that process, seeking to hear and respond to God. Each voice brings something valuable to these conversations.

In all of these and more, I see folks in my life who see the world differently than I do. Such differences certainly contribute to confusion, sometimes to conflict. We muddle through interactions, wrestling with language and assumptions in our shared efforts to understand each other. We try -- not always successfully -- to speak our passions in ways respectful of others. Quite frankly, it can be a lot of work.

At the same time, such people are a safeguard against becoming entirely convinced of my own sometimes-faulty beliefs. They help me to see more clearly and more thoroughly as we first agree together to seek understanding without requiring unanimity. They let me know when my words land with too much force, and when I have danced around an issue rather than addressing it honestly. And by continuing to engage even when it's hard, we create respectful, hospitable space in which we can come together and interact authentically.

I am immensely grateful for the gift of such people in my life.

Thankful: Feeding the Dog

I fed Sirius this morning. He had been meandering about doing dog things as I had been meandering about doing person things. After awhile, he started watching me, attentive to each motion. When I looked back at him, he perked up. "Do you want some breakfast?" I asked. He cheerfully led me to his dish.

It is a simple stainless-steel bowl, smudged about here and there with dog slobber and bits of fur. In it, I placed a cup of simple brown kibble and some water, much like we've been doing twice a day for years.

And this -- those simple brown chunks in that simple metal bowl -- it was the best thing that had happened for him all morning. He followed me to the garage, to the kitchen, and back to where he is fed, head held high and arthritic bones doing a little dance. He was a happy dog.

Turns out, it was a pretty good start for my day, too -- the familiarity of the routine, the mutual understanding, the joy of giving. I am grateful for my dog, and for the simple things in life.