Sleep Debt Repaid

I woke at 8 am a little surprised at the time. If I feel asleep at 10 or 10:30, I had slept more than nine hours. Nine hours plus is pretty rare for me, but it has a consistent effect: I have noticeably more energy and my mood is bumped up. I'm happier. Sleep debt is a real phenomenon and very common. I have a vague recollection of animal research in which sleep time is manipulated. When animals are allowed to sleep to satisfaction they are healthier and live longer. Sleep is good for us; it makes the waking hours fuller, richer, and more vibrant. Unfortunately, we tend to be suspicious of those who sleep long hours. Sleep is subtly equated with laziness. Oppositely, getting by on little sleep is vaguely heroic. You can imagine two guys bragging about who gets less sleep. This slightly warped value system might be a consequence of the American work ethic. Work is good, and working hard is commendable. I buy all that, but then we make the mistake of concluding that sleep takes away from productively living. That's the error that needs correcting. Instead, let's sleep well so that we can work well, as well as enjoy the waking hours that are non-work. People, pay down your debt.

Sociology of the DMV

I allocated time before a 12:30 conference call for a trip to the DMV. The main purpose was to renew my car registration, which could have been handled by mail or online, but I had a secondary purpose of reactivating my cryptic vanity plate, MIQL. Frustration was instantaneous. When I arrived the parking lot was full and a line of at least 20 people stretched out the entrance. Oh, the perennial joys of the DMV. Very little had changed since I got my driver license in 1973. But you adapt: When you go to the DMV you expect inefficient bureaucracy, impersonal treatment, insufficient documentation, and waiting, waiting, waiting. When you wait, whether in a shuffling queue or seated in molded plastic, you wait with the masses. The word "masses" feels unkind, but to me this is the immediate impression. There are so many people--people who are different from those who live and work in our enclaves. Many of our fellow citizens are grossly overweight, or are heavily pierced and tattooed, or speak a different language, or speak English differently. Yet to visit the DMV is to be reminded that we are part of a big world peopled in variety. My small heart may not be up to the challenge of recognizing the dignity in all. Fortunately, there is One who does, and who loves each one deeply and personally.

Conservation of Recreation

One of the strange features of life is that we often neglect the forms of recreation that bring us great enjoyment. We love to read, but do so infrequently. Music offers unique pleasure, but our CDs gather dust. Why? Not enough time, maybe--or perhaps it's a simple matter of will. The trivial decision to open a book and begin reading is never urgent. Unlike watching TV, its gratifications are not immediate. Those of us who live close to the beach tell ourselves that we should go more often, but we don't. Worse, I think, is the neglect of skillful recreation--skiing, tennis, backpacking, or innumerable other activities--that we once pursued but later let fade into the past, the erstwhile years of our life stories. After a while we get stale, lose confidence, and doubt whether we can ever take up that pursuit again. In the 90s, we used to sail the 30 foot Shields keelboats that were part of the UCI fleet. Then (for reasons that are somewhat understandable) we stopped sailing for about a decade. Last summer, I was rated again on the smaller 14-foot Capri; today, I joined the Sailing Club. What I take away is this: The natural course of our avocations is that we eventually neglect them. We should instead conserve our pursuits, so that over the span of our life we can enjoy what we know and love. That way each passing year can bring rewards of enjoyment that might even compound over time.

The LA Freeway

The LA freeway is not a single highway but a vast network of multi-lane arteries, flyovers, and interchanges. It's both a marvel of engineering and a curse of living in the Southland. Repeating yesterday's trek, I fought my way this morning up the 405 to the clinic in Santa Monica. Travel time vastly exceeded clinic time. The drive itself was maddening. The whole concept of a freeway is to go fast, but crawling traffic ironically hems in drivers in a hurry (which is everyone). Even the name, free + way, is a bit of a mockery, much like McDonalds "McCafe" expresso drinks, which are laughably touted to be hand-crafted coffeehouse beverages. Slow progress is not really the worst part. It's actually the constant gas/brake/gas/brake mile after tense mile. Caution is needed. Each driver steers a ton or so of metal and glass with low tolerances front and back, side to side. Nobody wants a fender-bender, as much to avoid the headaches of body shop repairs, insurance claims, and rising premiums as bodily injury. Am I just in a bad mood? Not really--the day was good despite the northward leg. With a U2 CD playing loud enough to risk cochlear damage, the return trip was close to sublime.

Santa Monica Boulevard

I'm looking toward the ocean, down Santa Monica Boulevard from the 6th floor suite of Premiere Oncology. The ocean, a mile or two away, is visible though obscured by fog. Next to me, the IV pump has just finished infusing my first dose of Heat Shock Protein Inhibitor (HSP90), the anti-cancer drug now being tested for efficacy, side effects, and proper dosing. I am thankful to be in the clinical trial. For different reasons, rocker Sheryl Crow was pleased, too, when she saw the sun coming up over Santa Monica Boulevard. She just wanted to "have some fun," presumably assisted by a "beer buzz" in the morning. My joy is chemically-assisted in a way, not by alcohol but by the HSP90 inhibitor. It's anticipatory, not immediate. As the drug courses through my vasculature, I can't predict its effects with any certainty, but I'm told the clinic has been getting good results. That is a happy prospect. Meanwhile, there is plenty of work to do before the next scan. And like Sheryl Crow, I am not opposed to having some fun, too. Not opposed in the least.

When the Day Arrives

Days we anticipate from afar seem like they're never going to arrive. Whether it's a wedding day, a graduation, or a retirement, long-awaited events feel like fantasies. It's a little like that today. Today is exam day for certified lactation consultants. Stephanie is reviewing her notes at the dining room table and will leave for the Irvine Hilton in half an hour with sharpened pencils, back-up ID, and lunch money. I'm trying to be quiet as I sit on the floor typing and sipping coffee. The exam is offered only once a year all over the world: Stephanie says they "lock the doors" at 9 am. This is serious! It's important, obviously, but it also has the quality of unreality. I suppose it's a credit to the human imagination that we latch on to events even though they feel like make-believe. It's what happens when we sign up for a half-marathon or book travel for a special vacation. We organize our efforts so that when the day finally arrives we are ready, but also a little surprised that the day has indeed come. Those special days become mileposts for our lives, but in anticipation they seem more like mirages.

Believing the Impossible

Karl Clauson, a visiting speaker at our church, raced the 1000 mile Iditarod when he was only a teenager in the 1970s. Just before race start in Anchorage, when the dog teams were frenzied with excitement, Karl's father pulled him aside for some parting words. The father said that he had purchased his airline ticket to Nome, the race terminus, and would meet Karl at the finish line in 15 days. Karl took the statement more as a plan than an affirmation of confidence. Not until two years after the race, which he completed, did he realize that there was a significant chance he might not have finished. Karl then tied into a familiar verse from Genesis, "Abraham believe God, and it was credited to him as righteousness." What Abraham believed was God's promise that he would be "Father of a Multitude," which is what "Abraham" means. This is extraordinary enough, but it becomes rationally incredible when compared against the facts of Abraham's and Sarah's advanced age. Abraham believed anyway. His belief was not only in God's truthfulness and power, but in what God would do for him, personally—namely, the fulfillment of dreams that go way beyond what is conceivable. The impossible was, for Abraham and Sarah, impossibly good.

Is a Clean Car Progress?

It's probably a good thing that mundane chores, which are so obviously mere maintenance, can produce what feels like real progress. In this universe, the second law of thermodynamics applies. Entropy happens, which means that whatever was clean and functional will inevitably sully and break down. My car is really dirty now—embarrassingly so. For some funny reason, the application of soap suds, rinse water, and a chamois cloth can, through their effects, make me happy. Granted, it's all Sisyphean. Sisyphus is the guy who rolled the big rock up the hill only to watch it roll back down again. His efforts are the emblem of futility. It's like making your bed, which some people say is pointless because you'll just wreck it again in a few hours. Logical, maybe, but everyone who has had the pleasure of climbing into a made bed (especially with clean sheets) knows that the excuse doesn't work. Maybe Sisyphus himself took pride in getting the rock to the hilltop even though the accomplishment would soon be nullified. That's why on this sunny California Saturday, I will fill the wash bucket with warm soapy water in anticipation of driving a clean car again. The pleasure, however temporary, is real.

Right On The Century

Today is my 100th post. This morning also marked the attainment of a major goal for the year: To bring my weight down to 160, a drop of close to 20 pounds. It took a while. Reaching 160, my high school weight, was not accomplished in the first couple of tries. It took longer than I want to admit. But this time a determined push, combined with daily runs that have now totaled 100 straight days, brought success. I'm celebrating with a carbohydrate-packed scone! It's amazing to me that I reached this point exactly on the century mark, the hundredth posting of Century Hypothesis. Honestly, I did not realize that today is day 100 until I logged on. So, prima facie, we have confirmation of the hypothesis: That 100 instances of commitment to a difficult goal, while never making us expert or world class, can bring significant success. The hypothesis implies that getting good (though not great) is easier than we think (though not easy). That's the formula: 100 instances, 100 assertions of commitment. That's not asking too much, and the possible rewards are worth every installment of effort.

Less Sick

It's amazing to feel the resurgence of health after a miserable dip of illness. This time it was just a cold--or I should say is a cold, because it's there still. But yesterday was worse than today, which is good. The body somehow knows its enemy and fights back with antibodies, neutrophils, and macrophages--or whatever the multi-taxonomic legions of fighter cells and molecules are called. It's all crazily cool, and I am thankful. Being sick makes the body ache, rasp, gag, and swoon; almost inevitably, emotions tank, too. Plus sometimes you get an irrational sense that the state of illness is permanent. But after you hit bottom and the upswing begins, life is pretty chill again. The pleasures of music, food, and company seem richer than you remember them. In college, I studied biology and so I know about codons, transcription, and protein folding, but when it comes to the body's ability to confront bacteria, viruses, and whatnot—and to fight back smartly—the chain of micro-events seems mostly mysterious and not a little miraculous. Yes, miraculous. Some might chafe, but I think the descriptor is not at all misplaced.

Semi-Down Days

I have things to do today, but nothing too pressing. On my calendar is a single meeting--it's important, but requires no advance prep, and I don't have to lead it. The second gig is a short photo shoot with a graduate student. I applied for and won a campus grant to develop an online Master's degree program; the grant will fund the grad student next year to help me with the work. So today is not a quite a down day, it's "semi-down." There's plenty on the short term agenda, and so I won't squander hours spinning in my chair and eating sugary peanuts. But if tasks that could be done today happen to spill over to tomorrow or the next day, no one will worry. Semi-down days are good for catching up and for anticipatory spadework that can prevent deadline panics. Days like these also yield emotional dividends because stress levels can drift downward to health-sustaining levels. The absence of a hurry-up mentality means more time for social banter and the chance of an unplanned, but real, personal connection. Semi-down days are unlikely to become banner days, but that's just fine. I'm ready for semi-down. I'm looking forward to it.

Ketogenic

Dr. Atkins advocated a weight-loss diet that became famous not only because it was effective, but also because it was also fantastically counterintuitive. Put crudely, Atkins promoted eating fat to lose fat. His argument was that feared dietary fat is not the main culprit in weight gain; rather, it is overconsumption of calories. A caloric surfeit of carbohydrates, not fat, is the riskier dietary imbalance. Carbohydrates wreak havoc with insulin control and are easily converted to body fat. Blood sugar spikes lead to subsequent crashes, which can prompt over-eating. Atkins understood that carbs, especially the "empty" carbs found in starchy foods—breads, pastas, potatoes, desserts—were the nutritional baddies. Take away carbs and what you have left are fats and proteins. Proteins are good, though often maligned; fats can be good or bad, depending on the type. If you reduce carbs and go with proteins and fats, your physiology changes, which is what interested Atkins. Once your body gets used to burning dietary fats, it is primed to burn body fat is well. One by-product is elevated levels of blood ketones. They can make you feel woozy and, I understand, produce a chemical scent on breath. So if my breath smells bad, take note: It's the ketones.

Duffy Boats

The admonition, "Don't knock it until you've tried it" is well worth heeding. For me, it applies to Duffy boats. In appearance, Duffys are the most un-cool boats you've ever seen. They are stubby little boxes that are almost as tall as they are long. Their tops are flat canvas canopies, and the sides are either open or are draped in transparent plastic with zippered openings. Ugly, in my opinion. Also, they are slow. With electric motors that are barely audible, the Duffy is built for an easy cruise over quiet waters, gondola-style. The inside of a Duffy consists of bench seating along both sides and ends, with tables down the middle. Now the table is worth some comment: It has four wells for wine bottles, and plenty of space for sliced cheese, fresh fruit, and coconut shrimp. This is a hint that a reconceptualization is in order. The point of a Duffy is not to look good, it's to feel good with friends. It's designed not to arrive in style, but for traveling amid laughing, loving friends. I was wrong to diss the funny-looking Duffy--not that I think it's cool, you understand. But for the pleasure it affords on a summer evening over the calm waters of Newport Harbor, it has my respect.

Ultimate Reality

Last night I saw a winner of a movie, Inception, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and directed by Christopher Nolan. The subject of the film, from one angle, is the distinction between reality and fantasy--and the often terrible difficulty we have distinguishing between the two. In Inception, this distinction concerns dreaming and wakeful consciousness in the "real world." The plot works because it latches onto common experience: Dreams can seem powerfully real. Indeed, dreams may be real in their own way. They are widely believed (thanks to Freud) to give life to ideas and struggles that are taboo or too painful to contemplate while awake. The characters in Inception must struggle to distinguish what's real from dreamlike fantasies that include threatening agents from the unconscious. According to Nolan's ingenious plot, DiCaprio and others must work to separate dreams from reality for their own survival. The audience, too, must concentrate, which is half the fun. Even if the viewer succeeds, the plot closes with an element of nagging unambiguity, which is artfully rendered in the final frame of the movie. It's this: Is ultimate reality—the tangible experience of our waking lives—the real reality?

Why Round Numbers?

This morning I reached the 30,000 word mark on my manuscript. I felt this was worthy of celebration, even if only a prevocal "yay" in my left temporal lobe (the language center). Why should I feel good about passing what in base 10 is a round number. It's arbitrary, right? But I'm not the only one--we all do it. The couple who celebrates 50 years of marriage is feted for attaining their "golden" anniversary. The person who lives to 100 years is classified a "centenarian." I love round numbers--maybe more than most. I'm fascinated, for example, by psychology research showing that expertise in any domain is associated with 50,000 hours of serious engagement. Even the title of this blog, Century Hypothesis, cryptically invokes a beautifully round integer. Isn't it all so artificial? If the answer is yes, then do we conclude it must be silly? That would be a mistake. We long for the real and authentic experiences, and (I believe) find them in nature, transparent relationships, and elsewhere. Yet our categories of thought are fundamentally contrived. Semioticians learned a long time ago that words, and to some degree their referent objects, are arbitrary. So, too, is the significance we attach to round numbers. Yet round numbers—like so many conventions of culture—inspire, motivate, and help us to understand. And what's wrong with that?

Like a Chippewa Indian

I'm nearly at the 30,000 word mark in my book manuscript. The publisher spec'ed the book at 120,000 words, so I have a ways to go. With coffee in hand, I punch out between 300 and 700 words every morning--not quite the thousand-word mark that I hope for. I'm on track, though, if I can maintain the pace. The way to get this job done by the 18-month deadline is to make regular, rhythmic progress. It's a massive job, so I try my best to be a Chippewa. That's because Chippewas "chip away" at projects that at face value are intimidating in size and scope. They know that, like the great Pyramids of Cheops, books are built piece by piece over an extended time. The worker's focus must be on the few bricks that must be moved, placed, and mortared today. Actually, I know nothing at all about Chippewa Indians. But it's a great mnemonic to get me through. My more sensitive daughters have been known to raise an eyebrow when I invoke the Chippewas. Oh well--they'll still love me. And, besides, they are likewise undaunted by grand and difficult projects. How do they go about their work? They chip away, of course. They, too, imitate the honorable Chippewas.

I'm Hungry

Because so many people, events, and possibilities fill these days, finding one suitable for a blog entry is pretty easy. Said otherwise, it's often hard to choose. In selecting each topic, I think for a moment about which among the day's swirling ideas are most vivid. I ask myself, as I sometimes ask Stephanie (but only half-seriously): "What's your dominant reality?" For me, right now, the dominant reality is hunger. I'm two-thirds of the way though a planned 15 pound weight reduction, and I would like to lose the additional five pounds before the end of the month. Weight loss is not for sissies—it hurts! Excess weight is a big deal to most adults. Its implicated in health risks and problems, and it limits a person's range of activities. Maybe the most pressing effect is the threat to self-esteem. Overweight and obesity are caused by a ratio of calorie consumption to calorie expenditure of greater than 1. A perfect match, a ratio of exactly 1, results in weight stability. Averaged over time, overweight people have only a slight consumption error of maybe 1.01, but the error accumulates. Common experience tells us that us that a calorie ratio of .99, .98, or lower is tough sledding, especially if it's to be sustained. So, if I start fantasizing about my next meal during a conversation, please forgive me.

Rube's World

A Rube Goldberg device is any contraption built from parts whose original functions are completely unrelated. One example is "Mousetrap," a child's game in which a chain reaction eventually results in a plastic cage being lowered over a plastic mouse--if all goes well. The band OK Go built an extremely elaborate Rube Goldberg device from a strange collection of objects that carry a chain reaction from falling dominoes to a finale in which the band members are shot with paint cannons. The long sequence is set to the soundtrack of a nifty tune, This Too Shall Pass. Here's the point: the world is a Rube Goldberg device. Yes, civilization is impressive. The roles, resources, and institutions of the modern world are way beyond the limits of comprehensibility. And things work, pretty much. But don't they often work despite incessant inefficiencies, miscommunications, and wasted energy? Let's recognize that the world is no well-oiled machine. What gets done is obtained by force of will and clarity of vision, not through honed tools or failsafe processes. For Rube's World to work, it requires something from participants. It does not run well on autopilot, but by dint of cleverness and a strong sense of direction, the thing actually produces results.

Dead Center

I can utter, truthfully, one of the most frightening statements possible in the English language, "Lung cancer has metastasized to my liver." I found out about the metastasis a couple of years ago. I don't remember when, exactly. Part of my coping with cancer has been to downplay the disease in the drama (or adventure) of my own life and let other stories come to the fore. I don't like thinking about the evil biology that still, without explanation, lives inside me. But last week the dreaded drama seemed to turn a corner. My doctor reviewed the results of my recent PET/CT scan. In viewing the cross sectional images, he went straight for the liver "met." Compared side-by-side to the previous scan it showed slight enlargement, but this time the inside was dark. In a PET image, dark=metabolically inactive=dead. Inner death, displayed visually as a black core, never looked so good. Life begets life, but there is a form of death that contributes to the same end. That is death to death itself. When death begins at death's core and grows outward, it's time to celebrate. Life is emphatically affirmed.

Afterburners On

Last night I got in bed at close to 1 am. The day was long, much of it occupied by driving the return trip from Turlock to Irvine along Route 5. When we reached home, we met up with Kris Stice for a nice though brief dinner along with Kiely, Bob, Amy, and James. Kris had limited time: His late night return to Fiji meant that we needed to head up to LAX by 10 pm or so. Moreover, he had a few remaining errands to do before going to the airport, so he and I got in the car and chased those down before returning to our house for a delightful dinner and birthday dessert for Kiely. The day was full--more than full, really. It reminded me of something a personal trainer once told me. The trainer was an elderly but fit man who worked at the ARC Recreation Center when it first opened in 2000. The man watched me lift weights, noting particularly what happened when my reps maxed out. My effort surged at the very end, to his approval. He explained that even if we think we couldn't possibly do any more reps there's a good chance that we can summon the will to squeeze out one, two, or three more. What our mind estimates is the quitting point is actually an underestimate. The gray-haired trainer called it "turning on the afterburners." To him, the extra effort is what produced the greatest gains.

The Grueling 5

Most Californians have experienced firsthand the long, flat hours of Interstate 5 spanning northern and southern California. We've traveled it many times. Virtually all of our extended family lives in northern California, both in the Bay Area and in the Central Valley. Heading north, you have only to deal with LA traffic until you approach the Grapevine, a winding stretch of highway bounding the north end of the LA basin. The pass tops out at 4000 feet then descends into the Valley. After the Grapevine, civilization consists of periodic clusters of motels and fast food joints spaced every 30 miles, plus or minus 10. Food stops, gas fills, and bathroom breaks rely on careful planning to exit at the optimal oasis. You shouldn't exit too soon or your trip will be unnecessarily prolonged; if you wait too long, though, bladder distention can compound the boredom of straight shot highway with physical discomfort and the chance, though slight, of an embarrassing disaster. Highway 5 is not for crybabies or the excessively fastidious. It probably builds character, but are you ever glad when you finally reach home.

When the Family Gathers

What's it all about when extended family—uncles and cousins, in-laws and spouses—all huddle to mark a special event? This evening, my nephew Ben will wed Jauna Jacques. They are a splendid couple and so the occasion is happy. On the groom's side, it's a confluence of two families, Rider and Posluch. I married Stephanie Rider, and so I've long known all of the Rider sibs. I know the Posluches, too. Dave Posluch married Lynn Ann, Stephanie's sister, and I know Dave's younger sisters, Linda and Bonnie, from high school days. Great people all 'round. The setting is a challenge, though: It's hot in Turlock. In July, the California Central Valley is a fearsome context for donning a jacket and tie. More so a wedding dress, I'm sure. But this weekend we also have times for dressing down. One can attend unshaven the free breakfast down in the common room of the Holiday Inn Express. There's talk, too, of a swim this afternoon. Is this a kick-back event, where the main point is to hang out and relax? Or, instead, are we to be on our best behavior, because the times when we gather are pretty rare? A little of both, I would say. If we can find the right blend of relaxation and kind regard, the mood is positively ideal. And—so far, so good.

The Mirror of Facebook

Facebook accomplishes much. It puts us in touch with old friends and keeps us connected to our current network. The degree of connectedness is variable, which is a handy feature. At one extreme, some use Facebook to interact with friends daily. Other users, like me, seldom post and rarely read the posts of others. Even though I'm passive, even neglectful, I sense a nice ongoing connectedness with my Facebook friendships. They imply at least a mild mutual interest and respect--friendship, I suppose. But there's one aspect of Facebook makes me a little uncomfortable: It's an awareness of possible friends that I have no particular desire to contact. Some I knew years ago in different towns or jobs or churches. We were friends but (sadly, maybe) are no longer. The exclusion is not quite explained by neglect--Facebook makes it pretty easy to find people, I believe. The decision seems more deliberate than that. What brings it home is the relatively new feature that "suggests" new friends based on common friendships. I find myself almost always deciding "no." Why? Facebook, it seems, puts me in touch with other people, but it also puts me in touch with myself. It is, in a way, a mirror--and when I look in the mirror, what stares back is not always what I want to see.

The Project

Over the past few months, I have been talking with Stephanie about the broad range of our concerns, commitments, goals, and dreams in their totality. This is The Project. Every day, it seems to me, we try to advance The Project. At times it means attending to our own material needs or those of other family members and friends. Sometimes it means concentrating on work related to our professions or getting things done around the house. At still other times, our commitment to The Project means indulging in a little leisure, relaxation, or recreation. The Project has intellectual aspects and spiritual aspects; its dimensions extend into the financial, health, and consumer realms. It's long-term and short-term, as well as immediate--in fact, it's everything we believe in and value. The Project is big--bigger than our joint efforts to fully conceive it and carry it out, in fact. Because it's grand and compelling, it gives us more than enough to do every day. It presents a great challenge and many rewards. Best of all, we can pursue The Project together and synergistically. It's so much better that way.

Destination: Palm Motel

Stephanie and I drove to Santa Monica this morning for a medical appointment. Afterward, we saw my nephew Brooks and his girlfriend, Hana. Brooks and Hana are participating in a missions project with Campus Crusade. Ground zero for their summer in Santa Monica is the Palm Motel. I called it Palm Hotel, but Brooks corrected me. At first sight, it's definitely a motel, affectionately known as the Palm Resort by the summer residents. It was, I'm sure, a very exciting vacation destination in the 1950s. Brooks gave us a tour of the six-per room-accommodations. Oh, college days. We wanted to get lunch at Chipotle down on the Esplanade, but in 20 minutes of searching could not locate a parking space. We settled instead for Arby's. Steph ordered a salad; Brooks and I had roast beef laid thick onto buns, plus curly fries. We finished up in time to pick up Hana from her class at Santa Monica College and drive them both back to the glorious Palm. The time was brief, but still a pleasure. For the summer we are separated by 50 miles or so of the 405--not fun to drive, but worth every slow-and-go minute to see those we love.

Good Tines

When possible life paths appear, the usual rule is that we cannot tell where each will lead. The jungle of contingency is just too thick. Predicting the future is hard; it's equally hard to say what would have been. The latter is the what philosophers call the counterfactual--the course events would have taken if a single fact or choice had been different. These are two different uncertainties: One looks ahead to choice points and consequences; the other looks back and wonders what might have happened. I believe that physicists take seriously the possibility of multiple universes in which chance events split reality into different versions. I could be wrong: Maybe this is just a piece of urban mythology that any competent physicist would be quick to repudiate. It makes for good science fiction, though, and it at least resonates with common human experience. We can hardly help wonder, "What if?" Our finite knowledge means we cannot know. But the One who is omniscient knows perfectly. Unlike Fozzie Bear, who knew which way to turn, we often don't know what to do when we come to a fork in the road. That's okay, with divine guidance we can be confident of good tines ahead.

Fire in the Sky

We enjoy fireworks only on rare occasion, usually July 4, just as the night sky edges from dark blue to black. The first launch opens a show of light magic that is not to be missed. Over many centuries, starting in China, pyrotechnicians have built launch tubes to propel incendiary shells thousand of feet into the air. When the shell explodes, the embedded clusters ignite, emanating a spectrum of vibrant colors determined by their chemical composition. Shells vary in structure, producing different light patterns; firing patterns on the ground vary, too. The design choices allow for a light show that has real composition elements, like a symphony. It's risky, too: fireworks are designed to explode. And perhaps its the pairing of violent destruction ("disaster" means exploding star) with brief and beautiful fire that makes pyrotechnics unique among all inventions. Fireworks are not utilitarian, but they are wondrous--a treat for the human species. Every year, I'm glad to have witnessed--and participated in--another display of light spectacular.

Beautiful Freedom

It's fitting today to meditate on the remarkable conditions in America, and in many nations around the world, that permit freedom. Democracy, privacy, and free speech are amazing achievements, as are the establishment of institutions and infrastructures that widely offer education and opportunity. Early civilizations found ways for the great masses of humanity to thrive; only a couple of a centuries ago, nations learned how to create the special conditions where freedom became possible. Many nations have found a version of the formula, though dictatorships and repressive regimes continue to crush democracy in some unhappy places. I'm grateful to live in the United States. Tensions between the political left and right sometimes play up as critically important, but their amicable polarity is what generates the conditions for liberty. Through debate we fine tune our model: To what extent is wealth owned or shared? Should values be individual or collective? Ought character defects to be suffered or remediated? The political polemics roll on. They may sometimes be ugly--but their product, freedom, is beautiful.

Glorious Saturday

Some Saturdays are wonderful. Those are the stay-at-home days in which the calendar square is totally blank. The day is wide open, but that does not mean we kick back--not at all. I have things to do--a short mental list, in fact--but no item on that list has a time certain. This makes for a mental outlook that is free-form, almost recreational. Without a timetable, meals can be more creative in preparation and more leisurely in consumption. Good times. Today will be productive in conventional terms, I'm sure. For example: the plumber is due any minute to replace a 25-year-old water heater. With the right attitude, even that upgrade of infrastructure can feel like home improvement (oh boy, a new water heater!). Exercise is on the list, too. Steph has a brand new bike helmet, which she claims is her first ever, and plans to cycle around town. I intend to go to the gym this afternoon. All in good time. This day, glorious Saturday that it is, will unfold according its own tempo. At the day's end, I feel confident that we will climb into bed feeling good about what was accomplished--and feeling especially good about how it all played out.

I'm Worried

In the Scriptures, we are told not to worry. That's a therapeutic enjoinder if there ever was one. Anxiety, whether low-grade or raging, is corrosive. I suppose worry can have its positive effects, like helping us to focus when the stakes are high. When operating a chain saw, for example, it might help to imagine, briefly, the cost of an error. Most of anxiety, though, is yucky--a bona fide sector of human misery that we should, if we could, toss into an incinerator. I don't think of myself as a worrier, but I do feel a bit of it now. In part, I know what it's about, but not 100%. Some anxiety, I think, is a correlate of physiology--maybe I ate too many fresh strawberries or drank too much coffee (though great volumes of coffee feel pretty normal to me). Though I worry a little today, I'm glad for the Biblical advice--no, the command--not to do so. How wonderful, how needed, is the greeting and wish of "shalom." The hippies got one thing right, at least. Peace, everyone.

Unearthly Love

Over the last few years, the subject of God's love has been recurring both in our small group studies and in my reading. Henri Nouwen's interpretation of Rembrandt's Prodigal Son shines light on the subject, as does Brennan Manning's teaching that Christian growth requires shedding false images of the Father. God is love, we know, but we are mistaken to think that His love is explained by earthly examples. It is, instead, an utterly strange love, one that builds on human metaphors but by necessity warps them to forms that are utterly mind bending. In the parable of the workers in the field, some work all day and some for just a few hours, but all get paid the same. This is no domestic calculus; it's too odd. Though we ask why the farmer pays alike (or, equivalently, wildly different hourly wages) in the end the rationale is beyond our comprehension. The same conclusion applies to the parable of the prodigal son. The father loves his renegade son lavishly with a robe, a ring, and a fatted calf. Can we honestly imagine a human father responding in this manner? No--the love of God is inscrutable beyond quantum mechanics. It's way past the limits of cerebral cortex.