Newsboys

In early summer, the Newsboys album Born Again opened at number four on the Billboard 200, and I understand why.  The band exudes amazing energy, sincerity, and solid musicality.  Tonight our church was the venue for a really fantastic concert, one that encouraged me when when I needed uplifting.  We had great seats; at just a few rows back we could see the facial expressions of the band as they performed.  The evening was at times raucous and at other times reverent, and often an exquisite mixture of the two.  We sat up close with our friends Tom and Nancy Asnon following dinner at Islands (their kind and unexpected treat).  What a fine evening.  I knew it would be good; I just didn't know how good.

Laughing Under the Maneaba

In 1995, I spent one of the most unusual nights of my life during a trip to the remote Kiribati Islands of the Pacific.  Kiribati (pronounced something like "kiddie-boss") is the Micronesian "corruption" of the old colonial name Gilbert and Ellis Islands.  I was on the Tarawa atoll, which is a vast ring of coral that encloses an enormous lagoon.  The islands of the atoll are so shallow that the highest point is no more than a few feet above sea level.  A very large wave—say driven by a cyclone or a real tsunami—could wash across all land, which I believe happens from time to time.  Tarawa, one of the main islands on the atoll chain enclosing the lagoon, was the site of one of the most horrific battles of World War II.  William Manchester vividly describes US marines being cut down by the Japanese as they tried to wade ashore holding their weapons high.  But I was the only American around when the people of Kiribati hosted me one evening after I presented inservice training for government workers on program evaluation.  After work, they gathered under an open-sided shelter, a maneaba, where they drank (beer I think) and told stories, or I should say jokes, which were mostly PG-13 or R, and that in mixed company.  But what I noticed most was the steadfast group resolve to laugh long and hard into the night in the middle of the vast Pacific.  We laughed together under the maneaba as the wind swished the palm trees in the inky air and the warm waters of the lagoon splashed gently on the inner shore.

A Capable Collection

There is something incredibly energizing about a group of doctoral students who commit their energies to a common project.  In my 18 years at UCI, I've never before experienced such intense collective energy as I have this year.  We have just matriculated our fourth cohort of Ph.D. students into our department's program.  Now, when I call a meeting, something like ten folks join in, including a mixture of doctoral students, professors, and other education staff.  It's incredibly exciting stuff.  Down through the centuries, no doubt harking back to Plato's Academy in Athens, collections of bright minds gather to think good thoughts—ideally, more than that, to make a difference in the world!  When we were at Cambridge a year ago, the University was celebrating its 800th anniversary.  They knew how to keep a good thing going.  I am very fortunate to work at what's regarded as a research university committed to training the next generation of scholars.  It's funny, in a way, that I came to UCI though no specific plan.  But I am very grateful to have landed here.

Scorcher

The day was not only hot, it was a record breaker.  When Steph told me that LA had reached record temperatures, I was pretty sure that the record was for September 27.  With record-keeping going back to 1877, that would be impressive enough.  But records were smashed not just for the calendar day, but for all time.  LA reached 113 degrees, which was hotter than the Inland Empire (Riverside, etc.).  Why should LA be hotter with its closer proximity to the ocean?  I speculated that it might have to do with all the concrete in LA, but maybe it was just that the air conditioners were pumping the inside hot air to the outdoors.  In any case, Irvine was hot, too.  In fact, a major power outage hit several hundred homes in University Hills, but not ours.  Strange that the power failure followed a major upgrade of electrical relay systems this summer all over Uni Hills.  On a hot, hot day, a little irony is kinda cool.

On the Ring Mall

After an evening potluck with the Mariners prayer team, Stephanie and returned to a hot home.  It's almost October, and the temperature inside our house was 79 degrees when I flipped on AC.  What better to do on  hot night than to go for a walk?—which was Steph's idea but I went too.  We strolled the wide circular pathway that forms the basic structure of UCI's campus—a 60's-era rejection of the classic quad in favor a different organizing principle.  It's the campus Ring Mall, exactly one mile in length.  I walked more slowly than I think Stephanie would have, but she spent her excess energy doing arm circles and maybe a few cartwheels (I can't remember).  I talked most of the time, but not to her.  I had my mom on the cell phone and we caught up as we often do on Sundays, speaking of good things and things needing prayer.  We hung up when we were three-quarters around the Ring Mall.  It was a good conversation on a good walk on a good night. On this warm Sunday evening, I feel more peace than perhaps circumstances might warrant.  I feel more hope and joy, too.  Such things defy explanation, but it's possible to accept them anyway, like gifts unearned.  They are pure grace.

A Fine Saturday

As Saturdays go, this one was fine.  My main events: (a) writing at Peet's for an hour or so, (b) reading at home, (c) roast beef sandwich with chip and salsa, (d) exercise at the ARC (e) sweep, mow, and rake the backyard, (e) evening service at Mariners (f) dinner and dessert with Steph, Amy, and James.   This agenda leaves out many interesting particulars, but it does give the layout of a very good day.  Now, as I type, I can hear the popping of the Disneyland fireworks over in Anaheim, which tells me it's around 9:45—time to settle in with my Clive Cussler novel for as long as I can keep my eyes open.

Already But Not Yet

When Jesus preached the Kingdom of Heaven, he was very clear that the Kingdom was near.  The nearness of God's Kingdom is a topic that, to me, is about as interesting as any element of Christian doctrine.  The idea seems to be pursued now with a lot of enthusiasm by theologians and lay people alike.  As I understand the concept, God's Kingdom is anywhere His Kingship is honored.  When goodness overtakes evil, when kindness conquers cruelty, when health wins out over disease, then the King reigns.  In ways that are hard to reduce to rules, we see the Kingdom advancing in our experience, and when that happens, then in one sense Heaven has begun to appear among us.  It is a foretaste, an appetizer, of what will someday be complete and unbroken.  God's Kingdom is already, but not yet—present and coming at that same time.  This is quite different from the view that draws a hard line between the present world and the next.  I love to think of God's Kingdom advancing now in our own experience.  I wish I knew how to advance if further, faster, and with more power.  Maybe we plead for more when we say, Maranatha!  Come Lord Jesus!  It's not only a longing for a cataclysmic and final return, but a radical advancement of the Kingdom today and right now.  We certainly need it.

Smiling

Another Los Banos High student, Richie, taught me to smile wantonly.  Richie sure knew how to smile—it was part of him, a habit.  Maybe we should all smile more.  It can be risky, though: The smile might not be returned or it might be misinterpreted.  What I learned from Richie is that it's worth the risk, and if a smile is not returned it's easy enough to move on.  Smiling runs counter to cool detachment.  Those who try to project "cool" believe, or just want to communicate, "I don't need you."  Cool detachment has a family resemblance to arrogance, and maybe to self-protection.  Yet even the cooly detached sometimes smile back, and quickly.  Human perception is amazingly fast at detecting and responding to smiles.  Try to notice how fast another person can detect and return a smile—I'm sure it's far less than a second.  Smiling is such a simple and beneficial practice, but it has few masters.  That's too bad, because an easy smile can really spread the joy liberally.  There is yet another benefit to smiling, and this one is counterintuitive.  Psychologists have learned that artificially making any facial expression can produce the counterpart emotion.  Frown long enough, and you will begin to feel sad or angry.  Keep smiling and soon you'll figure out why.

Eye Contact

A long time ago, when I was a science teacher, I learned something important about group communication.  Lori was a student in my physics class.  She had an amazing capacity for paying attention—or at least it looked like she was paying attention.  She had a way of maintaining eye contact that told me that even if other students were off task or bored, at least one student was constantly tuned in.  This left quite an impression.  It wasn't as if Lori's expression was particularly one of enjoyment or fascination.  It was just the predictable return of focused gaze that told me she was tuned in.  At the time I found this to be surprisingly reassuring, and I have since come to believe that it is so for other speakers or instructors.  What makes this doubly important is that so many people are really poor at maintaining eye contact, especially in a group setting.  Check it out sometime.  At a meeting of more than just a few people, look around the room and notice how many people are looking anywhere but at the speaker.  Most!  I have also noticed that when I give the speaker my attention by maintaining eye contact, I often find the person speaking directly at me.  Sometimes the direct address can become so disquieting that I need to look away.  All these experiences tell me that effective listening is not just a one-on-one communication skill.  In larger groups, try giving the speaker your attention as signaled by steady eye contact and see how it changes things.

Micro-Forks

I made a decision tonight.  It wasn't very significant, really, but it was a difficult call just the same.  I had a clear idea of what I wanted to do, but the wise and prudent thing to do was different.  It's not always this way, thankfully.  Sometimes the thing we want to do is perfectly fine.  Tonight, though, my wish and my "better judgment" were distinct.  I went with "better judgment" this time (but I don't always).  Now I'm happy about the choice.  It seems to me that we face these tiny dilemmas often—several times a day, maybe.  Perhaps we confront forks in the road—maybe mini-forks or even micro-forks—hundreds of times a day, passing through most with little awareness.  They add up, though.  I have a friend, Rodger, who over breakfast years ago philosophized that each of us necessarily makes good decisions and bad decisions every day  He said the key thing was not to fear making a bad decision, but to strive to make more good decisions than bad ones.  I believe it.  Big decisions often loom large in our own stories, the mental autobiographies that we write and rewrite for our own consumption.  No doubt some decisions are biggies.  But what may have cumulative greater force in our lives is the sum of the thousands and thousands of little decisions.  They have more power than we know to make us who we are.

Edge of Chaos

People differ quite a bit in how much order they need in their lives.  Along a continuum from neat/tidy/planned/predictable to scruffy/jumbled/improvised/random, most of us can locate a personal comfort zone.  Order is good; at a certain level it conveys safety and security.  But a case can be made for keeping life a little chaotic.  To see why, think about two extremes: (1) total order, such as you could simulate by stacking 1000 sugar cubes 10 rows wide, 10 columns deep, and 10 levels high, and (2), total randomness, as you could arrange by dissolving those 1000 cubes in a big pot of hot water.  Neither extreme is particularly interesting because neither shows much complexity—not, say, like gluing those 1000 cubes into the form of a space shuttle or the Lincoln Memorial.  The biological processes supporting life itself also exhibit orderliness and fluidity—or, rather, find a sweet spot that has elements of both.  Perhaps all beautiful things steer clear of both excessive structure and randomness.  As we go about living, working, planning, praying, and relating to our fellow human beings, perhaps we need to change it up a little, rejecting both mindless ruts and dissipating the day with empty pursuits.  Life might be most exciting, most affirmed, when we test the edges.

540 Miles

We've done the straight shot from Tahoe to Irvine, or the reverse, a couple of times.  It makes for a long day.  This is not too impressive, though, compared to the feats of our friends Wayne and Karen Brown.  They give presentations on marine biology—sharks, manatees, and coral reefs—at schools and libraries all over the country.  A nonstop drive from Irvine to Chicago, or from Oklahoma City back home, is no biggie.  Okay, we are wimps.  We rolled into the driveway at around 10 pm and unpacked.  Now all the food is put away, the washing machine is going, and the newspapers are cleared from our front porch.  Though this vacation was outstanding, I have to say it's good to be home.  Isn't that a great pairing?  Good to go away; good to be back.  Wishing all a wonderful week—maybe with a pleasant surprise thrown in.  Watch for it.

A Bump in the Road

Today I took on my most ambitious activity this week—a mountain bike ride with a former UCI student, Dianna Townsend, now a professor at the University of Nevada, Reno.  Stephanie had demurred from riding to allow her broken toe to heal completely.  Stephanie and I met Dianna, her husband Tyler, and their three-month-old son, Wyatt, at the summit of the Mt. Rose Highway around 10 this morning.  Dianna and I took off for a 14 mile trek on the impossibly scenic Tahoe Rim Trail.  Meanwhile, Tyler loaded Wyatt into a front pack and, with his two dogs, set to hiking.  Stephanie, camera in hand, explored the summit area and later drove down to Incline to have a look around.  We agreed to meet up three hours later at a trailhead south of Incline.  Much of the Tahoe Rim Trail had been "technical," requiring careful tracking between boulders and down natural rock steps.  We were on the downhill easy stretch when my front tire caught something and I went over my handlebars, landing on my bike helmet.  Within a fraction of a second my right shoulder and left knee caught some pretty good friction with the trail.  Thankfully, there were no broken or dislocated bones.  Within a few minutes we met Tyler, Wyatt, and Stephanie who were parked and waiting.  Dianna and I were tired and dusty, and I had some pretty impressive scrapes to mingle with the dust and sweat.  Loading up our gear, we caravanned into town for tacos and pulled pork sandwiches.  It was, all in all, a mighty fine day.

Entering a New Space

Before I woke up this morning, Stephanie had taken 115 pictures on her camera.  Not that I got up especially late; she was already down on the lake shore before the sun peeked above Tahoe's eastern ridge.  I viewed the pictures after breakfast.  They were beautiful.  Every bit of nature that makes the North Shore spectacularly picturesque was evident—the deep blue lake, of course, but also tree silhouettes framing the rising sun, birds perched on rocks, and swirly patterns in the sand.  Stephanie got her camera only a few years ago, but since that time that little box of digital technology has given her a way to latch onto moments of inspiration.  When she sees beauty in nature or among people, she wants to capture it in pixels, organize it, view it again, and then share it with others.  The camera, a relatively modest investment, was a portal into a "new space" of possibilities.  I like the idea of entering a new space.  Like the doorway C.S. Lewis describes in The Last Battle, it allows entry into a vastness seemingly bigger on the inside than the outside.  Did Carlos Santana feel that way when he picked up a guitar for the first time?  Reputedly, Einstein's fascination with the meaning of time began when his uncle gave him a watch at the tender age of five.  What objects, experiences, or people can give us access to new spaces wherein lies discovery and expression that cannot be imagined beforehand?

Gamblin' Away the Paycheck

I guess it was time for a little excitement.  This afternoon we drove east from Tahoe Vista to the Nevada State Line, skirted the Cal-Neva Lodge, and headed to where the serious gamblers go.  That's right: The Hyatt Resort in Incline Village.  We made it past the "21 and over" notice without hassle (boy, was that a relief) and got to work.  Every serious gambler has a game plan.  Ours was to put $10 of our hard-earned cash on the line, and no more.  This was a precaution against gambling addiction, mortgage payment defaults, and asking Hilly to sit out Duke next semester.  But here's my question: Why do they have to make those slot machines so complicated?  After some initial bewilderment, I withdrew $10 from my wallet and inserted the bill into the money muncher.  Taking turns, Stephanie and I wagered 25 cents on each handle pull, and upped the ante to a whopping 50 cents whenever we felt especially reckless.  At first, Steph had the hot hand and brought us well into the black.  Man, we were up over $13 at one point.  Then our credit edged downward. Then I had lucky pull, which helped, but after our last hand pull we were down to $9.75.  True to plan, we cashed out. They say you can't beat the house, and now I know it's true from firsthand experience.  I was genuinely chagrined that I walked away 25 cents poorer.  Could it be we were too cautious?  Maybe next time we will march directly into the high limit loft.

from O.E. "hal"

I've long been fascinated by similarities among the words heal, hale, health, whole, and holy.  The are similar for a reason: All can be traced to the Old English word hal.  The medieval meanings of hal are various: free from infirmity; uninjured; being whole, sound, and well.  The common ground is a state of being marked by perfect wholeness.  Note that there is a presence and an absence.  Absent is dysfunction and disease.  Clear enough, but it's important not to miss the presence.  Any person or thing with hal has nothing missing—it is full, complete, and in a state of perfect health.  Etymology is fantastically illuminating especially concerning the word holy.  What image is conjured when we think of a holy person?  We probably imagine someone who seeks to be free of sin—pure, though perhaps not very interesting.  Holiness implies a lack of sin, yes, but it is so much more.  True holiness, I believe, indicates a fullness of being, vitality, and strength.  We are never meant to be shriveled and pale critters—not like Gollum's "good twin."  The holiest person is the most complete human being imaginable—full of life and love, as well as a love of life.  The model has been perfected only once in history.  For all others, the measure of each person's potential lies in how far their development extends into that perfect ideal.  It's a beautiful image and someday it will be reality.  In the meantime, dear readers, my sincerest wish is this—that you will all go to hal . . . I mean, toward hal.

The Economics of Discipline

Last night I channel surfed for half an hour before heading off to bed.  One show caught my attention briefly.  Here's the premise.  Three teenage kids are auditioning to appear in a reality TV show.  One of the kids, in truth an actor, brags that he's been drinking all morning and that the vitamin water he's now sipping is spiked. Interactions among the three kids are monitored by a hidden camera and shown to their mothers in a separate room.  Now a network official walks in and tells the group that they need to drive to another building for the audition.  She then hands the keys to the guy who has supposedly been drinking all morning.  The key question is whether the other two will actually get into the car with the "inebriated" guy and let him drive.  That's exactly what they do. When the car arrives at the interview site, the mothers, flummoxed and aghast, confront their children.  Why, they want to know, did they get in the car?  But there was no good answer.  As the episode draws to a close, the host offers advice to parents: First, tell your children never to ride in a car with a driver who has been drinking.  Second, be clear about the consequences, such as revoking driving privileges, should they ever do so.  The advice makes a certain amount of sense, yet I believe is flawed in one respect.  Spelling out clear consequences for bad behavior sets up an economy than can undermine its purpose.  Behavior A can be traded for Consequence B multiplied by the Chances of Getting Caught C.  My view as a parent is that bad behavior should not be weighed against such a calculus—not that there shouldn't be consequences for doing wrong things.  But in the context of loving relationships, the legal model is a poor one.  The response to bad choices should not be cooly objective, but rather subjective because it hurts those we love.  The prospect of disappointing loving parents, even making them angry, is authentic and personal.  If this stance is nurtured from a young age, I believe it can be the most effective deterrent to misguided, foolish, and immoral behavior.

Relax, Then Really Lax

I almost forgot how to relax.  The urge to be productive can be so programmed, so hard-wired, that to escape its grip requires some determination.  That is, you need to try really hard not to try.  The hippies were on to this in the late 60's.  Their parents were hyper-productive in the two decades following World War I.  There was a payoff, for sure.  Business was thriving, the stock market had a tremendous bull run, and the U.S. put a man on the moon.  If not for Vietnam, the flower children might have been willing to put up with all the fuss and get greedy.  They knew something was wrong, though, and found alternatives.  Timothy Leary suggested LSD might be worth a try; the Maharishi believed that Hindu-based meditation was the way to go.  Therapy was also big.  Some psychologists promoted simpler measures.  Progressive relaxation entailed sequentially tensing and relaxing muscles from the toes the head, which in turn quieted the mind.  Guided imagery worked oppositely: Practitioners closed their eyes and imagined a walk through the forest or on the seashore.  A relaxed mind produced a relaxed body.  Similarly, meditation can be practiced as a relaxation technique, but it can also serve as a powerful means to access the spiritual realm.  At the moment, I'm just trying to get lazy and am having some success.  It's now about 4 pm and so far today I have accomplished two things: (1) I went for a walk, and (2) I took a nap.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the week is off to a fabulous start.

Jewel of the Sierra

That's what John Muir called it.  Once you see Lake Tahoe, and not just see but hear and smell this alpine wonderland, you will not argue.  This afternoon my best friend and I headed east on I-80, crested the Sierra Nevada Range on Donner Pass, and descended into the Tahoe Basin.  Stephanie says that Big Bear is a poor substitute for Tahoe, and I won't argue with her either.  Big Bear does have altitude, trees, and a ski resort, but all its amenities are Lilliputian compared to what lies 500 miles north.  Lake Tahoe is blue, clean, and deep.  I can remember as a kid looking down from a power boat to see submerged logs beneath the lake's cold and crystalline waters.  In my teenage years, Tahoe was ground zero for fun.  I learned to ski at Squaw Valley on the annual ski trips organized by St. Robert's.  In the summers, I learned to water ski on north shore's Crystal Bay.  Desolation Wilderness, just west of the lake, was where I backpacked with high school friends.  On that trek, the forests were so dry that open fires were prohibited, which meant we had to eat our hamburger meat raw.  Aside from all the fantastic possibilities for recreation that Tahoe presents, it's really the multi-sensory natural beauty that brings me the most pleasure.  As I write from our little one bedroom retreat a hundred feet or so from the water's edge, I feel a relaxed anticipation of the coming week.  In the 1800s, John Muir knew the Sierra Nevada mountains better than anyone.  I know why he had a special regard for this place.

Going Big on the Bay

A few months ago, my brother, Paul, suggested a family gathering that combined a cruise on the San Francisco Bay and dinner on Pier 39.  Today was the day.  Around 3 pm my mother and most of her brood converged on 390 Palomar.  Reps from three generations, 17 in all, piled into cars and headed up 280 toward the Embarcadero.  Fisherman's Wharf was sunny, warm, and lively.  At 5 o'clock we were aboard a two-deck boat from the Red & White fleet as it launched into the rolling waves.  Within five minutes we were enshrouded in fog.  Our boat sounded foghorns repeatedly as it headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge.  En route, at least a dozen kite boarders carved the cold choppy waters at boat speed, a fast 20 knots or so.  Many approached our boat to have an audience, and then launched high into the air before landing and skimming off again.  A few threw in 360s while airborne.  The audacious spectacle of the kite boarders contrasted with the post-cruise ambience of our bayside restaurant.  We were warm and comfortable as we enjoyed our soup, salmon, and cheesecake, but our two long dining tables were not exactly quiescent.  My family's irrepressible enthusiasm inevitably produced its own signature spectacle.  We, too, know how to go big.

The San Bruno Fire

Last night around 6:30, a huge explosion rocked a neighborhood in San Bruno.  The explosion left an enormous crater and sent flames roaring eighty feet into the air.  Apparently caused by a rupture in a high-pressure gas pipeline, the fire quickly spread to homes in the Crestmoor neighborhood.  As of this morning, more than 50 homes have been consumed and another two hundred have been damaged.  Although my mother's current home is a few miles away in lower San Bruno, we were relieved to hear that she was visiting my sister, Janet, last night.  As details rolled in from the news stations, I realized that the fire's epicenter was almost exactly where my family lived in the 1960s.  I rode my bicycle and played with friends on every street mentioned by reporters: Glenview, Claremont, Earl, and our own street, Vermont Way.  I now know that most of my old neighborhood went up in flames in what appears to be one of the worst suburban fires in California history.  How do I make sense of that?  Often, but not always, disasters are local—pinpoints on a map—and distant.  The chance of a pin landing on a personally significant spot are minuscule.  Yet that's where the pin landed last night.  I don't know whether my childhood home is still standing.  My mother, having seen the camera feed on TV and recognizing houses, doubts it.  In 1969, we moved from Vermont Way to Palomar Court, a move that probably spared our family horrible loss.  But other families within those familiar blocks of Crestmoor are suffering tremendously, and so my thankfulness is weighed against sadness for their nightmarish ordeal.

Mr. Wood

On my way to Santa Monica this morning, I turned off the 405 and followed Manhattan Beach Boulevard almost all the way to the pier.  A few blocks from the ocean is a restaurant called The Kettle.  This is where I met my friend for breakfast.  As we do every month or two, Scott Wood and I met over coffee and omelets (I went for eggs Benedict this morning) and picked up the thread in our ongoing conversation about every topic we take as important.  We call this our symposium.  Scott and I have been at this for about twelve years, but our relationship extends back much further.  I first met Scott Wood forty years ago almost to the day.  He wasn't "Scott" back then, but rather "Mr. Wood."  You see, Scott was my freshman English teacher at SI—spelled out, it's Saint Ignatius College Preparatory, then an all-boys school in the Sunset District of San Francisco.  I tell Scott that he supported me during the two most difficult times of my life.  The first was in January of my freshman year when my father died unexpectedly.  Scott took me under his wing—to Warriors games, events at the Cow Palace, Berkeley football.  We enjoyed everyday things, too: shopping, eating, doing errands.  Several time a week he drove me from SI to my home to San Bruno, 15 miles away.  Scott was again by my side (as were many others I love) through the terrible events of 2003.  Scott's generosity is inexplicable; I honestly don't get it.  I can only be grateful for such an amazing presence in my life.  I am grateful for Scott Wood—my teacher, mentor, and friend.

Second Draft

I'm making my way through the second draft of my book manuscript, adding text while I try to improve what I've already written.  I like this stage.  The first draft entails blasting out words with not too much concern for their form or coherence.  The initial draft is probably the most difficult because it requires creating something from nothing.  Almost everyone has experienced writer's block, the feeling of not knowing where to begin and the fear that there's not really anything to say.  Every writer must face the ominous empty page.  Truth be told, it hangs momentarily over me even in composing my daily blog entries.  Yet the writer must plunge ahead boldly, and maybe a little recklessly, trusting that something meaningful will emerge.  The second draft is different because the raw (sometimes very raw) material is already there in black and white.  Now the game is refinement.  Through additions, deletions, transitions, and substitutions, a piece of text gains coherence.  But two drafts, at least for me, is never enough.  Even my blog entries require about four iterations—and even when I post I know they are not error-free.  Multiple drafts are essential, but I think I love the second draft the most.  When I edit, it reminds me of combing out the knots in my daughters' freshly shampooed hair.  If I keep combing, the hair will will eventually flow and shine; likewise, through editing, the text transforms toward its aesthetic ideal.  Eventually, it gives me pleasure.  It can also evoke a little surprise, as in: "Oh, so that's what I mean."

Apart No Longer

Air Pacific flight 810 landed at 2:30 this afternoon.  By the time Stephanie got through customs it was close to 3:30.  I had been monitoring the ramp leading to the international arrivals lounge for a long while when I finally saw flight attendants who were identifiable as Fijian.  Stephanie was not far behind.  To see her again made my world right again.  We do quite well when I travel for periods of three or four days, but two weeks apart produces quite different effects.  First, we miss each other in a big way.  A second difference is harder to describe.  When we are finally reunited, it feels a bit unreal.  The closest comparison is the sensation of returning to your elementary school as an adult.  It's instantly familiar, but there is a slight feeling of surprise that the real thing actually matches the memory.  The third difference is that being apart for two weeks creates a backlog of information that needs to be shared. It's like what happens when a printer gets unplugged partway through printing a long document.  When the plug is reconnected, it has to process all the unprinted pages before it resets.  We talked nonstop from LAX to Irvine, but I estimate we are about 10% through the backlog.  It's now Tuesday evening; on Friday we plan to drive up to Turlock, a six-hour trek.  I predict that by the time we park the CRV on Rothbury Court the information backlog will be cleared and the familiar will again seem real.  The one element that ought to be retained is my deep appreciation for being together again.

Love is a Vector

On my radio this morning, I heard the Burt Bacharach tune, "What the World Needs Now is Love, Sweet Love."  I agree.  But am I curmudgeonly if the song bugs me just a little?  The song evokes an image: A group of people standing in a circle, holding hands, their faces aglow with affection and broad smiles.  To me, that image works for about 30 seconds and then gets boring.  Acceptance, affection, and mutual admiration are good, but they are starting points.  Serious love—love with traction—goes somewhere.  It has a point; it meets a need; it pursues grand ideas. In geometry we learned the difference between a point and a vector.  A point has position only.  A vector has an origin, but it extends from that origin in a line that terminates in an arrow.  The arrow indicates continuity without end.  If we love, then we travel well together through life.  Love, therefore, is a vector.  Can that be captured in a happy song?  I doubt it.  "Love is a Vector" probably would not work as a song title.  I'm sure Burt Bacharach would never compose it, and if he did the DJs would never play it.

Hooray for Social Media

IT-based social media—texting, Facebook, Twitter—present the exciting possibility of greater interpersonal connectedness.  This is quite a shift from from the olden days when we worried about the futures of isolated teens hunched over their desktops.  We wondered: Would Gen X-ers becoming pale-skinned zombies whose best friends were machines?  Then along came Facebook and its kin, full of possibilities for connecting and reconnecting with families and friends not only through messaging, but also photos and newsfeeds.  Not to say that it's all good.  Each tech advance presents its own dark scenarios.  The current favorite is the mutually parasitic cyborg of adolescent and smartphone.  Parents might wish she would give her thumbs a rest and re-enter the real world of face-to-face communication.  But on the whole the affordances of social media are to the good.  A remarkably strong correlate of happiness is social connectedness; conversely, depressed people often feel deep isolation.  I don't believe that Facebook is an answer to threats of loneliness, but even if it adds only incrementally to a sense that we have a place in the world, I have to believe that is a good thing—and even more so if it facilitates communication with long-lost friends.  Through such reconnections, we can feel our own biographical depth and continuity, which adds further value to a sense of identity and belonging in a world where feelings of anonymity and aloneness are all too common.

A Three Day Weekend

In theory, weekends are for relaxing. In practice, many of us many of us rely on weekends for catching up on things left undone: Shopping, opening stacks of mail, paying bills, and attending to the perpetual need for domestic maintenance. (Okay, I admit that we often toss in some fun, too.) But isn't it just a tad deflating when Sunday night rolls around and our to-do list is only a little shorter? It's even worse when this realization crosses with the looming prospect of Monday morning. Maybe the whole scene is tainted with foolishness and misplaced priorities. The devotion of weekend hours to getting things done treats with mild contempt the principle of the Sabbath, a day of rest. Whatever the answer, I am grateful for three-day weekends, like this one, even if my reasons are about personal convenience rather than the official meanings of the holidays. With three consecutive open days, it's possible to combine work, play, and rest into a tasty salad. This weekend, I am enjoying my Labor Day salad, with the prospect of Stephanie's return on Tuesday adding a nice dressing. Economists and business leaders have studied the possibility of retooling the standard 5-day work week into a 4-day model. I don't know if that makes economic sense, but I wouldn't mind a few more three-day weekends in the calendar. The British recognize "bank holidays," whatever they are, as non-work days. Could we start with a few of those?

Combatting Insomnia

When I was a kid, I don't remember ever waking up in the middle of the night, not even because of nightmares. Yet as an adult, I sometimes wake up in the dark and see some distressingly small number on my alarm clock. Stephanie's strategy is to avoid looking at the clock altogether, which is smart. Knowing that it's 2 am makes things worse, because then I worry, "What if I can't go back to sleep?" Waking up may be a nuisance, but being unable to fall back asleep is a problem, especially if it's chronic. By experience I know that if I get only five or six hours of sleep, my energy and mood are down during the following day, and the effects accumulate as sleep debt builds up. I'm excited, though, because I'm trying a new strategy for dealing with unwanted wake-ups in the wee hours. Using a military motif, it goes something like this: Separate your mind and your body into two "selves." Your mind is the sergeant and your body is the private. Because your mind is in charge, it can tell your tired body that it will generously allow X hours of sleep. It's now up to the private what to do what he wants with the allotted sleep time. He can use it to sleep or to stay up and play cards, listen to music, or just think about stuff. The smart choice is to calm down and relax, which is the natural segue to Snoozeville. I realize that my strategy has some internal contradictions, but I'm giving it a go just the same. For two night's running, it seems to be working. I will continue the experiment and report back. Sweet dreams, all.

Please Stop Talking

I have a bad attitude. I get impatient with speakers who hold forth interminably about nothing, when the number of interesting ideas per minute verges on zero. Sad to say, but I have this reaction most often in church or in church-related events, but sometimes during academic talks. It drives me nuts when people who lead an event spew forth a string of poorly-connected ideas, generously larded with cliches and platitudes, and adorned with bunny trails. At some point I have to scream (not audibly). It's worse in smaller groups. Social conventions require eye contact, a pleasant facial expression, and an occasional nod. In church, I try to cope by leaning forward and putting my face in my hands, as if warding off a bad headache. It looks like I'm praying, but my posture really displays a lack of spirituality. Stephanie is never fooled. Her radar can detect my frustration instantly, and she gently reassures me with a pat on the knee or back, for which I'm grateful. When kids say the darndest things, it's cute, as Art Linkletter showed us on TV years ago. Not cute in adults! Readers of this blog need not worry; to a person, this is not about you. The subject of this rant is, you know, other people. At least I think so. Alternatively it's a confession to flaws in my own character. When Steph comes home, I'm sure she will tell me the truth. I just hope she will be gentle.

A Five Course Meal in Parallel

There is something that feels right about the sequential nature of a five-course meal. It's so orderly, and a nice if-then contingency is built in: first appetizer, then salad or soup, then main course, and so on. When Americans dine, the same if-then logic still applies, but in coarse form. Victuals are usually ingested in parallel with the exception of dessert which, if included, follows the dutiful consumption of what's good for you, including vegetables. To eat dessert, we must deserve our dessert. Parents and grandparents agree on that one. Do we make life choices by the same sequence—first what's necessary and, only then, what's enjoyable? Too often, yes. I'm a fan of the Puritan work ethic, but not at the expense of the fun stuff. The trouble with adhering to an unbridled work ethic is we run the risk of postponing pleasure indefinitely. Even worse, we can forget how to have fun. This is real, folks. People all around us place their noses to the grindstone for so long that when they look up they have no idea what else is out there. This helps to explain retirement or empty-nest angst, when middle-agers or retirees don't know what to do with their disposable time or income. A final point: joyful recreation often entails skill building, which is off-putting when arthritis looms along with anxieties about learning new tricks. Do not postpone dessert; instead, bring on all five courses. Now.