Freedom Of Limits

 "Art is limitation; the essence of every picture is the frame. If you draw a giraffe, you must draw him with a long neck. If in your bold creative way you hold yourself free to draw a giraffe with a short neck, you will really find that you are not free to draw a giraffe.” G. K. Chesterton

In part the hope was that the surgery, cutting my back open, would heal the right foot. It had been getting progressively more useless prior to the surgery. There was a slight healing, but a full healing, they said, could take a year…or more. Or never.  For the next day, or year or however long I live God has ordained this limitation of my strength and of my healing. Weak as I was before, there has been some increase of strength. Strong as I could be, it appears a significant weakness will remain in my foot. The human body as designed is bound by weakness. Theologians (h/t David O. Taylor) make the point that Christ Himself came to us in a limited body.

In Atul Gawande’s book; Being Mortal he says that the end is ‘just the accumulated crumbling of one’s body systems.” At one point he asks a well published gerontologist if we have discerned any particular, reproducible pathway to aging. “No,’ he said, ‘We just fall apart.”  

Wrestling with this framework I can see two sides, one depressing and one positive. The downer is that the body will wear out, break down, fall apart. The upside is that In this clay frame, in this finitude there is freedom. A freedom to lean into God, to love one another and to celebrate what we have.

Photo by meriç tuna on Unsplash

Call Of The Lover

Trembling, I felt unable to move. An eight-hundred foot drop on either side kicked into gear my existing fear of height. Crouching down on the saddle that separated arduous switchbacks from five-thousand-foot peak, fear had me frozen. Having twisted up three-thousand feet of elevation gain I had two choices. Retreat back to safety or finish the climb?

How was it that I ended up there anyway? The answer to that question lies inside of another question; where does it go? Where do those roads in every Dr. Seuss book lead? What does that line on a map look like in the flesh? A confluence of events led me to Cub Scouts. Cub scouts led me farther outside the city. Nature led me into beauty and adventure.

There are premises hard wired into us that when pursued lead to peace, ignored they lead to our detriment. Anxious and fearful in my teens, I felt no fear in the outdoors. No fear of snakes, bugs, or bears---and a limited fear of heights. Scouting was the vehicle God used to move me from sea-level walks to glacier high climbs.

My first major purchase; a dark blue, external frame backpack. My second purchase, a pair of hiking boots. The pack leaned against my wall, being filled or emptied, unloaded or made ready.  Short trips every other weekend. Long trips every vacation break. From rolling coastal walks in the Santa Monicas, to craggy climbs in the Sierra. An Easter trek down Hermits’ trail in the Grand Canyon, summer solstice in the the Bob Marshall wilderness of Montana. That backpack fit like a glove, those boots broken-in, part of my body.

Like the gentle feel of a lover’s finger on your cheek, are the feelings stirred by the outdoors. The sense that you can fly when the backpack comes off after an eight-mile hike. Your shirt wet with sweat; spreading yourself out on a large shale boulder for warmth. Feeling the world spin as the sun goes down and that first star climbs into the sky. That first band of sunlight warming the camp after a frigid cold night. A place to sleep that smells of pine and not like cigarettes. Gurgle and crash of ice-cold water over rock as you fill your water bottle for the day. Your lover keeps calling you back.

When friends bid you, come with us to hike the Virgin river and trails of Zion, you say yes. Celebrating your final day in the park you go all in for a day hike to Angel’s Landing. A straight-forward path to the top brings you to the final half-mile portion, bordered by a chain which you can grab hold of to navigate the trail. Hopefully avoiding the steep drop offs into Zion and Refrigerator canyons. This is where paralysis set in. So my friends encouraged and prayed me through the saddle. To the top of the landing where I sat in the middle, far from the edge. Having made it to the top it was easier to make the trip back down the trail. A trip which I would make again some years later. Same trail, same quaking prayers, same positive result. I knew somehow that straddling that precipice was central to who I am. Nature would always be a place I found self. The hard wiring is the call of the lover.

Photo by Gregory Brainard on Unsplash

Louder Than The Cicadas

 I hear the voices. Jabbering louder than the Cicadas do, a thousand little men shaking baby rattles. So much messaging, so many messengers. I’m more aware of them in my life. Stories as pervasive as the cicada in summer.

I hope and wait for the caffeine to flush the sludge of melatonin out from my veins and my brain. I read a couple chapters to remind myself who God is; and try to remember who I am. My coffee mug and I move to my desktop turning on the computer. Sit down to scan today’s news feed; chaos, murder, memes, Hitler, Trump.

 Other voices unbidden whisper negative comparisons; not good enough, not productive enough, not gifted enough. Critical of self, critical of others. It’s an effort to not put others down sometimes. Put ourselves down. Hard to let joy bubble up. Be okay with the losses. They must be a normal thing; cause that’s what every singer sings.

The blanket of summer heat presses down and the Cicadas screech. In the right frame of mind they settle into the background; a symphony of white noise. A strong wind, a passing semi, jars them into a discordant chattering.

There’s a place I go where water cascades over grey sandstone, dripping and bubbling in summer, falling and crashing in spring. Ducks and water drown out the cicada to a low buzz. If I’m intentional, the waterfall speaks to me in its’ own voice, reminding me of who created the stars, and calls them all by name. The voice that knows me by name and called me from the beginning. And the one who, I’m guessing, has a name for each Cicada.

Blog Fodder

Bono says great rock and roll like Petty, Kinks and Stones,

Is best born of a mothers hate and a fathers’ rotting bones,

If mediocre artist or an amazing Jimmy Page,

Creativity can be born from depression and from rage.

Life is a staggering mix of bounty and of blight,

Rain and shine find me scribbling down notes to write,

The locusts have eaten and the stock market is toast,

Friends tell me that it makes a good story to post.

Beating drums and my son perched on an elephants’ pate,

Flying Quatar to India to see him wed his mate,

Dark news on returning of a friend’s loss of a daughter,

If nonfiction is your thing then it all makes for blog fodder.

None of us get through this life without mar or scar or stain,

The fellow traveler does best to resonate not explain,

Mortal pilgrims can all relate to the book of Job a bit,

So God in His blogging put it in the Holy writ.

Meteor showers blaze in a warm desert sky,

Beauty and insanity and we can’t say why,

For eons of time mankind has been smitten,

One more idea for a blog post unwritten.

Summer Rhythms

 Roll in the dirt, chest-to-chest, elbow flying, fist to face fighting. Outside the family I’ve had two physical fights. If you include fights with my sister in the mix the number goes up astronomically. Keith and I had plenty of time to argue, standing on the blacktop during recess. We were always the last ones picked; the first ones rotated out. Hot on the tarmac the week before summer vacation. Surrounded by black; the metal backstop of the baseball diamond too hot to lean on. Don’t know who said what or who touched who. There we were scraping the blacktop with each other until the teachers tore us apart. We stopped fighting. Stopped talking too. For that day, that week, that month of summer vacation.

It may have ended that way if it weren’t for the cabin. The stereotype cabin in the woods-sans Freddy K. Walking distance from a lake, short downhill hike to the downtown arcade where a roll of nickels buys you hours of Skee-ball with winning tickets that entitle you to the toy of your choice. Cool night-time sky filled with stars. My sister and I each get to bring a friend. But my friend and I weren’t talking.

That is an uncomfortable strange place for a teen to be in. Mom encouraged me to call; less for reconciliation and more to find out if Keith was going with us or not.  Saturday morning we loaded up the car; one large dog, six-plus suitcases, sleeping bags, ice chests and six human beings. Classical music on the radio, windows mostly closed, mom’s cigarette lit up; mom’s friend (she got to pick one too) sitting shotgun. Keith and I talking for the whole trip as if nothing had ever happened.

There’s an important place in life for summer breaks, Sunday sabbaths and daily rhythms. Allowing rest and assessing reality. That trip to Big Bear made me aware of a valued friendship. Mom was able to send the kids off to the arcade while she played tennis. Sister and I were able to step out of the ring and into a different space. Pine-filled fresh air for a week, sweltering summer temps left down in the valley. Decades later summer’s still a time to step-out of the work and weight of a normal crushing cycle. A hint imprinted of what peace, rest and wholeness can look like.

Longings In Present

Rhythms of past, longings in present. In the heat of summer; when the space between mountain ranges turns pressure cooker. Or early Fall, when the Santa Ana winds blow hot and dry, cracking lips and emptying souls. Throwing backpack with book and sweatshirt onto the seat I’d head north in my white AMC Hornet.

Fernweh is the German word for hungering; for distant lands, new horizons, and experiences. Could it be that the longing is for place; a stake where heart is whole, mind is still and God is present?  I drove to a place I already knew. A place moisture crept in from the ocean, where mist welcomed morning. There was a smell; unique enough so that anyone who’s ever been to the central California coast; if it were bottled and opened you’d know the place.

Strangers and exiles of the Earth we’re called in Hebrews. Those who seek a country. A far country as Peterson puts it and that U2 is still searching for. I’d set out knowing it was a place that imperfectly satisfied. Where wrestling and upheavals were brought to God in a spot that touched on my longing.

Along the way there was a restaurant. God met me there too. Always the Chili Omelet. Over the years the menu went through a series of name changes but; always, at heart, it was a chili omelet.  Accompanied by fresh ground coffee and a glass of cold, squeezed, orange juice. God meets His people not only in place, but in wine and water, bread and manna.

In my mornings now and in this new season of hunger I’m trying to capture that sense of place. To find a locale, a routine, a spot that I can venture too or model at home. Nowadays the heart seems full of anxious jitters. To find a spot to settle it; quiet it and calm it down is my desire. To sense God or reawaken my awareness of His presence. A spot where I feel less a stranger even if it’s in fifteen-minute increments with my raisin toast and coffee. I suspect it’s more about finding routine and being present with my hungering heart. In Hebrews it’s written, “If they had been thinking about that country from which they’d went out-they could have returned.”

I always returned home from the central coast. I could have moved there but it wasn’t home. It was a slice of Heaven, a shadow of things to come. That’s the deal with being a pilgrim; you’re always searching for that place to land. Living with present longings; looking to future hope.

The Pleasure of Breathing

 “As easy as breathing,” it’s said. Is it really? We understand the saying, take it at face value. We see the movie scene of the newborn, swat on the butt and baby’s breathing. That doesn’t mean it will do it right. Or that it won’t stop (God forbid). The American Lung Association says we take 20,000 breaths per day. Twenty-thousand times a day we do something wrong or inefficiently---maybe.

I was shy of ten years old when I learned I was breathing wrong; terribly wrong. Half-filling my lungs without involving stomach or diaphragm. With asthma, amazing that I got air at all. A friend of my mother, a visiting physical therapist, spent one summer training me to breathe correctly. I remember him placing a book on my stomach so I'd move it up with each breath. Difficult to do it correctly, To do it efficiently; not for most of us. Especially if we’re a singer, swimmer or brass player.

Swimmer Michael Phelps is said to have a lung capacity of twelve liters; twice that of the average human. Still he requires oxygen. In most sports the typical respiratory rate is between 50 and 70 breaths per minute. In swimming, the typical respiration rate is anywhere from 16 to 30 breaths per minute. To swim one has to breathe differently. The same is true for singers and brass players who must learn to use the full body, from cheek to diaphragm, to produce quality sound.

“Breathing,” says Alexander Lowen is “easily and fully is one of the basic pleasures of being alive.” Have you known the terror of not breathing? Cast down under an ocean wave; choking on a piece of food? Contemplating a discussion with God Job says, “He would crush me with a storm, He would not let me catch my breath.” In the love song, All of Me, Legend sings “I’m underwater but I’m breathing fine.” Our breath so wrapped up in our passions and physical bodies.

As easy as falling in love I’ve heard people say. It’s really not. Maybe it’s like breathing. Breathing is delightful. Lowen says breathing has a sexual quality. Breathing involves all of me. To do it right is quite difficult. To be deprived of it; deadly.

Photo by Brian Matangelo on Unsplash

An Excuse For Syrup

 My dentist took her young daughter to work with her one day. After a couple of hours her daughter said to her, “Mommy, I didn’t know you get paid to hurt people!” According to statistics, “by the age of sixty, “people in an industrialized country like the United States, have lost, on average, a third of their teeth.” I am currently on track to meet or exceed those stats!

Something’s burning! The adrenaline kicks in. Then the realization that the smoke and the smell are coming from the drill inserted into my mouth. Not to worry though. They will put out the fire with tons of water, “Spit, now spit.” Thank goodness for that small bib strapped to the chest! 

Before the torture of Dustin Hoffman’s teeth in Marathon Man, I imagined myself as James Bond being tortured in the dentist chair. The bright light, the sharp instruments and the mask on the hygienist. Planning my escape kept the mind off the discomfort. Oh to be back home eating breakfast!

Pancakes are an excuse to have syrup! French fries are one reason for catsup. Lessons I learned as a child and regret now as I sit in the dentist’s chair. I regret my weakness for glucose. A childhood eating Nestles chocolate from the tin, Frosted flakes, Sugar Pops and Captain Crunch. Hot cereal with brown sugar (lots of brown sugar). My parents penchant for rewarding me for finishing dinner with dessert. To this day I can’t eat a meal without something sweet at the finish.

Crushed under the cost of replacing another cracked crown I ponder these things. Do these curses come from bad genes, bad habits or bad brushing? Another cast for the new crown and another partial payment at the front desk. Will this one sit right? Is this the last one? Will these teeth last? Hoping this crown won’t crack. I’ve got some Cracker Jacks sitting on the counter.

Photo by Quang Tri NGUYEN on Unsplash

Dark and Life In Contrast

 My father gave me wondrous gifts wrapped in emptiness and loss. The pachinko game caught this teenage boy’s eye. Bright lights, clanging bells, silver balls bouncing off a thousand pins. Can’t tell you if I told him I wanted it once or a hundred times. My birthday came and with it came the pachinko game. A gift which brought hours of joy. Seeing the desire but not understanding the heart.

Pachinko is gaming at its core. Pulling on a lever shoots a metal ball into a field of pins. Much like pinball (except the Pachinko game stands upright) there are paths the ball bounces down; entering a cave where a little man stands at guard. Knocking him over sets off a mad clanging of bells followed by the sound of ten or twenty ball bearings crashing down a tube into the little ash-tray of winnings. A celebratory cacophony of clanking steel! In Korea you’d cash these winnings out with the house at the end of the night. In my house my friends and I kept a piece of paper where the highest score was scribbled in pen and taped to the door jamb. Hundreds of hours spent pulling that lever. Dad’s hand never touched the game.

The camera is awkwardly received. A gift more transactional than heartfelt. Motivated by a hidden heart. A gift for graduating high school. Hence this failure to receive love no matter how it came wrapped.

Taking pictures is as central to me as breathing. I carry around an inhaler for asthma attacks. I’m never without it. And never without a camera. Then the SLR (single lens reflex), now my Samsung. Photography was enjoyed by my father as well. Yet it was my cousin whom he took under his wing to teach photography on a field trip to a Sequoia National park. As if he were extending to me pieces of his heart then walling them off so they could not be accessed.

Like breathing in those gifts give life. In the stream of bouncing balls and clanging bells I spent hours thinking and meditating. When friends visited, we played the game. One person pulling the lever, leaving room for chatter. Pachinko was for a season; photography is for life.

Through this gift of a lens life is viewed differently. Nature and beauty in crisp contrast. Friends and family caught forever in different poses, stages of life in freeze frame. Millions of memories I’d have forgotten. These gifts are like a Cibachrome print. Dark and grey frame and saturate the picture. In contrast the rich colors of life; the cyan, magenta and yellow astonish with their richness. What a wondrous gift!

Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash

The Art Must Win

 It’s a kind of madness. My writing is. Could be your garden, your watercolors, the woodworking. We temper it. There’s the Poes, the Van Goghs, the Pressfields that don’t. Pressfield wrote out of a Chevy Van forsaking family. What to do with the gnawing?

Close friends and spouses eye us dubiously. Still, they lend support. Greater success, greater support—till you go over the edge. I started experimenting in high school. Constantly scribbling. Journaling to let the ideas out of my head. To put something down for when fame—and death—found me. Notes to girlfriends and poems about waterbeds (“Lie with me,” it whispers and it sounds funny for you see, it talks without springs.). For an “A” grade I wrote a poem a la Alice in Wonderland about an onion ring. Notebooks full, typewriter pounding then word processer purring.

That girl in the sundress, that man in the pink shirt with the stutter—would they fit into a story? All the while the wheels spin. Like the Roald Dahl poem made famous by Gene Wilder, “Yes, the danger must be growing, for the rowers keep on rowing, and they're certainly not showing, any signs that they are slowing.” If drugs or drinking enhances the writing; is it worth the try? You’ve never gone down that road? Never wanted to abandon it all to bourbon and writing? The monomania grips you. The question is what to do with it?

The art must win. Some suppress, some bury it, deny it, kill it. Never flourishing as artist, never seeing the great gift they can provide their audience. We don’t tamp the art down. In full (‘normal’) lives let the madness motivate us to discipline that the art might shine forth. In the words of Madeleine L’Engle, “A life lived in chaos is an impossibility for the artist…. It is a joy to be allowed to be the servant of the work.”

Photo by Jené Stephaniuk on Unsplash