It's affecting me to the point that I've apparently lost my ability to use subject pronouns correctly, and I'm leaving out possessives and the first half of infinitives to boot.
I'm trying to get caught up on grading before Spring Break next week. We'll be trying to do some work around the house, and I'm also hoping to do some writing work each morning. If I'm to do that, I have to get the school work done now, or my time will all be eaten up with that. However, we're also hip-deep in scholarship season, so I've got some hundred or so applications to read and take notes on for the daily two-hour meetings all this week.
And then I've got to plow a field full of snakes. Man.
I was recalling this morning that my posts used to be, you know, interesting. Or at least amusing. I'm not spending an hour at a shot on them any more, which is probably a good thing, but it seems I just pop on here to blurt out some drivel about what daily tasks I'm working on and then scarper. I thought that posting something would be better than posting nothing, but I'm beginning to think that that may have been a miscalculation.
A lot of philosophy and wit and poetry are going on in my head, really. They're just not coming out in the blog, or much of anywhere else.
All right—it's back into the dark, deadly wilderness of online papers. May I have the power to defeat them!
Monday, March 12, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
Tents and Truths
On Tents: I think I'm in love. And no, this isn't a threat to my dear wife.
I'm always perusing the journals of people taking on the PCT thru-hike (I must admit that every time I write the word "thru," my lip curls in annoyance, due to the vast percentage of my students who spell it like that in all circumstances. My hands are tied in this case--that's how the name is written), checking out what they've gone through and how the hike changed them (and if they made it at all). At this point in the year, most folks are preparing for the start in April or early May. One of the favorite bits of information is the gear list, wherein the potential hiker lists what he will be carrying. If you're interested in this sort of thing, you can read some of the journals here.
At any rate, one of the hikers mentioned her deep and abiding devotion to her tarptent. Holy cow! The testimonials are pretty convincing, and the thought of having a good, solid shelter for under three pounds and which can be compressed to the size of a softball is fantastic. If I were going solo, I'd be looking at the Contrail (one and a half pounds!), but the Cloudburst 2 is probably where I'm headed. One for Joanna and I, and maybe a Rainshadow 2 for the kids...
I probably spend far too much brainpower thinking about a journey I'll most likely be making ten years from now. As the basis for my non-fiction book, a modern-day pilgrimmage, it has a powerful draw on my psyche. Some day, O mighty trail... some day.
On Truths: On the way into preschool this morning, the boys and I were discussing how it is a good thing to try new food. Denver is the more adventuresome eater at this point, generally trying things at least once. (Oddly, he invariably tastes something and claims that it is delicious, but when more is offered he refuses it utterly. Weird kid.) Poncho, on the other hand, lives on string cheese, crackers, and peanut butter. Getting him to eat an apple can be a trial.
At any rate, I was congratulating Denver on his bravery, and encouraging Poncho for his small steps (he tried cheese pizza the other day and is very proud of this fact). As we were walking into the classroom, he said seriously, "If you love God, you will go to heaven, even if you don't try new foods." I had to heartily agree.
I'm always perusing the journals of people taking on the PCT thru-hike (I must admit that every time I write the word "thru," my lip curls in annoyance, due to the vast percentage of my students who spell it like that in all circumstances. My hands are tied in this case--that's how the name is written), checking out what they've gone through and how the hike changed them (and if they made it at all). At this point in the year, most folks are preparing for the start in April or early May. One of the favorite bits of information is the gear list, wherein the potential hiker lists what he will be carrying. If you're interested in this sort of thing, you can read some of the journals here.
At any rate, one of the hikers mentioned her deep and abiding devotion to her tarptent. Holy cow! The testimonials are pretty convincing, and the thought of having a good, solid shelter for under three pounds and which can be compressed to the size of a softball is fantastic. If I were going solo, I'd be looking at the Contrail (one and a half pounds!), but the Cloudburst 2 is probably where I'm headed. One for Joanna and I, and maybe a Rainshadow 2 for the kids...
I probably spend far too much brainpower thinking about a journey I'll most likely be making ten years from now. As the basis for my non-fiction book, a modern-day pilgrimmage, it has a powerful draw on my psyche. Some day, O mighty trail... some day.
On Truths: On the way into preschool this morning, the boys and I were discussing how it is a good thing to try new food. Denver is the more adventuresome eater at this point, generally trying things at least once. (Oddly, he invariably tastes something and claims that it is delicious, but when more is offered he refuses it utterly. Weird kid.) Poncho, on the other hand, lives on string cheese, crackers, and peanut butter. Getting him to eat an apple can be a trial.
At any rate, I was congratulating Denver on his bravery, and encouraging Poncho for his small steps (he tried cheese pizza the other day and is very proud of this fact). As we were walking into the classroom, he said seriously, "If you love God, you will go to heaven, even if you don't try new foods." I had to heartily agree.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Journeys of the Heart
Sounds melodramatic, doesn't it?
I went on Saturday for a drive to have some alone time with God. I drove up through Wrightwood. I had never been before, which seems odd as I've lived in this place over 30 years and they're just the mountain next door. Wrightwood itself wasn't too spectacular (those of you in the know, think Running Springs but without the charm), and there was a fair amount of traffic headed for the Mountain High ski resort. However, just up the highway the valley opens out to present spectacular views—Phelan and the Mojave dim and distant to the north, the great valleys of the San Gabriels to the south. The highway ends not far past the ski resort, as most of it fell off the mountain during the heavy rains of a few years ago. However, I did find the spots where the Pacific Crest Trail crosses the highway, and walked along a bit from here to find a spot from which to take in all this grandeur. (If you zoom in on the map, you'll see a forest road leading to the right on the photo, NF-3N06; just above it a dirt trail leads up the crest of the hill. That's the PCT; follow it along to the first large tree—that's what I was sitting under.) I toted along my bible, a truck blanket, and the green brimmed beanie I got for Christmas (which Caleb has dubbed my "boo-boo hat" because of the small red cross logo). I sat under a spreading pine, the wind chorusing through the branches and shaking off large chunks of ice to rain down into the scree pile at my feet. It was a good time of prayer and thinking, but didn't clear up any of my current confusion. An issue upon which I need to meditate and with which I need to wrestle further.
On Friday, an appraiser came to look at our house, so it was a day filled with frantic cleaning and repair. It's always a bit nerve-wracking to have someone come in and judge your home; now we just have the wait to find out what value he sets, which in turn will determine how our current refinancing venture will go and what our budget looks like for the future. The good news is, if this goes through (Lord willing), we'll pay off all our credit card debt and our car loon in one swell foop (that last reference was for you, Slater).
Otherwise, only grading lies ahead. Endlessly. Forever and ever...
Well, not really. But it seems that way.
I went on Saturday for a drive to have some alone time with God. I drove up through Wrightwood. I had never been before, which seems odd as I've lived in this place over 30 years and they're just the mountain next door. Wrightwood itself wasn't too spectacular (those of you in the know, think Running Springs but without the charm), and there was a fair amount of traffic headed for the Mountain High ski resort. However, just up the highway the valley opens out to present spectacular views—Phelan and the Mojave dim and distant to the north, the great valleys of the San Gabriels to the south. The highway ends not far past the ski resort, as most of it fell off the mountain during the heavy rains of a few years ago. However, I did find the spots where the Pacific Crest Trail crosses the highway, and walked along a bit from here to find a spot from which to take in all this grandeur. (If you zoom in on the map, you'll see a forest road leading to the right on the photo, NF-3N06; just above it a dirt trail leads up the crest of the hill. That's the PCT; follow it along to the first large tree—that's what I was sitting under.) I toted along my bible, a truck blanket, and the green brimmed beanie I got for Christmas (which Caleb has dubbed my "boo-boo hat" because of the small red cross logo). I sat under a spreading pine, the wind chorusing through the branches and shaking off large chunks of ice to rain down into the scree pile at my feet. It was a good time of prayer and thinking, but didn't clear up any of my current confusion. An issue upon which I need to meditate and with which I need to wrestle further.
On Friday, an appraiser came to look at our house, so it was a day filled with frantic cleaning and repair. It's always a bit nerve-wracking to have someone come in and judge your home; now we just have the wait to find out what value he sets, which in turn will determine how our current refinancing venture will go and what our budget looks like for the future. The good news is, if this goes through (Lord willing), we'll pay off all our credit card debt and our car loon in one swell foop (that last reference was for you, Slater).
Otherwise, only grading lies ahead. Endlessly. Forever and ever...
Well, not really. But it seems that way.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Weird
A great deal has been going on, and yet I've neither the time nor the brainpower to talk about any particular aspect in detail. Some highlights from the past month or so:
—Still coming down off the birthday thing. Actually, I'm talking with the good folks over at Freeform Games about turning the extra characters I worked up into an "expansion pack" for the party, so that's fun. Now if only I can get the time to get on that...
—Went on a day hike with young Dan last weekend, which was a bunch of fun. A beautiful puppy showed up early on and went along with us for the whole trip (about six miles). She was a great dog, and I was sorry to have to return her to the spot she joined us. Our hike was along the shores of Lake Silverwood, along the Pacific Crest Trail, and the weather was beautiful. This brings my total miles hiked on the PCT up to about 32--which is about 1.2% of the total trail. Impressive stuff.
I also got to test out my nifty new camping stove (the MSR Dragonfly, which I picked up for my birthday) for more than just boiling water. It makes fine Spam, mushroom, and pepper scrambled eggs—hooray for precise flame control.
—Got to see my sister a few times, as she was back to finalize the sale of her old house. I spent a couple of days cleaning out the odds and ends she and her roommate left behind before escrow closed—a tiring and surreal experience. Another link to the southland severed.
—Picked up and have been reading voraciously Eldredge's latest, The Way of the Wild Heart, which has grabbed my heart and my head nearly as much as Wild at Heart did, and I think this one may have at least as much to unpack. Blame Skaggs for bringing it up—I certainly do. A good thing, but it's put me in a strange philosophical place. A lot of prayer and soul-searching and questioning going on. Perhaps that's part of why this post is so strange.
—Sent off an audio demo to the good people at Blackstone Audio, but I haven't heard back anything yet. That's another matter for prayer—it would be a lot of fun, but I don't know which way to lean on that one.
—Big things may be moving in my life, and the life of my delightful, patient, understanding, brave family. We'll see.
So there you are. Not much coherent. But then again, neither am I much these days.
Weird, I tell you.
—Still coming down off the birthday thing. Actually, I'm talking with the good folks over at Freeform Games about turning the extra characters I worked up into an "expansion pack" for the party, so that's fun. Now if only I can get the time to get on that...
—Went on a day hike with young Dan last weekend, which was a bunch of fun. A beautiful puppy showed up early on and went along with us for the whole trip (about six miles). She was a great dog, and I was sorry to have to return her to the spot she joined us. Our hike was along the shores of Lake Silverwood, along the Pacific Crest Trail, and the weather was beautiful. This brings my total miles hiked on the PCT up to about 32--which is about 1.2% of the total trail. Impressive stuff.
I also got to test out my nifty new camping stove (the MSR Dragonfly, which I picked up for my birthday) for more than just boiling water. It makes fine Spam, mushroom, and pepper scrambled eggs—hooray for precise flame control.
—Got to see my sister a few times, as she was back to finalize the sale of her old house. I spent a couple of days cleaning out the odds and ends she and her roommate left behind before escrow closed—a tiring and surreal experience. Another link to the southland severed.
—Picked up and have been reading voraciously Eldredge's latest, The Way of the Wild Heart, which has grabbed my heart and my head nearly as much as Wild at Heart did, and I think this one may have at least as much to unpack. Blame Skaggs for bringing it up—I certainly do. A good thing, but it's put me in a strange philosophical place. A lot of prayer and soul-searching and questioning going on. Perhaps that's part of why this post is so strange.
—Sent off an audio demo to the good people at Blackstone Audio, but I haven't heard back anything yet. That's another matter for prayer—it would be a lot of fun, but I don't know which way to lean on that one.
—Big things may be moving in my life, and the life of my delightful, patient, understanding, brave family. We'll see.
So there you are. Not much coherent. But then again, neither am I much these days.
Weird, I tell you.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Whole Shebang
The time has come to share the results of the grand murder party, Court in the Act! It took some time to recover, as well as to get the photos uploaded to the web so I could get them over here. Good luck if you're on dial-up; this page may be loading all night.
For those who did not attend, the party took place at the court of Queen Elizabeth in a loosely historical Renaissance extravaganza. I was Thomas Radclyffe, the Lord Chamberlain and host, and Joanna did an amazing job as the Mistress of the Robes (the head of the ladies-in-waiting) and kept the table full of deliciousness throughout the night. Explorers vied for attention, courtiers vied for the queen's hand, and plotters vied for the throne. Intrigue was rampant. Before the end of the evening an ambassador lay dead, several nobles were sent to the Tower of London, and the Spanish Armada successfully invaded and conquered England--so it was a busy night, as you can imagine. The costuming was amazing across the board, and I think a fine time was had by all. I said at the time that I knew I was loved when 32 people would put on silly costumes and come play pretend for an evening, some having had to fly in for the privelege...
Some group shots to start things off:
Here the Queen is deep in conference with her Master of the Armory, Sir Henry Lee. Looking on is that dashing seaman, Sir Francis Drake. Ingrid, our Queen, took to imperious power like a fish to water.
Here several ladies--Lady Anne Cecil, Jane Dee, and Anne Vavasour--are deep in contemplation. There was a lot of paperwork to keep track of, and some studious review before the start was wise. So was holding on to your character reference material throughout the night (right, Budzik???).
Christopher Marlowe chats amiably with his chief rival, William Shakespeare (the thing behind the curly mop and the hat there). Mistress Hobbs, the sweet and loyal servingwoman, looks on with bemusement.
The Council of Four: Lee, the Spanish Ambassador Juan Futin da Greve, Sir Francis Walsingham, and Andrew Prim, Archbishop of York (for bonus points, try to guess which one is the archbishop!).
The captive Mary, Queen of Scots tells her sad tale to the sympathetic ear of another misunderstood nobleman, Prince Phillipe of France (the most foppish Frenchman ever, if that's even possible).
Elenor von Wallachia, a visiting lady from the Germanies. She spoke very little during the evening, but she had a delightful laugh, which made her possibly the best player of the night.
Our hostess and her real-life sister as Lady Jane Seymour. No one knows what they're laughing about here, and that's probably for the best. They've refused to reveal the secret--those irascible Court ladies!
The hairy beast that is Shakespeare (note the cool Goth fingernail polish there--what a drama queen) exchanges artistic comment with Levina Teerlinc, the royal Court painter. Meanwhile, Lord Robert Dudley is seducing yet another of his many lady-friends in the background...
Dr. John Dee, deep in contemplation of his Enochian texts. During this deep study, Dr. Dee's wife was off looking for a new man, his assistant was off seeking to make a quick shilling off the doctor's good reputation, and the Spanish Cardinal was off telling everyone that Dr. Dee was a madman, a sorcerer, and probably the murderer...
A couple of shots to try to capture the fullness of the assembled crowd at the close of the evening. The left half of the Cast...
... and the right. Several folks still did not fit into the frame--I should have gotten one group shot, but everyone had been so patient I hated to punish them further. There were some swords in the crowd, after all.
Some individual shots to cap things off:
I don't think anyone got more laughs than our delightful, effete Shakespeare, here in his fully glory. My favorite line of the night: "Some people say I'm the best playwright in England, but I wouldn't say that. Oh, look! There's Christopher Marlowe, the second best playwright in England! And I really mean that. How droll!"
The often unnoticed but always busy Irishman Edward Kelley, here with Lady Elenor. Note she is still laughing...
Mistress Nagel, the "other" servingwoman, alternately forming workers' unions and blackmailing the nobility. She had many names throughout the evening, most of which are unprintable here.
Mary of Scots, at her most innocent. This was approximately the expression she was wearing thirty seconds before Elizabeth had her removed to the Tower for plotting treason...
Elizabeth Gloriana in all her regalia. She commanded the Court with aplomb, keeping both her foes and her advisors guessing constantly, and pulled a few tricks that made the Chamberlain sweat.
Wizened, cautious old counselor to the Queen, Lord Canning. (It was more convincing with the huge grey beard you could lose a badger in, trust me. Deb was terrific in the part.)
It's Nell! Pronounced "Neil"; his parents were not good spellers. Dale stepped into this part at the last minute and ended up winning the "Best Character" competition--mainly based on looks like this one. The vote might have gone differently had he revealed more freely his past as a "rent boy."
Prince Phillipe, doing one of the little moves that made everyone look at him oddly all evening. Another of those great Shakespearean "girl-disguised-as-boy-fools-everyone" roles fulfilled admirably by sweet Anna.
The ambassador and the court painter, real-life sweethearts. Constance and Dave overcame the fact that I initially totally forgot to invite them and they filled in for others who couldn't attend at the last minute. Bravo, indeed.
Lord Robert the Absentminded. A brilliant strategist, save that he left all his secrets written down in a handy little stack early in the evening. He still managed pretty well, so that's a tribute to him. He owes me now, though.
Edward de Vere and his wife, Anne Cecil. Many couples were chosen on the basis of how amusing their height differences would be, and this one went spectacularly well. I am only sad I missed the moment when Christina pinned Aaron against the wall and intimidated him into revealing his indiscretions. Of course, if you know Christina at all, this is entirely plausible.
England's spymaster extraordinaire, Sir Francis Walsingham. Ernie was so good at this that he was nearly running most of the event. I liked his summary of his experience: "I failed at all seven of my goals and I had a ball doing it."
The brave and dangerous Sir Walter Raleigh. Watching him defend the magnificent treasure he had brought back from the New World--the much-maligned "Potato," the vegetable Philosopher's Stone--and hold his own against the wily Drake, and somehow evade responsibility for the disappearance of the Roanoke Colony was a wonder to behold.
The Old Guard did a fine job of holding their own, as well. Archbishop Prim and Katherine Ashley (Joanna's real-life parents) made great costumes and survived the strangeness of my friends. Meanwhile, my father hated every minute as Cardinal Diego Menendez de Aviles and had to be wrestled out of his costume by the end of the night. I'm glad my friends survived the strangeness of my dad.
Finally, your Host and Hostess for the evening. What a handsome couple!
We had tremendous fun, and I'm hoping to do something similar next year--so those of you many miles away, mark your calendars now. As I said in an e-mail to the participants, I was encouraged to make the costuming as difficult as possible, so it may be set in Ancient Babylon, or Feudal Japan--though I have received a lot of positive encouragement for my idea of a Mexican wrestling murder party...
Just call me El Mysterioso Blanco!
For those who did not attend, the party took place at the court of Queen Elizabeth in a loosely historical Renaissance extravaganza. I was Thomas Radclyffe, the Lord Chamberlain and host, and Joanna did an amazing job as the Mistress of the Robes (the head of the ladies-in-waiting) and kept the table full of deliciousness throughout the night. Explorers vied for attention, courtiers vied for the queen's hand, and plotters vied for the throne. Intrigue was rampant. Before the end of the evening an ambassador lay dead, several nobles were sent to the Tower of London, and the Spanish Armada successfully invaded and conquered England--so it was a busy night, as you can imagine. The costuming was amazing across the board, and I think a fine time was had by all. I said at the time that I knew I was loved when 32 people would put on silly costumes and come play pretend for an evening, some having had to fly in for the privelege...
Some group shots to start things off:
Here the Queen is deep in conference with her Master of the Armory, Sir Henry Lee. Looking on is that dashing seaman, Sir Francis Drake. Ingrid, our Queen, took to imperious power like a fish to water.
Here several ladies--Lady Anne Cecil, Jane Dee, and Anne Vavasour--are deep in contemplation. There was a lot of paperwork to keep track of, and some studious review before the start was wise. So was holding on to your character reference material throughout the night (right, Budzik???).
Christopher Marlowe chats amiably with his chief rival, William Shakespeare (the thing behind the curly mop and the hat there). Mistress Hobbs, the sweet and loyal servingwoman, looks on with bemusement.
The Council of Four: Lee, the Spanish Ambassador Juan Futin da Greve, Sir Francis Walsingham, and Andrew Prim, Archbishop of York (for bonus points, try to guess which one is the archbishop!).
The captive Mary, Queen of Scots tells her sad tale to the sympathetic ear of another misunderstood nobleman, Prince Phillipe of France (the most foppish Frenchman ever, if that's even possible).
Elenor von Wallachia, a visiting lady from the Germanies. She spoke very little during the evening, but she had a delightful laugh, which made her possibly the best player of the night.
Our hostess and her real-life sister as Lady Jane Seymour. No one knows what they're laughing about here, and that's probably for the best. They've refused to reveal the secret--those irascible Court ladies!
The hairy beast that is Shakespeare (note the cool Goth fingernail polish there--what a drama queen) exchanges artistic comment with Levina Teerlinc, the royal Court painter. Meanwhile, Lord Robert Dudley is seducing yet another of his many lady-friends in the background...
Dr. John Dee, deep in contemplation of his Enochian texts. During this deep study, Dr. Dee's wife was off looking for a new man, his assistant was off seeking to make a quick shilling off the doctor's good reputation, and the Spanish Cardinal was off telling everyone that Dr. Dee was a madman, a sorcerer, and probably the murderer...
A couple of shots to try to capture the fullness of the assembled crowd at the close of the evening. The left half of the Cast...
... and the right. Several folks still did not fit into the frame--I should have gotten one group shot, but everyone had been so patient I hated to punish them further. There were some swords in the crowd, after all.
Some individual shots to cap things off:
I don't think anyone got more laughs than our delightful, effete Shakespeare, here in his fully glory. My favorite line of the night: "Some people say I'm the best playwright in England, but I wouldn't say that. Oh, look! There's Christopher Marlowe, the second best playwright in England! And I really mean that. How droll!"
The often unnoticed but always busy Irishman Edward Kelley, here with Lady Elenor. Note she is still laughing...
Mistress Nagel, the "other" servingwoman, alternately forming workers' unions and blackmailing the nobility. She had many names throughout the evening, most of which are unprintable here.
Mary of Scots, at her most innocent. This was approximately the expression she was wearing thirty seconds before Elizabeth had her removed to the Tower for plotting treason...
Elizabeth Gloriana in all her regalia. She commanded the Court with aplomb, keeping both her foes and her advisors guessing constantly, and pulled a few tricks that made the Chamberlain sweat.
Wizened, cautious old counselor to the Queen, Lord Canning. (It was more convincing with the huge grey beard you could lose a badger in, trust me. Deb was terrific in the part.)
It's Nell! Pronounced "Neil"; his parents were not good spellers. Dale stepped into this part at the last minute and ended up winning the "Best Character" competition--mainly based on looks like this one. The vote might have gone differently had he revealed more freely his past as a "rent boy."
Prince Phillipe, doing one of the little moves that made everyone look at him oddly all evening. Another of those great Shakespearean "girl-disguised-as-boy-fools-everyone" roles fulfilled admirably by sweet Anna.
The ambassador and the court painter, real-life sweethearts. Constance and Dave overcame the fact that I initially totally forgot to invite them and they filled in for others who couldn't attend at the last minute. Bravo, indeed.
Lord Robert the Absentminded. A brilliant strategist, save that he left all his secrets written down in a handy little stack early in the evening. He still managed pretty well, so that's a tribute to him. He owes me now, though.
Edward de Vere and his wife, Anne Cecil. Many couples were chosen on the basis of how amusing their height differences would be, and this one went spectacularly well. I am only sad I missed the moment when Christina pinned Aaron against the wall and intimidated him into revealing his indiscretions. Of course, if you know Christina at all, this is entirely plausible.
England's spymaster extraordinaire, Sir Francis Walsingham. Ernie was so good at this that he was nearly running most of the event. I liked his summary of his experience: "I failed at all seven of my goals and I had a ball doing it."
The brave and dangerous Sir Walter Raleigh. Watching him defend the magnificent treasure he had brought back from the New World--the much-maligned "Potato," the vegetable Philosopher's Stone--and hold his own against the wily Drake, and somehow evade responsibility for the disappearance of the Roanoke Colony was a wonder to behold.
The Old Guard did a fine job of holding their own, as well. Archbishop Prim and Katherine Ashley (Joanna's real-life parents) made great costumes and survived the strangeness of my friends. Meanwhile, my father hated every minute as Cardinal Diego Menendez de Aviles and had to be wrestled out of his costume by the end of the night. I'm glad my friends survived the strangeness of my dad.
Finally, your Host and Hostess for the evening. What a handsome couple!
We had tremendous fun, and I'm hoping to do something similar next year--so those of you many miles away, mark your calendars now. As I said in an e-mail to the participants, I was encouraged to make the costuming as difficult as possible, so it may be set in Ancient Babylon, or Feudal Japan--though I have received a lot of positive encouragement for my idea of a Mexican wrestling murder party...
Just call me El Mysterioso Blanco!
Friday, February 02, 2007
Something
Okay, that was just for Kathie.
It's nice to know I'm missed when I'm gone. And yes, it's been a crowded, crazy time of late. The holidays were a whirlwind, and then the new semester was starting, and then I remembered that I have this party coming up, and a giant lump of work to do for it.
The party? Ah, yes. I'm guessing most anyone who reads this was probably invited at some point, but we're throwing a grand murder party for the event. It's a little sad and self-important that I'm arranging and running my own birthday party, but I'm a self-important kind of guy. I'd been wanting to put together another party like Joanna's 30th, so it seemed like a good excuse.
And it worked--we've got about 30 people coming. The murder party set I bought came with parts for 21, so I filled in with the extra characters and rewrote the thing to fit the new folks in and make it more exciting. The company that puts these out, Freeform Games, has some neat ideas and great little gimmicks for the game, but they tend to be unevenly written and occasionally goofy. This one's set at the Court of Queen Elizabeth, and we get to break out all our Renaissance gear--and any game that features my father as a Spanish Cardinal is bound to be entertaining. A big buffet dinner, decorations, and specialized props are all in the mix here.
So that's what I've been doing, O demanding friends. I'll let you know how it went and try to get some good pictures to post. Sorry this is not thrilling, but the crushing guilt was eating away at me, and I had a few moments this morning before the cleaning and prep get going in earnest. Zounds! I must away with me!
It's nice to know I'm missed when I'm gone. And yes, it's been a crowded, crazy time of late. The holidays were a whirlwind, and then the new semester was starting, and then I remembered that I have this party coming up, and a giant lump of work to do for it.
The party? Ah, yes. I'm guessing most anyone who reads this was probably invited at some point, but we're throwing a grand murder party for the event. It's a little sad and self-important that I'm arranging and running my own birthday party, but I'm a self-important kind of guy. I'd been wanting to put together another party like Joanna's 30th, so it seemed like a good excuse.
And it worked--we've got about 30 people coming. The murder party set I bought came with parts for 21, so I filled in with the extra characters and rewrote the thing to fit the new folks in and make it more exciting. The company that puts these out, Freeform Games, has some neat ideas and great little gimmicks for the game, but they tend to be unevenly written and occasionally goofy. This one's set at the Court of Queen Elizabeth, and we get to break out all our Renaissance gear--and any game that features my father as a Spanish Cardinal is bound to be entertaining. A big buffet dinner, decorations, and specialized props are all in the mix here.
So that's what I've been doing, O demanding friends. I'll let you know how it went and try to get some good pictures to post. Sorry this is not thrilling, but the crushing guilt was eating away at me, and I had a few moments this morning before the cleaning and prep get going in earnest. Zounds! I must away with me!
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Brought Up Short
I was all set to come in here and update the crowd on our trip to Disneyland over Thanksgiving, or discuss the end-of-the-year madness around here, or even compare various versions of A Christmas Carol in the hopes of steering you toward the good ones, but a strange and sobering event has occured in the meantime that brought me up short, and it's been coloring my world for a couple of days now.
I'm not sure where to begin, because I don't know that I've really come to grips with it myself. During my time in the graduate creative writing program up at Eastern Washington University, I made a dear friend named Sherise. She was warm and generous and brilliant, and we shared a lot during those strange years. When the program ended and we went our ways, it turned out she lived only an hour away from Running Springs, down near Murietta. In fact, she was instrumental in getting me the first adjunct positions I had, setting up interviews and talking me up to the administrators at the schools she was part of--heck, for two of the jobs, I didn't even have to interview; they just said, "Oh, Sherise says you're great," and that was it. She also penned one of my recommendation letters that helped me get my current gig at SBVC.
Over the seven or so years since school, we've kept in touch off and on, getting together occasionally and chatting. She was probably the most devoted instructor I know and was a wizard in the classroom; I learned a lot from her. We fell somewhat out of touch in the last couple of years, but we still spoke occasionally or traded emails. Yesterday I realized it had been nearly a year since we had last spoken, so I sent off an email to check in and see how she and her new husband and her two kids were doing.
But the email bounced back, and when I went to the MSJC website to look up her office number, it wasn't listed. Curious, I dropped her name into Google to see if she had changed schools or gotten out of the teaching game.
What I found was a newspaper article detailing how Sherise had been killed in an automobile collision back in March. I stared at the article for a long time, trying to make it fit in my head, but it wouldn't. I had to find the memorial page describing her funeral and look through the picture gallery and read the guestbook comments to make myself believe this was the same woman I knew.
It felt utterly surreal. My friend--who had shared tea with me every day in her office across the hall from mine, who put me on a writing regimen because she believed in my work, who had sat next to me in endless writing workshops and had the study carrel next to mine in the library--was gone, and I had missed it totally.
I sent an email to the EWU folks who I'm still in contact with to let them know. My old roommate Garrett, wise in these things, said, "This is a good reminder for me of how removed we really are from people, even with e-mail. If any of my long-distance friends were to be in such an accident, there would be no reasonable way for me to know. And because I am so willing myself to let correspondences drag at a glacial pace, it would be literally months and months before I even suspected that something was off. Discovering an online obituary is a particularly harsh form of clarification." Indeed. Far-flung as we are, it's easy to go for a very long time in our insular little worlds. I'm terribly grateful for this little blog network we've got going, though I think I'll be more nervous now if someone doesn't post for a while. (Christina, you're okay, right? Jen?)
So say a prayer for her family during the first Christmas without her. And check in on an old friend this week; better, call up those you love and remind them of that fact. This is going to end up sounding like a Hallmark card if I'm not careful, but we sail through this life as though on untroubled waters when, in truth, we're on rough seas no matter what the horizon may look like from here. I thank God that Sherise knew Him and that she's not lost to us forever, but these losses, even if temporary, are a hard blow for those of us left here.
Be safe out there, kids.
I'm not sure where to begin, because I don't know that I've really come to grips with it myself. During my time in the graduate creative writing program up at Eastern Washington University, I made a dear friend named Sherise. She was warm and generous and brilliant, and we shared a lot during those strange years. When the program ended and we went our ways, it turned out she lived only an hour away from Running Springs, down near Murietta. In fact, she was instrumental in getting me the first adjunct positions I had, setting up interviews and talking me up to the administrators at the schools she was part of--heck, for two of the jobs, I didn't even have to interview; they just said, "Oh, Sherise says you're great," and that was it. She also penned one of my recommendation letters that helped me get my current gig at SBVC.
Over the seven or so years since school, we've kept in touch off and on, getting together occasionally and chatting. She was probably the most devoted instructor I know and was a wizard in the classroom; I learned a lot from her. We fell somewhat out of touch in the last couple of years, but we still spoke occasionally or traded emails. Yesterday I realized it had been nearly a year since we had last spoken, so I sent off an email to check in and see how she and her new husband and her two kids were doing.
But the email bounced back, and when I went to the MSJC website to look up her office number, it wasn't listed. Curious, I dropped her name into Google to see if she had changed schools or gotten out of the teaching game.
What I found was a newspaper article detailing how Sherise had been killed in an automobile collision back in March. I stared at the article for a long time, trying to make it fit in my head, but it wouldn't. I had to find the memorial page describing her funeral and look through the picture gallery and read the guestbook comments to make myself believe this was the same woman I knew.
It felt utterly surreal. My friend--who had shared tea with me every day in her office across the hall from mine, who put me on a writing regimen because she believed in my work, who had sat next to me in endless writing workshops and had the study carrel next to mine in the library--was gone, and I had missed it totally.
I sent an email to the EWU folks who I'm still in contact with to let them know. My old roommate Garrett, wise in these things, said, "This is a good reminder for me of how removed we really are from people, even with e-mail. If any of my long-distance friends were to be in such an accident, there would be no reasonable way for me to know. And because I am so willing myself to let correspondences drag at a glacial pace, it would be literally months and months before I even suspected that something was off. Discovering an online obituary is a particularly harsh form of clarification." Indeed. Far-flung as we are, it's easy to go for a very long time in our insular little worlds. I'm terribly grateful for this little blog network we've got going, though I think I'll be more nervous now if someone doesn't post for a while. (Christina, you're okay, right? Jen?)
So say a prayer for her family during the first Christmas without her. And check in on an old friend this week; better, call up those you love and remind them of that fact. This is going to end up sounding like a Hallmark card if I'm not careful, but we sail through this life as though on untroubled waters when, in truth, we're on rough seas no matter what the horizon may look like from here. I thank God that Sherise knew Him and that she's not lost to us forever, but these losses, even if temporary, are a hard blow for those of us left here.
Be safe out there, kids.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Confessions
The month has done. It is finished. At least, that particular batch of 50,000 words is finished.
However, I must admit I bent the rules a bit.
See, Chris Baty, the guy who came up with this idea in the first place, is pretty insistent in his book No Plot? No Problem! and on the website that you come into the month with no prior writing (other than outlines and such). Half-finished manuscripts are verboten. To wit:
But I am a naughty monkey, and I abandoned this rule after the first day.
I had built a beautiful, grotesque, wonderful vision in my mind of the novel I would write but had purposefully not set anything down about it before the first day. That morning in the Ontario airport, I wrote about two pages of the strangest blather that had ever been carved in electrons via the medium of my fingers on the keyboard. It was weird, wild stuff. At the time, I was almost disgusted by how bizarre it was and began to despair.
Then came Bootcamp NW in Oregon with Skaggs, and a good deal of my time in prayer there was seeking after God, asking, "Do you want me to write? For Your sake, why? And if so, what?" I vowed to hold on like Jacob until I got something like an answer.
And I think I did. I'm pretty sure God tapped me on the shoulder and said, casually, "You're not done with the first one yet."
So this month has actually been comprised of me adding additional material to the Leaf story I began in March. I do not have two 50,000 word novels; I have one 100,000 word novel.
I've still felt kind of guilty, though, so I'm confessing here and now. Forgive me, Chris Baty! I still had a grand time, filled in a lot of gaps in the first draft, came up with a few more scenes that made me choke while I wrote them, and am more confident about the story than I ever was after the first time out. I'm still far from a finished product, and I don't know what will happen with this great, unwieldy, it-all-has-to-be-printed-out-cut-apart-and-reordered-again thing, but it's got some purpose, and that is a happiness.
And I've got some other stuff to write now, too.
So this was fun, but (Lord willing), it's only the beginning.
ps—Having gone back and read that chaotic madness of the first day, it turns out to be not as bad as I had thought. Really, there's some interesting stuff in there. So perhaps one day it may rise again...
However, I must admit I bent the rules a bit.
See, Chris Baty, the guy who came up with this idea in the first place, is pretty insistent in his book No Plot? No Problem! and on the website that you come into the month with no prior writing (other than outlines and such). Half-finished manuscripts are verboten. To wit:
Do I have to start my novel from scratch on November 1?
Yes.
This sounds like a dumb, arbitrary rule, we know. But bringing a half-finished manuscript into NaNoWriMo all but guarantees a miserable month. You'll simply care about the characters and story too much to write with the gleeful, anything-goes approach that makes NaNoWriMo such a creative rush. Give yourself the gift of a clean slate, and you'll tap into realms of imagination and intuition that are out-of-reach when working on pre-existing manuscripts.
But I am a naughty monkey, and I abandoned this rule after the first day.
I had built a beautiful, grotesque, wonderful vision in my mind of the novel I would write but had purposefully not set anything down about it before the first day. That morning in the Ontario airport, I wrote about two pages of the strangest blather that had ever been carved in electrons via the medium of my fingers on the keyboard. It was weird, wild stuff. At the time, I was almost disgusted by how bizarre it was and began to despair.
Then came Bootcamp NW in Oregon with Skaggs, and a good deal of my time in prayer there was seeking after God, asking, "Do you want me to write? For Your sake, why? And if so, what?" I vowed to hold on like Jacob until I got something like an answer.
And I think I did. I'm pretty sure God tapped me on the shoulder and said, casually, "You're not done with the first one yet."
So this month has actually been comprised of me adding additional material to the Leaf story I began in March. I do not have two 50,000 word novels; I have one 100,000 word novel.
I've still felt kind of guilty, though, so I'm confessing here and now. Forgive me, Chris Baty! I still had a grand time, filled in a lot of gaps in the first draft, came up with a few more scenes that made me choke while I wrote them, and am more confident about the story than I ever was after the first time out. I'm still far from a finished product, and I don't know what will happen with this great, unwieldy, it-all-has-to-be-printed-out-cut-apart-and-reordered-again thing, but it's got some purpose, and that is a happiness.
And I've got some other stuff to write now, too.
So this was fun, but (Lord willing), it's only the beginning.
ps—Having gone back and read that chaotic madness of the first day, it turns out to be not as bad as I had thought. Really, there's some interesting stuff in there. So perhaps one day it may rise again...
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Day 30 (Final Word Count: 50,347)
I've got to log off and go kiss my family.
Twice in one year. Booyah!
That is all for now.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Day 28 (Word Count: 43,082)
Two days. 6,918 words. These are all that stand between me and glorious victory.
Some of you may have noticed that the little NaNoWriMo icon over at the left now includes a word counter. If you've been checking in, wondering where I was in the process, that's been keeping track. It'd probably have been more useful for me to point that out earlier.
So the task still before me is utterly managable. Yes, I'm grading papers, but I'm not nearly as behind as usual. Yes, we had the Disney Thanksgiving, during which I wrote maybe a thousand words (but I think writing part of the novel at the Ontario Airport, part in Newberg, Oregon, and part at the Disneyland Hotel qualifies me for some kind of strange prize), and I was standing at 36,000 or so words yesterday morning, but it's all been manageable. Things have opened up for me in a way that I can hardly explain myself. As I've said before, part of me still cowers in fear of the "other shoe" coming down, but that part is growing smaller daily. Yes, there will be setbacks and difficulties aplenty in the days ahead, and I have a strong sense that this is a season of replenishment and reprieve before much greater challenges come to the fore, but I know that God is with me and that He will see me through them.
I was reading through some of my old posts, and my attitude at the moment is so different than those I espoused there that I feel like an entirely different person. And maybe I am. I don't want this to sound boastful, or naive, but it's honestly where I stand today, Christ be praised for it.
I'll try to get some more specifics up in the next day or two. Until then, I've got some more prose-ifying to do.
Some of you may have noticed that the little NaNoWriMo icon over at the left now includes a word counter. If you've been checking in, wondering where I was in the process, that's been keeping track. It'd probably have been more useful for me to point that out earlier.
So the task still before me is utterly managable. Yes, I'm grading papers, but I'm not nearly as behind as usual. Yes, we had the Disney Thanksgiving, during which I wrote maybe a thousand words (but I think writing part of the novel at the Ontario Airport, part in Newberg, Oregon, and part at the Disneyland Hotel qualifies me for some kind of strange prize), and I was standing at 36,000 or so words yesterday morning, but it's all been manageable. Things have opened up for me in a way that I can hardly explain myself. As I've said before, part of me still cowers in fear of the "other shoe" coming down, but that part is growing smaller daily. Yes, there will be setbacks and difficulties aplenty in the days ahead, and I have a strong sense that this is a season of replenishment and reprieve before much greater challenges come to the fore, but I know that God is with me and that He will see me through them.
I was reading through some of my old posts, and my attitude at the moment is so different than those I espoused there that I feel like an entirely different person. And maybe I am. I don't want this to sound boastful, or naive, but it's honestly where I stand today, Christ be praised for it.
I'll try to get some more specifics up in the next day or two. Until then, I've got some more prose-ifying to do.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Day 17 (Word Count: 25,307)
I can't seem to find a rhythm to the writing this time out. Too many things going on in life, too much laziness keeping me from getting onto it during the late-night hours I used to write in. But when I am getting into it, it's going well. I'm more than halfway there (at a few days past when I should have arrived there), and much busy time lies ahead, what with Kathie's visit and our Thanksgiving extravaganza coming up, as well as the end of the semester.
As last time, I am finding this journey to be one of discovery (how cliche of me!)—in this case, I'm finding out that I can write for longer periods and more prolifically than last time. Both of them confirm for me that I can, in fact, write, which I kind of knew and which, nonetheless, I have to be reminded of pretty constantly.
I'm a little scared, though, because I do feel called to this. It's endlessly exciting, of course, but I don't know what form it's supposed to take. That I can wait on, and I'm trying to look at it as an adventure (and succeeding most of the time), but it still feels dangerous, like I've leapt out of a plane and am plummeting toward the ground, not quite positive when I'm supposed to pull the ripcord or even that it's a parachute back there. I do know that I'd like to learn how to write a novel from start to finish—all this jumping about means that, like last time, I have to go back and try to piece the bits together, which is essentially like writing the thing twice. Maybe that comes with practice, or at least more forethought than I've given the thing.
Your continued prayers and thoughts are appreciated. I'm off to go see Wycherly's The Country Wife at CSUSB with my 101 Honors class. There's nothing like a seventeenth-century Restoration comedy to cap off your Friday. I'm sure my students will agree.
As last time, I am finding this journey to be one of discovery (how cliche of me!)—in this case, I'm finding out that I can write for longer periods and more prolifically than last time. Both of them confirm for me that I can, in fact, write, which I kind of knew and which, nonetheless, I have to be reminded of pretty constantly.
I'm a little scared, though, because I do feel called to this. It's endlessly exciting, of course, but I don't know what form it's supposed to take. That I can wait on, and I'm trying to look at it as an adventure (and succeeding most of the time), but it still feels dangerous, like I've leapt out of a plane and am plummeting toward the ground, not quite positive when I'm supposed to pull the ripcord or even that it's a parachute back there. I do know that I'd like to learn how to write a novel from start to finish—all this jumping about means that, like last time, I have to go back and try to piece the bits together, which is essentially like writing the thing twice. Maybe that comes with practice, or at least more forethought than I've given the thing.
Your continued prayers and thoughts are appreciated. I'm off to go see Wycherly's The Country Wife at CSUSB with my 101 Honors class. There's nothing like a seventeenth-century Restoration comedy to cap off your Friday. I'm sure my students will agree.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Day 14 (Word Count: 15,158)
So this word count isn't as high as it's supposed to be, but considering I was sitting at 1,776 until this past Thursday and I didn't manage to write all weekend, it's not too shabby. I think I've found the groove and (Lord willing) can keep up the accelerated pace. I need to be at at least 30,000 words by the 19th when Kathie arrives, or she has vowed not to speak to me...
In other news: the bootcamp with Skaggs went remarkably well. Really, God is taking me into all sorts of new territory these days, and I must admit I'm feeling closer to Him than I have at any point in my life previously. It's kind of delirious and odd, and a part of me is still cowering, waiting for the reversal and the fall that always seem to come to me when I'm feeling good about something. In truth, I think there have been some attacks and some setbacks, but I'm thinking about them differently than I have in the past, which is almost entirely a good thing.
I'm on to reading Eldredge's Waking the Dead, which is proving to be another spiritual ballpeen hammer to the brain. Impressive stuff. I'm in talks now with the men's ministry at church about running a study on Wild at Heart in January, and so far they're supportive. I said before I wasn't an Eldredge groupie—I think maybe I'm becoming one... I'm also reading The Lord of the Rings yet again, as a kind of pump primer for the writing, and the echoes from that are fascinating.
I don't know where this crazy road I'm on is headed, or where it'll take me and my blessedly patient and flexible family, but it's quite the trip.
In other news: the bootcamp with Skaggs went remarkably well. Really, God is taking me into all sorts of new territory these days, and I must admit I'm feeling closer to Him than I have at any point in my life previously. It's kind of delirious and odd, and a part of me is still cowering, waiting for the reversal and the fall that always seem to come to me when I'm feeling good about something. In truth, I think there have been some attacks and some setbacks, but I'm thinking about them differently than I have in the past, which is almost entirely a good thing.
I'm on to reading Eldredge's Waking the Dead, which is proving to be another spiritual ballpeen hammer to the brain. Impressive stuff. I'm in talks now with the men's ministry at church about running a study on Wild at Heart in January, and so far they're supportive. I said before I wasn't an Eldredge groupie—I think maybe I'm becoming one... I'm also reading The Lord of the Rings yet again, as a kind of pump primer for the writing, and the echoes from that are fascinating.
I don't know where this crazy road I'm on is headed, or where it'll take me and my blessedly patient and flexible family, but it's quite the trip.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Day 1 (Word Count: 1776)
It's late and I'm sitting in the Skaggs House in Oregon. My brain is spinning slowly and wanting to escape to the sweet land of Sleepy Sleep. I had much to post here, about life and my journey here and the weekend retreat Sir Skaggs and I are attending starting tomorrow, but I don't think I'm capable of doing so at this point.
I did want to put down my word count. I wrote today sitting in the Ontario Airport in a disused corner. I have no idea what the heck I'm writing, but I got some words down, and that's the important thing.
I shall be gone until at least Sunday, so there may not be much in the way of new wordage in the next few days. A very strange way to start the month off, but such is the way of things.
Good night, ladies.
I did want to put down my word count. I wrote today sitting in the Ontario Airport in a disused corner. I have no idea what the heck I'm writing, but I got some words down, and that's the important thing.
I shall be gone until at least Sunday, so there may not be much in the way of new wordage in the next few days. A very strange way to start the month off, but such is the way of things.
Good night, ladies.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Halloween and My Dream Job
Slater is a devil for putting me on to YouTube.
I never watch the new stuff that goes up—too many weird people doing weird things for my taste. But I do spend entirely too much time watching clips from TV shows I no longer get to see since we kicked television out of our home last time.
Which brings me to the delightful subject of today's post, in the spirit of the upcoming holiday: a clip of "Even Stevphen" from The Daily Show about Halloween. I'm a big fan of both Stephen Colbert and Steve Carell, so this is just a wonder; I laugh every single time I watch this. (It does contain a rude euphemism for "bottom," so don't be too shocked.)
Oh, man.
See, Marilyn? This is why you have to let your eventual children celebrate Halloween. You don't want them to end up like that, do you?
This seems like the dream career for Devin and I—a series of political debates that somehow always descend into vitriolic personal attacks and psychological breakdowns. We would do such a fine job. It was the following clip, however, that really convinced Joanna that this is what young Mr. Parker and I were born to do (in the hidden camera footage, Steve Carell even looks like Devin!):
There are many more fine episodes of "Even Stevphen" on YouTube—this is a good place to start for an overview (a bit more naughty language is present, to warn those of a sensitive constitution).
I never watch the new stuff that goes up—too many weird people doing weird things for my taste. But I do spend entirely too much time watching clips from TV shows I no longer get to see since we kicked television out of our home last time.
Which brings me to the delightful subject of today's post, in the spirit of the upcoming holiday: a clip of "Even Stevphen" from The Daily Show about Halloween. I'm a big fan of both Stephen Colbert and Steve Carell, so this is just a wonder; I laugh every single time I watch this. (It does contain a rude euphemism for "bottom," so don't be too shocked.)
Oh, man.
See, Marilyn? This is why you have to let your eventual children celebrate Halloween. You don't want them to end up like that, do you?
This seems like the dream career for Devin and I—a series of political debates that somehow always descend into vitriolic personal attacks and psychological breakdowns. We would do such a fine job. It was the following clip, however, that really convinced Joanna that this is what young Mr. Parker and I were born to do (in the hidden camera footage, Steve Carell even looks like Devin!):
There are many more fine episodes of "Even Stevphen" on YouTube—this is a good place to start for an overview (a bit more naughty language is present, to warn those of a sensitive constitution).
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Two Praises
On Sunday, Pastor Dave gave a sermon on "How to Worship Instead of Worry." He used 2 Chronicles 20 as his text, in which King Jehoshapat is facing an attack by three armies. He knows he's outnumbered and outmanned, and he can't see any way through, so he just prays like a son of a gun, then hands it all over to Jehova, trusting in His strength. Heck—he puts a choir out to lead his armies. And, of course, God comes through and hands out a whomping to the enemy armies, who fall to fighting among themselves so that when the army of Israel arrives, all they find are dead bodies. It's kind of like Sam finding all the dead orcs at Cirith Ungol in The Two Towers—only, you know, it actually happened and was all biblical and stuff.
So on the way to work yesterday, I realized I was deeply obsessing over my scheduled meeting with the dean. Those of you who've read here or talked to me about work for any length of time know that the dean and I aren't on great terms. She always seems to be looking for points to criticize and catch me on. We had a lot of trouble with my evaluations before I got tenure last year, having to do them twice due to contractual and proceedural issues.
Then I found out I was being evaluated again this semester. Tenured faculty are only supposed to be evaluated once every three years, so to have it follow on the heels to two other sememsters of evaluation seemed excessive. I asked about it and was told that the timing of the evaluation during those three years was at her discretion, and that she was choosing to do it again now. I gritted my teeth and got set to do it all over again.
As I was saying, I was really dreading having to meet with her—she's generally all smiles and politeness, but somehow our meetings always end with me being guilty of something and accusatory memos getting sent off to the president of the college. But I was reminded that going over the possibilities and trying to formulate responses to a conversation I hadn't actually had yet was pretty pointless. So I decided to try Pastor Dave's advice out: I handed it all over to God and said, "It's Your battle, not mine. I can't fix this—I trust in You."
Fast forward a few hours. Just before my meeting, an email comes through from the dean. I'm thinking that maybe she has to reschedule and I'll get a short reprieve, and for that much I'm grateful. Instead, it's a message saying that there was some "miscommunication" between the campus and human resources, and that I won't be evaluated this semester at all. There was also a terse little "reminder" about working on those areas I get low (though still entirely acceptable) scores on from students, but a great weight was lifted from me. Of course God fixed it more thoroughly than I could have hoped for. I wish I'd shut up and get out of the way more often.
Man—this is already long, but I don't want to leave out the second and, to me, even better news. After almost a year of putting it off, I finally sent an audio sample to Pat Fraley, the instructor from back at Voicetrax who was so encouraging and with whom I was working last year on getting an audio book deal. At the time he asked for the sample, I was feeling pretty down, and all kinds of excuses—the holidays, family stuff, Voicetrax shutting down and the depression that followed, my desktop computer's fan roaring like a leafblower every time it's turned on, and the disappointment that my first demos hadn't gone so well—kept me from sending him one. And then it got to be so long since he had asked that I started feeling ashamed to even send it off. I'd think about recording the sample every few days, then worry about what would go wrong and put it from my mind.
But finally, on Sunday night, I recorded an excerpt from Peter Beagle's The Rhinoceros Who Quoted Nietzsche and Other Odd Acquaintances, from a story titled "Professor Gottesman and the Indian Rhinoceros," and sent it off on Monday with a short note about my grievous faults and pleas for understanding and aid. Pat wrote a very nice note back and was excited about the sample, and now I'm making a "mini-demo" for him in the hopes that that elusive audio book deal might once again be within reach. Your prayers in this matter are happily accepted.
So on the way to work yesterday, I realized I was deeply obsessing over my scheduled meeting with the dean. Those of you who've read here or talked to me about work for any length of time know that the dean and I aren't on great terms. She always seems to be looking for points to criticize and catch me on. We had a lot of trouble with my evaluations before I got tenure last year, having to do them twice due to contractual and proceedural issues.
Then I found out I was being evaluated again this semester. Tenured faculty are only supposed to be evaluated once every three years, so to have it follow on the heels to two other sememsters of evaluation seemed excessive. I asked about it and was told that the timing of the evaluation during those three years was at her discretion, and that she was choosing to do it again now. I gritted my teeth and got set to do it all over again.
As I was saying, I was really dreading having to meet with her—she's generally all smiles and politeness, but somehow our meetings always end with me being guilty of something and accusatory memos getting sent off to the president of the college. But I was reminded that going over the possibilities and trying to formulate responses to a conversation I hadn't actually had yet was pretty pointless. So I decided to try Pastor Dave's advice out: I handed it all over to God and said, "It's Your battle, not mine. I can't fix this—I trust in You."
Fast forward a few hours. Just before my meeting, an email comes through from the dean. I'm thinking that maybe she has to reschedule and I'll get a short reprieve, and for that much I'm grateful. Instead, it's a message saying that there was some "miscommunication" between the campus and human resources, and that I won't be evaluated this semester at all. There was also a terse little "reminder" about working on those areas I get low (though still entirely acceptable) scores on from students, but a great weight was lifted from me. Of course God fixed it more thoroughly than I could have hoped for. I wish I'd shut up and get out of the way more often.
Man—this is already long, but I don't want to leave out the second and, to me, even better news. After almost a year of putting it off, I finally sent an audio sample to Pat Fraley, the instructor from back at Voicetrax who was so encouraging and with whom I was working last year on getting an audio book deal. At the time he asked for the sample, I was feeling pretty down, and all kinds of excuses—the holidays, family stuff, Voicetrax shutting down and the depression that followed, my desktop computer's fan roaring like a leafblower every time it's turned on, and the disappointment that my first demos hadn't gone so well—kept me from sending him one. And then it got to be so long since he had asked that I started feeling ashamed to even send it off. I'd think about recording the sample every few days, then worry about what would go wrong and put it from my mind.
But finally, on Sunday night, I recorded an excerpt from Peter Beagle's The Rhinoceros Who Quoted Nietzsche and Other Odd Acquaintances, from a story titled "Professor Gottesman and the Indian Rhinoceros," and sent it off on Monday with a short note about my grievous faults and pleas for understanding and aid. Pat wrote a very nice note back and was excited about the sample, and now I'm making a "mini-demo" for him in the hopes that that elusive audio book deal might once again be within reach. Your prayers in this matter are happily accepted.
Friday, October 06, 2006
It's Official
I finally get to put this thing on my website:
I signed up over at the National Novel Writing Month website in preparation for that big undertaking in November. Devin is going along for the ride—anyone else up for the challenge?
I'm putting out the call for your folks to once again post the cruel and unusual things I'll be subjected to if I don't finish the 50,000 words before the deadline. It'll be quite a task—it seems like November is always chock-full of events, and this year is shaping up to be chock-fuller than ever. It's a good day to be signing up, though: pleasantly foggy and chill for us (it's sad when 60 degrees constitutes "chill," but I'll take what I can get here in the desert southwest). Grading is going fairly well these days, thanks to the revelation by Joanna that no matter how I break it up, grading always takes the same amount of time. Of course this is obvious to the majority of humans, but it was a stunning insight for me. Doing a small amount of grading each day actually won't make it take longer than when I do it in a great, mind-destroying rush at the last minute. Weird how reality works, isn't it?
The last thing I leave you with before I get back to work is this, which was linked to from the NaNoWriMo website. It was an entertaining read for us fantasy aficianados, and I'm happy to say that my novel from March only breaks three or four of them that I recognize (numbers 36, 37, 48, and maybe 17 if you stretch it). They recommend abandoning any novel that contains even one, but these are relatively innocuous, I think. And the novel I'm thinking of for November may once again break the name rules, but otherwise I think I'm pretty safe...
And for those who are wondering, yes, I am still working on the March novel. New draft sections are going up even as we speak.
I'm off.
I signed up over at the National Novel Writing Month website in preparation for that big undertaking in November. Devin is going along for the ride—anyone else up for the challenge?
I'm putting out the call for your folks to once again post the cruel and unusual things I'll be subjected to if I don't finish the 50,000 words before the deadline. It'll be quite a task—it seems like November is always chock-full of events, and this year is shaping up to be chock-fuller than ever. It's a good day to be signing up, though: pleasantly foggy and chill for us (it's sad when 60 degrees constitutes "chill," but I'll take what I can get here in the desert southwest). Grading is going fairly well these days, thanks to the revelation by Joanna that no matter how I break it up, grading always takes the same amount of time. Of course this is obvious to the majority of humans, but it was a stunning insight for me. Doing a small amount of grading each day actually won't make it take longer than when I do it in a great, mind-destroying rush at the last minute. Weird how reality works, isn't it?
The last thing I leave you with before I get back to work is this, which was linked to from the NaNoWriMo website. It was an entertaining read for us fantasy aficianados, and I'm happy to say that my novel from March only breaks three or four of them that I recognize (numbers 36, 37, 48, and maybe 17 if you stretch it). They recommend abandoning any novel that contains even one, but these are relatively innocuous, I think. And the novel I'm thinking of for November may once again break the name rules, but otherwise I think I'm pretty safe...
And for those who are wondering, yes, I am still working on the March novel. New draft sections are going up even as we speak.
I'm off.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Season of Trials
Man—it seems as though everyone's going through a period of testing these days. Devin is trying to find some balance (though he once again sounds chipper in his most recent post—the man's a bipolar wonder); Christina is struggling through school, single motherhood, and general madness; Slater is working through church issues and bousebuilding difficulties (it's hard to muster up much sympathy for a guy who goes out to breakfast with his wife every week, is indepdendently employed, and is planning a home on his own 10 acres of country paradise, but there you go); Skaggs is making us cry about his poor wee son and the heart-wrenching trials they've been through; Beth has had her head pop off and a giant change of life thrust upon her and her family; and Kathie, though her recent posts have been about humorous bathroom noises, is leaving tear-inducing comments on everyone else's blogs and struggling with her own issues.
Egads.
Makes my petty whining here seem pretty pitiful. Yesterday morning I was all set to post about how miserable I was after another night of not much sleep and grading still left undone, but (a) after whining and moaning and kicking at the goads trying to guess what God wanted from me, He came through in His own way, and (b) everyone else's posts put me in my place.
I'm not sure why this seems to be descending upon us all simultaneously—perhaps together our band is the single greatest threat to the forces of evil in America today, so we have to be kept separate and struggling. In a more serious vein, though, it certainly does point out the need for strong community. I know I wouldn't get through half of what I do without my friends' admonishment, counsel, and encouragement. Devin and I have been recently bemoaning the evil and pointless diversion the internet brings into our homes and lives, but at least in this it is a mighty powerful tool. I'm fairly certain I wouldn't hear from half of you half as often as I do without this—heck, without GoogleTalk I probably would have no clue at all that Slater was even married yet, or that he wasn't a hobo living under an overpass as we all though he would be. The idea that we get to keep up on one another's lives so quickly and easily is a blessing, albeit one that sometimes comes with ads for online gambling and penile enhancement products.
I haven't really found a place to be at peace yet, but knowing that others are going through their own seasons of trial and sharing in mine is a comfort. I'm praying for you all.
Egads.
Makes my petty whining here seem pretty pitiful. Yesterday morning I was all set to post about how miserable I was after another night of not much sleep and grading still left undone, but (a) after whining and moaning and kicking at the goads trying to guess what God wanted from me, He came through in His own way, and (b) everyone else's posts put me in my place.
I'm not sure why this seems to be descending upon us all simultaneously—perhaps together our band is the single greatest threat to the forces of evil in America today, so we have to be kept separate and struggling. In a more serious vein, though, it certainly does point out the need for strong community. I know I wouldn't get through half of what I do without my friends' admonishment, counsel, and encouragement. Devin and I have been recently bemoaning the evil and pointless diversion the internet brings into our homes and lives, but at least in this it is a mighty powerful tool. I'm fairly certain I wouldn't hear from half of you half as often as I do without this—heck, without GoogleTalk I probably would have no clue at all that Slater was even married yet, or that he wasn't a hobo living under an overpass as we all though he would be. The idea that we get to keep up on one another's lives so quickly and easily is a blessing, albeit one that sometimes comes with ads for online gambling and penile enhancement products.
I haven't really found a place to be at peace yet, but knowing that others are going through their own seasons of trial and sharing in mine is a comfort. I'm praying for you all.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Warning: Another Depressing Post Ahead
I cannot express to you how much being generally unable to access the internet after 8pm or so affects my ability to post.
I mentioned before that my "office" has been given over to a playroom (which is really more of a toy storage room and now cat supply room, since the boys don't ever play in there and we have two new cats. Oh, yes) and now the computer is sitting in a corner of our bedroom. Born Dancin's crib is also in the bedroom, so after she's sleeping, I'm out.
It's also surprising how lazy I am--well, surprising to me, anyway. I could access the internet from my laptop, but that requires (a) me unplugging the wires to the DSL box, (b) carrying it to the living room, and (c)re-plugging everything in. It's a laborious process that can take up to five minutes on a bad evening. Yet somehow it seems hard to do (not to mention the fact that I have to put it all away again when I'm done). Setting up the folding table, laying out the machine, and getting everything properly attached to everything else is just too hard.
All this points to a bigger issue: I'm congenitally unable to use small blocks of time. I don't even start a project unless I have a couple of hours to devote to it, free from all other interruption. If I have four hours of grading to do, I don't start it unless I actually have four free hours, which is almost never.
This is madness, I know. I'm trying to break myself of that thought process, using ten and fifteen minutes when they're available. That's why I'm posting this hasty and rambling and dull post now, while I've got a moment or two before heading home. Cramming in whatever I could worked for my "novel-in-a-month" project, mainly because I was concentrated on the results rather than the process. Maybe I could employ a similar system.
Isn't this fascinating? I'm going through one of my endless crises of conscience and focus, trying to figure out how to live life in such a way that I don't feel guilty all the time. I'd love to go to bed some night feeling happy and content about what I'd accomplished that day. To be a good teacher, and to write, and to be a good husband, and to be a good father, and to be a good homeowner, and to be a good servant to Christ... How to manage all these simultaneously is a seeming impossibility. Only He can show me how to get it all done.
I hope I get a few clues soon. I don't want to drown.
I mentioned before that my "office" has been given over to a playroom (which is really more of a toy storage room and now cat supply room, since the boys don't ever play in there and we have two new cats. Oh, yes) and now the computer is sitting in a corner of our bedroom. Born Dancin's crib is also in the bedroom, so after she's sleeping, I'm out.
It's also surprising how lazy I am--well, surprising to me, anyway. I could access the internet from my laptop, but that requires (a) me unplugging the wires to the DSL box, (b) carrying it to the living room, and (c)re-plugging everything in. It's a laborious process that can take up to five minutes on a bad evening. Yet somehow it seems hard to do (not to mention the fact that I have to put it all away again when I'm done). Setting up the folding table, laying out the machine, and getting everything properly attached to everything else is just too hard.
All this points to a bigger issue: I'm congenitally unable to use small blocks of time. I don't even start a project unless I have a couple of hours to devote to it, free from all other interruption. If I have four hours of grading to do, I don't start it unless I actually have four free hours, which is almost never.
This is madness, I know. I'm trying to break myself of that thought process, using ten and fifteen minutes when they're available. That's why I'm posting this hasty and rambling and dull post now, while I've got a moment or two before heading home. Cramming in whatever I could worked for my "novel-in-a-month" project, mainly because I was concentrated on the results rather than the process. Maybe I could employ a similar system.
Isn't this fascinating? I'm going through one of my endless crises of conscience and focus, trying to figure out how to live life in such a way that I don't feel guilty all the time. I'd love to go to bed some night feeling happy and content about what I'd accomplished that day. To be a good teacher, and to write, and to be a good husband, and to be a good father, and to be a good homeowner, and to be a good servant to Christ... How to manage all these simultaneously is a seeming impossibility. Only He can show me how to get it all done.
I hope I get a few clues soon. I don't want to drown.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
And Back Again
I, like Devin, have been paralyzed for a while without posting, daunted by all I'd have to catch up on to do so.
How silly is that? Yet it happens more often than not. So I, like the aforementioned Parker, am throwing responsibility to the wind and posting whatever pops into my head.
In this case, it's pictures!
Tell me that's not the cutest kid in the world. Go ahead--just try. Meanwhile, I'm causing my hand to phase in and out of existence. I'm a magic!
It's Born Dancin', just over 15 months. A bunch of you have not seen her in a long time. She's talking, melting hearts, and walking. As evidence, I offer the following:
Though this may be a rare sighting of Cindy Lou Who.
Meanwhile, the boys at 5 have sprouted into the gangly, long-legged creatures you see here:
They just started preschool and are showing predilictions of being their father's children. The other day, when I asked Poncho if his shirt was on backward, he pulled out the neck, looked down, and exclaimed, "I see no tag!" On a recent camping trip, after visiting a little general store that didn't have what we needed, he asked, "Did it prove too small?" His current ambition when he grows up? To be a knight.
That's my boy.
Here is Poncho, in all his glory:
Meanwhile, Denver also continues to amuse and amaze with his strange made-up songs (he wants to be a guitarist) and his consistently employed fake laugh. When presented with a belated birthday gift from the great-grandparents, he actually exclaimed wholeheartedly, "Boy oh boy! I'm gonna like this!" It was like standing in an episode of The Little Rascals.
Amidst all the birthday parties, school functions, the new semester starting at school (almost a month and a half ago now--sheesh), family hijinks, and revising my draft on Slater's orders (for which I am ever grateful), it's been nutty.
I'll attempt to be more postful when I can. Until then, one more image of cuteness to tide you over:
Two words: En-joy.
How silly is that? Yet it happens more often than not. So I, like the aforementioned Parker, am throwing responsibility to the wind and posting whatever pops into my head.
In this case, it's pictures!
Tell me that's not the cutest kid in the world. Go ahead--just try. Meanwhile, I'm causing my hand to phase in and out of existence. I'm a magic!
It's Born Dancin', just over 15 months. A bunch of you have not seen her in a long time. She's talking, melting hearts, and walking. As evidence, I offer the following:
Though this may be a rare sighting of Cindy Lou Who.
Meanwhile, the boys at 5 have sprouted into the gangly, long-legged creatures you see here:
They just started preschool and are showing predilictions of being their father's children. The other day, when I asked Poncho if his shirt was on backward, he pulled out the neck, looked down, and exclaimed, "I see no tag!" On a recent camping trip, after visiting a little general store that didn't have what we needed, he asked, "Did it prove too small?" His current ambition when he grows up? To be a knight.
That's my boy.
Here is Poncho, in all his glory:
Meanwhile, Denver also continues to amuse and amaze with his strange made-up songs (he wants to be a guitarist) and his consistently employed fake laugh. When presented with a belated birthday gift from the great-grandparents, he actually exclaimed wholeheartedly, "Boy oh boy! I'm gonna like this!" It was like standing in an episode of The Little Rascals.
Amidst all the birthday parties, school functions, the new semester starting at school (almost a month and a half ago now--sheesh), family hijinks, and revising my draft on Slater's orders (for which I am ever grateful), it's been nutty.
I'll attempt to be more postful when I can. Until then, one more image of cuteness to tide you over:
Two words: En-joy.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Long Walk
The great journey to the Sierras was a limited success. It was terrific while it lasted. It just lasted too short a time.
Legolas and I made great time up to Mammoth Lakes, flying through the scrubby desert dotted with scrapyards and Joshua trees and spent a pleasant afternoon replacing items we'd forgotten, packing bear-proof canisters with food, and getting Legolas' pack down to approximately 1.7 pounds. Somehow, despite thinning out my gear to near attenuation, it still weighed in at 486 pounds. I credit it to the fact that Legolas' pack was fuscia.
Eventually, Gimli joined us and ate some lunch at perhaps the worst-run Quiznos in the western hemisphere (I'd never been into a sub shop in which the bread was too frozen to be eaten). Upon our return, we found Pippin there and ready to go.
We all made it out to the trailhead as the thunderheads above started to unleash their torrents. The hike began in mixed rain and hail with a cool breeze, still warm enough to travel with just a pack cover and poncho. Lots of folks were fleeing the high country, leaving us as the only travelers uphill. It was like hiking through a Tolkien epic, actually. Great towering monoliths of granite, capped with snow, loomed above us, their heads thrust into the lowering clouds. All around us, huge pines sang in the wind, the ground carpeted with mossy boulders and rushing streams. We made it up to Arrowhead Lake (which Pippin conjectured was connected to all Arrowhead Lakes in the world by secret tunnels, and if we could find the hidden cavern at its depth, we could swim through it to our own Arrowhead Lake. What a delightful scamp he is), then curved up to Skelton Lake, making a few small stream crossings along the way.
By this time the precipitation had trailed off, so we stowed the ponchos and continued in the fresh post-rain breezes scented with pine and damp earth. Barney Lake was idyllic and surrounded by lush green, but we had our eyes on the top of Duck Pass looming to our north up a thousand feet of scree-covered hillside.
There's no better way to mount endless stony switchbacks than while debating religion, so that's what we did. Slowly the lake dropped below us in a basin of primeval talus, and before long we were tromping past icy patches of snow. We made the pass at about 11,500 feet, just before sunset. Duck Lake lay below, four times larger than any of the lakes before—and we were the only people there, which was exactly what we wanted.
However, we were also winded, getting cold, and in need of a spot to set up camp. As Pippin indicated on his blog, we found a spot on a tiny spit of land halfway down a clifflike slope on the south side of the lake. Legolas and I attempted to set up our tarp and tent while Pippin and Gimli headed out for water (a forty-five minute adventure that resulted in four gallons of water and the near destruction of those who went to fetch it). By the time we got the gear stowed and the stoves running, it was full dark. The waxing half-moon shone behind the breaking clouds and the landscape was breathtaking, but we were cold, tired, and worn thin, and the freeze-dried camp food I was so proud of turned out to be of pretty low quality. We finally got everything bear-proofed for the night and retired—Legolas and Pippin in the nearly level tarp and Gimli and I in the severely angled tent (no, really; we spent the first few hours repeatedly sliding down into the foot of the tent and clawing our way back up).
None of us slept much—the others due to their own private demons, and me due to fear of their demons coming to get me. It was clear Gimli wasn't doing well, though: he was breathing heavily and restless. By 2:30am, he was up, out of the tent, and wandering sick. It was kind of creepy to try to follow him around in the dark, unsure of whether he was fully conscious. He was nauseated and muddled headed, even more than usual. We guessed (and later pretty much confirmed) that he had altitude sickness, a malady I should have forseen. But hey—I live at altitude, so it didn't bother me. That's the important thing, right?
Unsure of whether Gimli would make it out okay, we packed up our gear in the darkness. Since the application of medication, warmer clothes, and water seemed to be lifting our comrade's spirits, and since we were deathly afraid of trying to get down the switchbacks in the dark (not to mention trying to get back to the trail from our cliff dwelling), we all sat in the blackness, watiting for sunrise. It turned out to be a great little time—we watched the ten thousand stars that are invisible from civilization wheel overhead, shivered against the cold, and talked about movies, life, and the universe. I sang showtunes, which were appreciated by no one. Philistines.
By 5am, we were up and hiking. Gimli was nearly his old self, but the general mood suggested that getting out of the wilderness was the order of the day. Besides, Pippin was obsessed with getting some Moons over My Hammy into his belly. By 8:30am we made it back to the trailhead. Overall, we hiked about 11 miles in a day, the second half on a couple of hours' sleep. We were manly.
We spent a few hours in town (a third of which was spent trying to get everyone to the same place at the same time), and there was some discussion of staying the night, but the prevailing sentiment was leading most of the Fellowship away, and since Legolas was my ride, I couldn't well stay on my own. We had some coffee, discussed a few more issues, and bade one another farewell. I was home by 6:30pm, thanks to the dedicated automotivemanship of Legolas.
So it was a mixed bag, but mostly good. The scenery and the journey were incredible, the companionship was great, and the spinach and bacon omelet in town was delicious. It was just too short, dang it.
Legolas and I made great time up to Mammoth Lakes, flying through the scrubby desert dotted with scrapyards and Joshua trees and spent a pleasant afternoon replacing items we'd forgotten, packing bear-proof canisters with food, and getting Legolas' pack down to approximately 1.7 pounds. Somehow, despite thinning out my gear to near attenuation, it still weighed in at 486 pounds. I credit it to the fact that Legolas' pack was fuscia.
Eventually, Gimli joined us and ate some lunch at perhaps the worst-run Quiznos in the western hemisphere (I'd never been into a sub shop in which the bread was too frozen to be eaten). Upon our return, we found Pippin there and ready to go.
We all made it out to the trailhead as the thunderheads above started to unleash their torrents. The hike began in mixed rain and hail with a cool breeze, still warm enough to travel with just a pack cover and poncho. Lots of folks were fleeing the high country, leaving us as the only travelers uphill. It was like hiking through a Tolkien epic, actually. Great towering monoliths of granite, capped with snow, loomed above us, their heads thrust into the lowering clouds. All around us, huge pines sang in the wind, the ground carpeted with mossy boulders and rushing streams. We made it up to Arrowhead Lake (which Pippin conjectured was connected to all Arrowhead Lakes in the world by secret tunnels, and if we could find the hidden cavern at its depth, we could swim through it to our own Arrowhead Lake. What a delightful scamp he is), then curved up to Skelton Lake, making a few small stream crossings along the way.
By this time the precipitation had trailed off, so we stowed the ponchos and continued in the fresh post-rain breezes scented with pine and damp earth. Barney Lake was idyllic and surrounded by lush green, but we had our eyes on the top of Duck Pass looming to our north up a thousand feet of scree-covered hillside.
There's no better way to mount endless stony switchbacks than while debating religion, so that's what we did. Slowly the lake dropped below us in a basin of primeval talus, and before long we were tromping past icy patches of snow. We made the pass at about 11,500 feet, just before sunset. Duck Lake lay below, four times larger than any of the lakes before—and we were the only people there, which was exactly what we wanted.
However, we were also winded, getting cold, and in need of a spot to set up camp. As Pippin indicated on his blog, we found a spot on a tiny spit of land halfway down a clifflike slope on the south side of the lake. Legolas and I attempted to set up our tarp and tent while Pippin and Gimli headed out for water (a forty-five minute adventure that resulted in four gallons of water and the near destruction of those who went to fetch it). By the time we got the gear stowed and the stoves running, it was full dark. The waxing half-moon shone behind the breaking clouds and the landscape was breathtaking, but we were cold, tired, and worn thin, and the freeze-dried camp food I was so proud of turned out to be of pretty low quality. We finally got everything bear-proofed for the night and retired—Legolas and Pippin in the nearly level tarp and Gimli and I in the severely angled tent (no, really; we spent the first few hours repeatedly sliding down into the foot of the tent and clawing our way back up).
None of us slept much—the others due to their own private demons, and me due to fear of their demons coming to get me. It was clear Gimli wasn't doing well, though: he was breathing heavily and restless. By 2:30am, he was up, out of the tent, and wandering sick. It was kind of creepy to try to follow him around in the dark, unsure of whether he was fully conscious. He was nauseated and muddled headed, even more than usual. We guessed (and later pretty much confirmed) that he had altitude sickness, a malady I should have forseen. But hey—I live at altitude, so it didn't bother me. That's the important thing, right?
Unsure of whether Gimli would make it out okay, we packed up our gear in the darkness. Since the application of medication, warmer clothes, and water seemed to be lifting our comrade's spirits, and since we were deathly afraid of trying to get down the switchbacks in the dark (not to mention trying to get back to the trail from our cliff dwelling), we all sat in the blackness, watiting for sunrise. It turned out to be a great little time—we watched the ten thousand stars that are invisible from civilization wheel overhead, shivered against the cold, and talked about movies, life, and the universe. I sang showtunes, which were appreciated by no one. Philistines.
By 5am, we were up and hiking. Gimli was nearly his old self, but the general mood suggested that getting out of the wilderness was the order of the day. Besides, Pippin was obsessed with getting some Moons over My Hammy into his belly. By 8:30am we made it back to the trailhead. Overall, we hiked about 11 miles in a day, the second half on a couple of hours' sleep. We were manly.
We spent a few hours in town (a third of which was spent trying to get everyone to the same place at the same time), and there was some discussion of staying the night, but the prevailing sentiment was leading most of the Fellowship away, and since Legolas was my ride, I couldn't well stay on my own. We had some coffee, discussed a few more issues, and bade one another farewell. I was home by 6:30pm, thanks to the dedicated automotivemanship of Legolas.
So it was a mixed bag, but mostly good. The scenery and the journey were incredible, the companionship was great, and the spinach and bacon omelet in town was delicious. It was just too short, dang it.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Journeys
Well, I got a chance to explore some of that Pacific Crest Trail I had been longing for. After a couple of preliminary hikes to test out my new gear, I headed off last week for a two-day, 24-mile trek across the Big Bear valley.
My endlessly kind and lovely wife was incredibly generous in giving me the time, what with the Sierra trip with Gimli, Legolas, and Pippin coming up (I'm trying out the LotR names this time out, and you should be able to figure out who's who if you know the players at all. I'd like to think of myself as Aragorn, but I think I'm probably closer to Samwise, or maybe Merry). I was hoping to really give the gear a workout. So on Friday my family dropped me off at Baldwin Lake at around 8:30am, and I didn't see them again until 4pm on Saturday afternoon on the other end of the valley. The road from one end to the other can be seen here, though the trail itself wraps around the back of the ridge to the north of the lake.
I'd never been camping alone before, and certainly never covered so many miles on one hike before (we used to take a Sierra trip with the Boy Scouts every summer--we might have done that distance over the course of a couple of days, but I've blocked it from my mind). It was pretty incredible. The weather was hot but bearable, and I had the trail to myself nearly the entire time. I was passed by one pair of older ladies on horseback as I switchbacked up Gold Mountain (they turned back an hour later when they realized how long the trail was) and passed a pair of older folks resting under a tree before descending into Van Duesen Canyon. I didn't see anyone until I started climbing out of the valley to Fawnskin on the forest road when the jeeps and motocross bikers started buzzing me.
It was a pretty amazing journey. The path passes through a whole series of micro-climates, from the arid, catcti-dotted rocky soil near Baldwin Lake up over Gold Mountain and into conifers and oaks, then down into the valleys thick with pines and ferns. I camped the first night just below Bertha Peak with views both over the lake and the Holcomb Valley.
I was definitely worn thin by the time I limped out into Fawnskin, but it was pretty satisfying. The solitude and being away from civilization (though, sadly, in the valley it's difficult to escape traffic noises and such) was a blessing.
It was really neat, is what I'm saying. I'll go now.
My endlessly kind and lovely wife was incredibly generous in giving me the time, what with the Sierra trip with Gimli, Legolas, and Pippin coming up (I'm trying out the LotR names this time out, and you should be able to figure out who's who if you know the players at all. I'd like to think of myself as Aragorn, but I think I'm probably closer to Samwise, or maybe Merry). I was hoping to really give the gear a workout. So on Friday my family dropped me off at Baldwin Lake at around 8:30am, and I didn't see them again until 4pm on Saturday afternoon on the other end of the valley. The road from one end to the other can be seen here, though the trail itself wraps around the back of the ridge to the north of the lake.
I'd never been camping alone before, and certainly never covered so many miles on one hike before (we used to take a Sierra trip with the Boy Scouts every summer--we might have done that distance over the course of a couple of days, but I've blocked it from my mind). It was pretty incredible. The weather was hot but bearable, and I had the trail to myself nearly the entire time. I was passed by one pair of older ladies on horseback as I switchbacked up Gold Mountain (they turned back an hour later when they realized how long the trail was) and passed a pair of older folks resting under a tree before descending into Van Duesen Canyon. I didn't see anyone until I started climbing out of the valley to Fawnskin on the forest road when the jeeps and motocross bikers started buzzing me.
It was a pretty amazing journey. The path passes through a whole series of micro-climates, from the arid, catcti-dotted rocky soil near Baldwin Lake up over Gold Mountain and into conifers and oaks, then down into the valleys thick with pines and ferns. I camped the first night just below Bertha Peak with views both over the lake and the Holcomb Valley.
I was definitely worn thin by the time I limped out into Fawnskin, but it was pretty satisfying. The solitude and being away from civilization (though, sadly, in the valley it's difficult to escape traffic noises and such) was a blessing.
It was really neat, is what I'm saying. I'll go now.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Denver's Joke
The joke my son told me tonight at dinner:
Denver: How many big boys does it take to put in a light bulb?
Me: I don't know. How many?
Denver: Four.
That was it. No explanation. It just takes four.
Kid takes after me.
I had my last summer school class today, so tomorrow I may be coherent enough to put up a real post.
Good night, all.
Denver: How many big boys does it take to put in a light bulb?
Me: I don't know. How many?
Denver: Four.
That was it. No explanation. It just takes four.
Kid takes after me.
I had my last summer school class today, so tomorrow I may be coherent enough to put up a real post.
Good night, all.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Thievery Strikes Again!
I didn't share the really exciting news from this week: I was robbed!
And no, I don't mean that in the "sports metaphor, they-won-because-of-a-bad-call" kind of way.
I work in a suite of five offices, outside of which is a balcony running around an open courtyard. Because the Liberal Arts building seems fairly secure and well traveled, those of us with offices often step out without closing the door. Making copies, getting a drink, checking the mail—it's easy to do.
You can already see what's coming, can't you? Clever monkeys.
On Tuesday I stepped out, walked about ten feet outside the suite and another twenty feet to the bathroom. I was gone for about four minutes (I know because I was grading on the fly and I keep a pretty close eye on my time use at such times). I walked back to my office—
No more laptop.
I just stared for a while. It seemed incomprehensible to me that it could be gone in so short a time. I kept looking around, as if somehow I had snagged the computer on my clothes and had pulled it off the desk without realizing it. But it wasn't me—someone had snagged the thing and run off.
It had to be somewhat planned: you can't actually see my office from the courtyard and have to walk into the suite to see within. There was a fellow sitting outside when I went out who was gone when I returned, but I did not observe him closely—I have yet to develop the sufficient level of suspicion to survey everyone I pass on the off chance one of them will commit a crime against me. So I wasn't too helpful to the campus police when they showed up some twenty minutes later.
The good news (of a sort) is that it was the school's computer, not my sweet new machine (on which I type this even now). The bad news is that, of course, that's where all my assignments and grades were stored. It's password protected, so until and unless it finds its way into the hands of a l33t hacker, I should be safe, and I don't keep much personal information on a school computer. I've since changed my internet passwords, and I suppose a desperate but literarily pretentious thief could take the draft of my novel I had on there and publish it before I do, but other than that the danger factor is low. It's just an annoyance, and a wake-up call; a lot more professors will be locking their doors from now on.
One of my coworkers shook his head in disbelief at the story, and said, "Man—I'd be swearing and cursing up and down. You seem so calm." I just shrugged. What would swearing do? After coming down from the shock, I prayed for the guy who took it; what else could I do? He was either desperately messed up, or just desperate: either way, he needs help. I doubt I'll ever see the computer again, but hopefully something good can come of this all.
Back up your files, people. Really.
And no, I don't mean that in the "sports metaphor, they-won-because-of-a-bad-call" kind of way.
I work in a suite of five offices, outside of which is a balcony running around an open courtyard. Because the Liberal Arts building seems fairly secure and well traveled, those of us with offices often step out without closing the door. Making copies, getting a drink, checking the mail—it's easy to do.
You can already see what's coming, can't you? Clever monkeys.
On Tuesday I stepped out, walked about ten feet outside the suite and another twenty feet to the bathroom. I was gone for about four minutes (I know because I was grading on the fly and I keep a pretty close eye on my time use at such times). I walked back to my office—
No more laptop.
I just stared for a while. It seemed incomprehensible to me that it could be gone in so short a time. I kept looking around, as if somehow I had snagged the computer on my clothes and had pulled it off the desk without realizing it. But it wasn't me—someone had snagged the thing and run off.
It had to be somewhat planned: you can't actually see my office from the courtyard and have to walk into the suite to see within. There was a fellow sitting outside when I went out who was gone when I returned, but I did not observe him closely—I have yet to develop the sufficient level of suspicion to survey everyone I pass on the off chance one of them will commit a crime against me. So I wasn't too helpful to the campus police when they showed up some twenty minutes later.
The good news (of a sort) is that it was the school's computer, not my sweet new machine (on which I type this even now). The bad news is that, of course, that's where all my assignments and grades were stored. It's password protected, so until and unless it finds its way into the hands of a l33t hacker, I should be safe, and I don't keep much personal information on a school computer. I've since changed my internet passwords, and I suppose a desperate but literarily pretentious thief could take the draft of my novel I had on there and publish it before I do, but other than that the danger factor is low. It's just an annoyance, and a wake-up call; a lot more professors will be locking their doors from now on.
One of my coworkers shook his head in disbelief at the story, and said, "Man—I'd be swearing and cursing up and down. You seem so calm." I just shrugged. What would swearing do? After coming down from the shock, I prayed for the guy who took it; what else could I do? He was either desperately messed up, or just desperate: either way, he needs help. I doubt I'll ever see the computer again, but hopefully something good can come of this all.
Back up your files, people. Really.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Excuses, Excuses
So I haven't been on for a while, and I don't know how much time I'll have here, as a boy may wake up at any moment and emerge to poke me.
The main reason for my absence was simple logistics. I've been drowning in grading, and in an attempt to catch up I've been getting up at 4 or 4:30am. This means that I've been crashing at 10 or 11pm, which is far earlier than normal--and if you've ever checked out the time posted for my old entries, you'll see they're mostly 1am-ish. That, and the fact that the baby goes to bed at 8pm or so, cutting me off from our computer, has kept me out of here.
This is fascinating stuff, I know. I wanted to post because--well, heck, everyone else is all post-y these days, what with Slater returned and Parker becoming a revivalist preacher and even Beth putting up stories about tomato plants and old ladies. My own spiritual quest has not stopped, but has felt somewhat stilted by all this work. We've only got three days left of summer school (thank goodness), but between endless grading, family illness, and Kathie about to make her giant move to the Idaho, it's just been a whirlwind of responsibility. Still, the changes in me over the last few weeks have made this bearable, even if I haven't learned to rejoice in it yet.
Okay. Time grows short. Good morning, all, and keep watching this space.
The main reason for my absence was simple logistics. I've been drowning in grading, and in an attempt to catch up I've been getting up at 4 or 4:30am. This means that I've been crashing at 10 or 11pm, which is far earlier than normal--and if you've ever checked out the time posted for my old entries, you'll see they're mostly 1am-ish. That, and the fact that the baby goes to bed at 8pm or so, cutting me off from our computer, has kept me out of here.
This is fascinating stuff, I know. I wanted to post because--well, heck, everyone else is all post-y these days, what with Slater returned and Parker becoming a revivalist preacher and even Beth putting up stories about tomato plants and old ladies. My own spiritual quest has not stopped, but has felt somewhat stilted by all this work. We've only got three days left of summer school (thank goodness), but between endless grading, family illness, and Kathie about to make her giant move to the Idaho, it's just been a whirlwind of responsibility. Still, the changes in me over the last few weeks have made this bearable, even if I haven't learned to rejoice in it yet.
Okay. Time grows short. Good morning, all, and keep watching this space.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Madness
I am sunk deep into the mire of grading. I could complain about this at length, but you've read that already if you've read this blog at all.
I don't have time to elaborate at great length here (you know—'cause of the grading), but let us say that my inability to grade in a timely manner is the bane of my work. I'm anal-retentive as it is, and trying to walk away from a paper without thoroughly marking it up is a pain. Yet that takes so darn long that I get behind and suffer great pangs of guilt for being so slow. And I do so resent the time I have to put into it.
But that's my problem, I think. I always see it as such a burden and such a drudgery. It's never going to be a joy, but until I can approach it as a challenge and a duty, I'm always going to resent it—so I'll keep putting it off and keep stalling and keep loathing it.
I don't think I'm meant to teach forever, but I think I need to learn to do it well now. For a lot of reasons.
So that's what I'll be doing for a while here. Maybe next time there will be something interesting to read about. No promises, though.
I don't have time to elaborate at great length here (you know—'cause of the grading), but let us say that my inability to grade in a timely manner is the bane of my work. I'm anal-retentive as it is, and trying to walk away from a paper without thoroughly marking it up is a pain. Yet that takes so darn long that I get behind and suffer great pangs of guilt for being so slow. And I do so resent the time I have to put into it.
But that's my problem, I think. I always see it as such a burden and such a drudgery. It's never going to be a joy, but until I can approach it as a challenge and a duty, I'm always going to resent it—so I'll keep putting it off and keep stalling and keep loathing it.
I don't think I'm meant to teach forever, but I think I need to learn to do it well now. For a lot of reasons.
So that's what I'll be doing for a while here. Maybe next time there will be something interesting to read about. No promises, though.
Friday, July 07, 2006
A Long Story
Strap in, folks. This is a long one. The world cried out for my triumphal return to blogging, and here it is. I am not kidding with that title. You Have Been Warned.
Several people have voiced their disapproval over my disappearance from the blogging scene, and I'm grateful for the encouragement. When my mom asked last night, "Why don't you blog anymore?" I knew I was in trouble and had better get back. I had actually been planning to blog for quite a while, but as we know, the line between "blogging" and "planning to blog" is a mighty and powerful one.
The reasons for my absence are far too long and uninteresting to go into here. So as an alternative I thought I'd post a long and more interesting (at least to me) account of a real "God moment" that smacked me upside the head earlier this week.
Two pieces of information are important as background, though:
(1) In a few weeks, I'll be taking a backpacking trip with the Professor, Skipper, and Gilligan in the Sierras, and the prospect of that has electrified and resurrected my old love of camping and backpacking. I don't know why, but since we decided to do it I've been obsessed with getting back out on the trail. I've collected some fine new gear (thank you, Father's Day contributors) and we've been taking the boys hiking a couple of times a week. I'm hoping to take a long trek up in Big Bear sometime this month before the big trip in August.
All this manly outdoorism has also reawakened a very old dream I've squirreled away for a score of years: to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. For those outside the loop (and a pretty small loop it is), the PCT is a 2,650-mile trail that wends from Mexico to Canada via the major mountain ranges of the west coast (you can read more on it here). To through-hike the whole thing takes 5-6 months, and I'd love to do it. I amend that—I'm going to do it. I've already secured the blessings of my splendidly generous wife; right now, we're on the 11-Year Plan (I'll be starting off in late April, 2017, if the planet hasn't imploded by then), once the kids are of a manageable age. By then my writing career should be in full swing, and who knows—perhaps I'll swing a deal to write about the experience of the trip.
Part of the trail runs right through our mountains, and I remember as a kid being fascinated by such a mighty journey and imagining making the whole trek. I'd not thought about it much until this new obsession blossomed, and now I'm daydreaming about it with some consistency. I took the boys to Big Bear a few weeks ago and found a forest road where the PCT crosses it; we hiked about 300 feet of it then, so I'm well on my way. Only 13,991,700 feet to go.
(2) Last week I read John Eldredge's Wild at Heart, and it made my head come off. My insightful sister gave me the book over two years ago, and I hadn't gotten into it then, but Skaggs has become all Wild-at-Heart-y recently, and he's a man with some traits I'd like to cultivate, so I gave it another shot.
Holy cow.
I'll probably be yammering on about the book in future posts, so I won't go into depth here. Suffice it to say that the book hit me where I needed to be hit at this particular stage in my journey. A lot of the material is stuff I'd heard before but never quite in that way, and it's made a huge difference in my outlook and my faith. In brief, Eldrege encourages men (at least in this book) to embrace those "manly" virtues that have lost their prominence in recent decades (honor, fierceness, wildness, passion, heroism); he also admonishes that Christian men in particular have lost their way and their hearts, allowing a milquetoast, passive image of Jesus to dominate our thinking rather than the more dynamic, passionate, dangerous picture the Gospels paint of Him. Through scripture, Eldrege argues that God made us the way we are for a reason, and that our passions and longings are part of that design (revolutionary, I know; as I said, it's stuff I've heard before but this is the first time it really stuck). Eldredge outlines an invitation to live a life of risk. He doesn't promise success or achievement, but an adventure, and that spoke so clearly to my soul that it felt like he was inside my heart, kicking at the walls to make a little more room for the Spirit.
Now, for those of you worried, I've not become an Eldredge groupie (though he is dreamy... I bet under all that rugged "man" stuff he's really sweet and would be a fun prom date... Oh! Sorry. I have to put down my Tiger Beat magazine and go paint my toenails now). To paraphrase Max Lucado, it's not the words, but God in the words that makes the difference, and I think God used these to waken something in me that had been long lying dormant.
Okay—on to the story.
In my pursuit of this elusive adventure, I obtained the Wild at Heart Field Manual, a kind of workbook/journal/tool/thing to aid in wrestling with the concepts presented by the book and find ways to explore and apply them personally. The book encourages you to go out into the outdoors somewhere to work on it, and I was more than amenable. On Monday, I journeyed up to Big Bear along Highway 38, the long, winding, and—most importantly—less-traveled road. There were still a lot of tourists for the holiday weekend about, so I was trying to think of a place I could go to get a little solitude.
Forest roads and campgrounds are to be found just off the highway all over back there, but none of them called out to me. I remembered that the PCT passes through Onyx Summit, the high pass before the road descends into Big Bear, and a part of me really, really wanted to find it. "What better place," thought I, "to start this spiritual journey than on the trail that is calling me to a physical journey?"
After a while, though, I got discouraged. Who knew which of the myriad roads actually intersected the trail up there, or how far back that intersection might be? I put the thought from my mind and settled for searching for some back road with a good view.
Boy howdy, did I find it. At the top of the pass there was a forest road that looked like it was blocked off by downed trees, but there was space for the truck to climb through. The road was strewn with a blanket of loose rocks and wound about through gnarled pinyon pines and scrub. I found a turnout wide enough to get the truck off the road a few miles in and a comfy seat among the scree.
Below me opened up the whole vista of the Big Bear valley, and beyond the distant shadows of Wrightwood and Mt. Baldy. To my left, Baldwin Lake was a thousand feet below, and dropping down to the north was the prospect of the desert beyond, stretching into gray-brown haze. To my right the granite cliffs and crags thrust up through the forest, and the vale to to the south was a sea of pines. As if that wasn't enough of a gift, thunderstorms were sweeping the valley, and a dark gray landscape of clouds rumbled across the sky. I could see the rain falling in writing tentacles; though I didn't see lightning, thunder rumbled through every few minutes. I sat in muggy sunlight, but the wind from the north blew chill into my face.
It was a glory.
I alternated watching the display and writing in the journal, answering questions about my walk with God and those things which speak to my soul, the dreams that make my heart come alive. On the theory that what we do in our free time is a window into our heart, it even asked about what I would do if given three months and a large enough bankroll to do whatever I truly wanted. I immediately granted myself an extended leave of six months and wrote about that elemental journey up the PCT.
I continued in that vein for about an hour, taking a short break to sit in the branches of one particularly monstrous pine just down the slope. Then the rain swept up my way, and I decided to take my leave. I had to drive further along to find a spot to turn around before heading back. A few hundred yards further on, I saw an inviting spot, but decided to journey a bit further before I had to return to civilization. Eventually I found a wide space with a view of the next ridge, reluctantly got the truck pointed back the way I had come, and headed out.
But I couldn't resist the call of that inviting spot, so I pulled in on the way back. It was on the edge of a small open space bounded by pines and manzanita. It had clearly been used before—a small cairn of stones stood in the center of the clearing. I stood there in the rain and it occured to me that despite my thinking about God and my place with Him, I hadn't actually prayed. So I did so. Feeling particuarly melodramatic, I knelt down in the clearing and prayed for a good long time. Being in such an awe-inspiring setting, I really wanted to have an overwhelming experience, to be overcome by emotion and a sense of God's presence. The confusion of everyday life was supposed to resolve itself in one mighty moment of clarity and purpose, and all would be made clear to me.
It didn't happen.
It was good to pray, longer than I had done for a great while, but I didn't feel particularly uplifted or enlightened. I tried to be still and just listen, as I had so often been counseled to do but which I have never really achieved. I did manage some semblance of it there in the rain from the heavens and the dry earth beneath my knees, and I decided I'd sit there and wait until some kind of answer came. Some sort of sign would make itself known, even if it was just being struck by lightning for sitting in the middle of an open space on a high ridge during a thunderstorm. I vowed I'd wait and listen.
Only I had to get back. My watch (as the Liliputians would have it, my pocket god) showed me that there would be trouble if I didn't get home. I told God that my family was waiting on me and I should not shirk my responsibility to them. So I vowed to keep listening in the truck on the way home, and in my house all evening, and in the dark of the night. I'd keep looking for that sign.
It still felt like failure, and I was kind of downcast as I climbed back into the truck and backed onto the forest road.
However, as I did so, I saw a sign.
A small wooden sign, actually. I stopped the truck to stare. It was carved with the legend "No Motorized Vehicles Allowed." And at the top, a bit faded and worn, was the spade-like tree-and-logo symbol of the Pacific Crest Trail. I had been sitting almost on top of the trail the entire time.
I laughed out loud for full five minutes, giving way occasionally to tears. I climbed out and walked along the path for a hundred feet, stoppping every few minutes to put my hand on a boulder or a tree and guffaw, shaking my head in wonder at what we see and do not see. If anyone else had been about, they'd have thought I was a loon.
It was so clearly an answer that it seemed supernatural—and I'm sure it was. I'm not positive what the message was, except that I could very nearly see God giving me a slow wink and saying, "You are on the path. It's been here the whole time." I don't know what else is packed in there, but I intend to find out.
It occurred to me when I thought about putting this all down here that anyone who reads this and doesn't know God's goodness and overwhelming love, who doesn't know Christ's generosity and patience, is sure to chalk this up to chance and emotional turmoil, or at best some kind of numinous "fate," to explain and rationalize away the meaning or to ascribe it to my own mental processes. I am sorry for you, truly. It was a moment that marked me and in which God spoke right into my heart. The circumstance was small, but the voice was thunderous. If you don't know Him, find Him out. I am done with doubt.
Now to see where this new path leads...
Several people have voiced their disapproval over my disappearance from the blogging scene, and I'm grateful for the encouragement. When my mom asked last night, "Why don't you blog anymore?" I knew I was in trouble and had better get back. I had actually been planning to blog for quite a while, but as we know, the line between "blogging" and "planning to blog" is a mighty and powerful one.
The reasons for my absence are far too long and uninteresting to go into here. So as an alternative I thought I'd post a long and more interesting (at least to me) account of a real "God moment" that smacked me upside the head earlier this week.
Two pieces of information are important as background, though:
(1) In a few weeks, I'll be taking a backpacking trip with the Professor, Skipper, and Gilligan in the Sierras, and the prospect of that has electrified and resurrected my old love of camping and backpacking. I don't know why, but since we decided to do it I've been obsessed with getting back out on the trail. I've collected some fine new gear (thank you, Father's Day contributors) and we've been taking the boys hiking a couple of times a week. I'm hoping to take a long trek up in Big Bear sometime this month before the big trip in August.
All this manly outdoorism has also reawakened a very old dream I've squirreled away for a score of years: to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. For those outside the loop (and a pretty small loop it is), the PCT is a 2,650-mile trail that wends from Mexico to Canada via the major mountain ranges of the west coast (you can read more on it here). To through-hike the whole thing takes 5-6 months, and I'd love to do it. I amend that—I'm going to do it. I've already secured the blessings of my splendidly generous wife; right now, we're on the 11-Year Plan (I'll be starting off in late April, 2017, if the planet hasn't imploded by then), once the kids are of a manageable age. By then my writing career should be in full swing, and who knows—perhaps I'll swing a deal to write about the experience of the trip.
Part of the trail runs right through our mountains, and I remember as a kid being fascinated by such a mighty journey and imagining making the whole trek. I'd not thought about it much until this new obsession blossomed, and now I'm daydreaming about it with some consistency. I took the boys to Big Bear a few weeks ago and found a forest road where the PCT crosses it; we hiked about 300 feet of it then, so I'm well on my way. Only 13,991,700 feet to go.
(2) Last week I read John Eldredge's Wild at Heart, and it made my head come off. My insightful sister gave me the book over two years ago, and I hadn't gotten into it then, but Skaggs has become all Wild-at-Heart-y recently, and he's a man with some traits I'd like to cultivate, so I gave it another shot.
Holy cow.
I'll probably be yammering on about the book in future posts, so I won't go into depth here. Suffice it to say that the book hit me where I needed to be hit at this particular stage in my journey. A lot of the material is stuff I'd heard before but never quite in that way, and it's made a huge difference in my outlook and my faith. In brief, Eldrege encourages men (at least in this book) to embrace those "manly" virtues that have lost their prominence in recent decades (honor, fierceness, wildness, passion, heroism); he also admonishes that Christian men in particular have lost their way and their hearts, allowing a milquetoast, passive image of Jesus to dominate our thinking rather than the more dynamic, passionate, dangerous picture the Gospels paint of Him. Through scripture, Eldrege argues that God made us the way we are for a reason, and that our passions and longings are part of that design (revolutionary, I know; as I said, it's stuff I've heard before but this is the first time it really stuck). Eldredge outlines an invitation to live a life of risk. He doesn't promise success or achievement, but an adventure, and that spoke so clearly to my soul that it felt like he was inside my heart, kicking at the walls to make a little more room for the Spirit.
Now, for those of you worried, I've not become an Eldredge groupie (though he is dreamy... I bet under all that rugged "man" stuff he's really sweet and would be a fun prom date... Oh! Sorry. I have to put down my Tiger Beat magazine and go paint my toenails now). To paraphrase Max Lucado, it's not the words, but God in the words that makes the difference, and I think God used these to waken something in me that had been long lying dormant.
Okay—on to the story.
In my pursuit of this elusive adventure, I obtained the Wild at Heart Field Manual, a kind of workbook/journal/tool/thing to aid in wrestling with the concepts presented by the book and find ways to explore and apply them personally. The book encourages you to go out into the outdoors somewhere to work on it, and I was more than amenable. On Monday, I journeyed up to Big Bear along Highway 38, the long, winding, and—most importantly—less-traveled road. There were still a lot of tourists for the holiday weekend about, so I was trying to think of a place I could go to get a little solitude.
Forest roads and campgrounds are to be found just off the highway all over back there, but none of them called out to me. I remembered that the PCT passes through Onyx Summit, the high pass before the road descends into Big Bear, and a part of me really, really wanted to find it. "What better place," thought I, "to start this spiritual journey than on the trail that is calling me to a physical journey?"
After a while, though, I got discouraged. Who knew which of the myriad roads actually intersected the trail up there, or how far back that intersection might be? I put the thought from my mind and settled for searching for some back road with a good view.
Boy howdy, did I find it. At the top of the pass there was a forest road that looked like it was blocked off by downed trees, but there was space for the truck to climb through. The road was strewn with a blanket of loose rocks and wound about through gnarled pinyon pines and scrub. I found a turnout wide enough to get the truck off the road a few miles in and a comfy seat among the scree.
Below me opened up the whole vista of the Big Bear valley, and beyond the distant shadows of Wrightwood and Mt. Baldy. To my left, Baldwin Lake was a thousand feet below, and dropping down to the north was the prospect of the desert beyond, stretching into gray-brown haze. To my right the granite cliffs and crags thrust up through the forest, and the vale to to the south was a sea of pines. As if that wasn't enough of a gift, thunderstorms were sweeping the valley, and a dark gray landscape of clouds rumbled across the sky. I could see the rain falling in writing tentacles; though I didn't see lightning, thunder rumbled through every few minutes. I sat in muggy sunlight, but the wind from the north blew chill into my face.
It was a glory.
I alternated watching the display and writing in the journal, answering questions about my walk with God and those things which speak to my soul, the dreams that make my heart come alive. On the theory that what we do in our free time is a window into our heart, it even asked about what I would do if given three months and a large enough bankroll to do whatever I truly wanted. I immediately granted myself an extended leave of six months and wrote about that elemental journey up the PCT.
I continued in that vein for about an hour, taking a short break to sit in the branches of one particularly monstrous pine just down the slope. Then the rain swept up my way, and I decided to take my leave. I had to drive further along to find a spot to turn around before heading back. A few hundred yards further on, I saw an inviting spot, but decided to journey a bit further before I had to return to civilization. Eventually I found a wide space with a view of the next ridge, reluctantly got the truck pointed back the way I had come, and headed out.
But I couldn't resist the call of that inviting spot, so I pulled in on the way back. It was on the edge of a small open space bounded by pines and manzanita. It had clearly been used before—a small cairn of stones stood in the center of the clearing. I stood there in the rain and it occured to me that despite my thinking about God and my place with Him, I hadn't actually prayed. So I did so. Feeling particuarly melodramatic, I knelt down in the clearing and prayed for a good long time. Being in such an awe-inspiring setting, I really wanted to have an overwhelming experience, to be overcome by emotion and a sense of God's presence. The confusion of everyday life was supposed to resolve itself in one mighty moment of clarity and purpose, and all would be made clear to me.
It didn't happen.
It was good to pray, longer than I had done for a great while, but I didn't feel particularly uplifted or enlightened. I tried to be still and just listen, as I had so often been counseled to do but which I have never really achieved. I did manage some semblance of it there in the rain from the heavens and the dry earth beneath my knees, and I decided I'd sit there and wait until some kind of answer came. Some sort of sign would make itself known, even if it was just being struck by lightning for sitting in the middle of an open space on a high ridge during a thunderstorm. I vowed I'd wait and listen.
Only I had to get back. My watch (as the Liliputians would have it, my pocket god) showed me that there would be trouble if I didn't get home. I told God that my family was waiting on me and I should not shirk my responsibility to them. So I vowed to keep listening in the truck on the way home, and in my house all evening, and in the dark of the night. I'd keep looking for that sign.
It still felt like failure, and I was kind of downcast as I climbed back into the truck and backed onto the forest road.
However, as I did so, I saw a sign.
A small wooden sign, actually. I stopped the truck to stare. It was carved with the legend "No Motorized Vehicles Allowed." And at the top, a bit faded and worn, was the spade-like tree-and-logo symbol of the Pacific Crest Trail. I had been sitting almost on top of the trail the entire time.
I laughed out loud for full five minutes, giving way occasionally to tears. I climbed out and walked along the path for a hundred feet, stoppping every few minutes to put my hand on a boulder or a tree and guffaw, shaking my head in wonder at what we see and do not see. If anyone else had been about, they'd have thought I was a loon.
It was so clearly an answer that it seemed supernatural—and I'm sure it was. I'm not positive what the message was, except that I could very nearly see God giving me a slow wink and saying, "You are on the path. It's been here the whole time." I don't know what else is packed in there, but I intend to find out.
It occurred to me when I thought about putting this all down here that anyone who reads this and doesn't know God's goodness and overwhelming love, who doesn't know Christ's generosity and patience, is sure to chalk this up to chance and emotional turmoil, or at best some kind of numinous "fate," to explain and rationalize away the meaning or to ascribe it to my own mental processes. I am sorry for you, truly. It was a moment that marked me and in which God spoke right into my heart. The circumstance was small, but the voice was thunderous. If you don't know Him, find Him out. I am done with doubt.
Now to see where this new path leads...
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
And the Truth Goes Marching On
An update on the Hungarian corpse-rum drinkers: Reuters has printed something of a retraction here.
I like how they avoid any personal responsibility, myself. Way to go for journalistic integrity! I guess that the "Oddly Enough" beat doesn't have the same fact-checking requirements; after all, half the stories would end up not being printed.
So I have struck the tiniest blow for truth that it may be possible to strike. I think I deserve a government grant and an exemption from having to do anything difficult or morally upright for at least a few weeks. Goodbye, final grading...
I'm in a punchy mood, so forgive the choppy prose. There was little sleep for me last night, and too much time was devoted to filling out an overly long profile on MySpace (I feel geeky just typing that), 'cause Chris said that Devin was over there and some other Rim graduates and even a few folks from the camp we used to counsel at in our younger days. I figured if all the cool kids were doing it, I should, too. I hear that's the way to get really popular. We'll have to see if television is giving me that truth straight.
I like how they avoid any personal responsibility, myself. Way to go for journalistic integrity! I guess that the "Oddly Enough" beat doesn't have the same fact-checking requirements; after all, half the stories would end up not being printed.
So I have struck the tiniest blow for truth that it may be possible to strike. I think I deserve a government grant and an exemption from having to do anything difficult or morally upright for at least a few weeks. Goodbye, final grading...
I'm in a punchy mood, so forgive the choppy prose. There was little sleep for me last night, and too much time was devoted to filling out an overly long profile on MySpace (I feel geeky just typing that), 'cause Chris said that Devin was over there and some other Rim graduates and even a few folks from the camp we used to counsel at in our younger days. I figured if all the cool kids were doing it, I should, too. I hear that's the way to get really popular. We'll have to see if television is giving me that truth straight.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
I'm Famous (Almost)
I know I owe an actual post here, and I intend to put one up soon, but I thought I'd pass on that my astute observation has lead to a minor change on another web page.
I guess that's not famous after all...
In any case, the deal is that I was perusing the Reuter's web service's Oddly Enough news section, and the first story listed today was from a Hungarian online magazine. It reported that workers who were renovating a house drank a cask of rum, but when they finished they found a corpse preserved inside. Read this fun and educational story here.
The only problem with this is that some version of this tale has been floating about for ages, and was reported on another news service (from the same Hungarian rag) a couple of years ago. D'oh!
So I sent word over to the folks at Snopes, sending also a few kind words about how much I enjoy their site. An hour later, Barbara Mikkelson (one of the founders of the site) wrote back with some thanks. And now, patient readers, you can see the update of the story here.
I don't know why this pleases me; it's about as minor a thing as a person could reasonably do. But there you go.
I also sent a note to the Reuters people, but they have not responded. The link to their story may disappear eventually, so read up while you can!
What? Writing? What writing?
Oh, that writing. Yes, it's going on. I'll post on that next time out. Really soon.
Really.
I guess that's not famous after all...
In any case, the deal is that I was perusing the Reuter's web service's Oddly Enough news section, and the first story listed today was from a Hungarian online magazine. It reported that workers who were renovating a house drank a cask of rum, but when they finished they found a corpse preserved inside. Read this fun and educational story here.
The only problem with this is that some version of this tale has been floating about for ages, and was reported on another news service (from the same Hungarian rag) a couple of years ago. D'oh!
So I sent word over to the folks at Snopes, sending also a few kind words about how much I enjoy their site. An hour later, Barbara Mikkelson (one of the founders of the site) wrote back with some thanks. And now, patient readers, you can see the update of the story here.
I don't know why this pleases me; it's about as minor a thing as a person could reasonably do. But there you go.
I also sent a note to the Reuters people, but they have not responded. The link to their story may disappear eventually, so read up while you can!
What? Writing? What writing?
Oh, that writing. Yes, it's going on. I'll post on that next time out. Really soon.
Really.