My Dad and Martin

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, everyone.  I have looked up to Dr. King ever since I was little.  The first non-fiction I ever read was his biography (a treasured find from a school book fair).  I've had a photograph of him holding his Nobel Peace Prize as long as I can remember, framed on my wall over the years.  But I remember one instance when my faith in his Dream was first tested.  I was too young to remember much of the details surrounding the incident, but fortunately my father had the courage and wisdom to speak up and ask, "Why?"

Today, in honor of one of my heroes, I thought I'd abstain from preaching my own feigned wisdom and instead quote another hero of mine.  The following was taken from his Letter to the Editor for the Tucson Citizen Jan. 21, 2004.  Thanks Dad.

 

King’s Message Ignored

Another Martin Luther King Day has come, and Tucsonans have taken notice along with the rest of the country. But have we really honored King’s legacy?

When I moved my family to Tucson three years ago, I was pleased to see that the Tucson Unified School District had “magnet” schools – schools that supposedly specialized in certain curricular areas.

It was an opportunity, I thought, to let my children focus on their individual talents. Yet, when I contacted the district, I was told quite bluntly that my son would not be welcome at the school we were interested in. Why? Because he’s the wrong color.

The magnet schools aren’t and never were about specialized curriculum. They’re about a government-enforced system of racial discrimination. If your skin is one shade, you’re welcome here; if it’s another, you’ll just have to go somewhere else.

My son keeps a picture of Martin Luther King on his wall, and we’ve read his biography together more than once. I had to tell this boy, who holds Dr. King as one of his greatest heroes, that right now, in America, our local government refuses to judge him by the content of his character, and will consider only the color of his skin.

Some will say there’s nothing the district can do, since this system is the result of a judicial edict. Can’t go against the judge, can we? But wait. Weren’t there judges, and police, and even governors enforcing racial discrimination when Dr. King stood against it? What did he teach us? When the law is that wrong, we have a responsibility to resist.

Where are the school administrators, the parents, the local government officials, and the ordinary citizens, who are willing to stand, nonviolently but firmly, as Dr. King did, against this government-sponsored system of racial discrimination?

Where are those who are willing to pay a price to make a change? Where are those who are willing to truly honor Martin Luther King?

DONALD BUGG

The Bridge On Our Bookshelf

B. and I have a special spot on the bookshelf in our living room.  On one shelf sit our paperbacks pleading with us to be picked up and read.  Two shelves are taken up by our obscenely large DVD collection, which has coincidentally spilled over into the adjacent bookshelf, interrupted only by my wife's tasteful, ever-growing collection of teapots.  The bottom shelf is encumbered with hardcovers and "heavier reading".  B.'s Encyclopedia of Mammals is a prominent anchor to the whole fixture, as are the complete works of Shakespeare, Rowling and Tolkien.

But one shelf is entirely devoid of DVDs or our latest Barnes & Noble indulgence.  This shelf is specially reserved for something both B. and I hold in great reverence and respect.  This shelf is devoted to the cultures, customs and religions we admire and enjoy learning about.  It's an eclectic smattering of artifacts and oddities.  Next to our illustrated copy of the Tao Te Ching is a translated copy of the Quran.  In the shadow of a large bust of a Hindu god rests a miniature figurine of the Buddha.  Nestled next to our Matryoska dolls sits a Bulgarian Orthodox Bible.

Across the room from this shelf, next to our doorway is a mezuzzah, a Jewish wall ornament containing a Hebrew prayer on a small scroll.  We picked it up at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.  That trip also explains half of our paperback shelf; amidst my Steig Larsson and John LeCarre, B. bought numerous novels on Auschwitz, the Nazi regime and even a copy of Mein Kampf.

We aren't Jewish.  We do however hold Judaism in high regard.  We aren't Muslim, yet we find the devotion and poetry of Islam's teachings moving.  We aren't members of any Slavic Orthodox Church, yet we appreciate the efforts of its members in bringing warmth to a cold part of the world.  We aren't Hindu or Buddhist, yet placing representations of each religion doesn't offend us, it inspires us.

We've had friends jokingly refer to our collection, our "God shelf" as our method of cosmically "covering all our bases."  Hardly.  No one should have a backup belief system.  I just believe in a loving God.  Being Christian shouldn't deter me from admiring the paths others have chosen to come closer to God.  I should emulate the love He feels for all races and creeds.  I love God, therefore I love His creations and should respect their ways. Right?

I recall an instance where a high school friend of mine, a member of another church and certainly a much better person than me, was coming to meet me one Saturday morning for a rehearsal.  She had pulled her car into the lot, put on the brake and then simply stayed there. I approached the car to see if she was all right, and as she opened the door a chorus of small voices faded away in the speakers.  She had been listening to an African chorus worshiping the best way they knew how.

She sat there, visibly moved by the piece.  I stood in awe, as I often was around her, both at the beautiful music and its effects on her as well as the very inspiring image she painted for me, sitting in her front seat.  Here was a woman of one faith in one part of the world refreshed, replenished, inspired, affected, and affirmed by the work of others of another faith in another part of the world.  As if the song built a bridge between our two continents.  A bridge between churches and religions, with God in the middle, urging His creations to act more Godly with each new day.

I doubt she herself remembers this, it was a passing moment, the song ended, she hopped out and we went off to rehearse.  But I've never forgotten the indelible impression it made on my life.  B. and I love other religions, other cultures, strange exotic places and the wonders they hold.  We want to travel.  We want to celebrate the world.

But for now, I'm just happy to build a bridge on our bookshelf.



S

My Calves Feel Suffocated

It's official.
Autumn is here, folks.  How do I know this?


I'm wearing pants today.


Rather than donning my usual shorts and T-shirt, I busted out my jeans to "bundle up" against the morning chill.  Pants, people!  Shoes replace flip-flops, sleeves are growing longer, soon we'll be wearing jackets as the leaves die and fall around us in a seasonal fireworks display.


This summer B. and I tag-teamed summer school, worked full time jobs, gave up vacations, visited family and continued to learn and grow together as a couple.  She got a raise.  I was accepted into my program at school.  We've improved, grown, laughed, fought, kissed, talked and enjoyed each other through the months of sweltering heat and no A/C.

Now two long semesters are staring us down.  Two semesters of heating bills, student loans, homework, projects, late nights, early mornings, and working through weekends.  For about 8 months we're getting downgraded from spouses to roommates.  We'll see each other on the weekends I guess.  Well, Sundays.  We can do homework in the same room and call it "family time."

With so much of my time spoken for, I can hardly keep up the pace of blogging I maintained during the summer.  When I rebooted this project on Father's Day, I had no idea how big of a reaction and a following it would get.  Many avid readers, fans and friends have been more than supportive, some have even encouraged me to start writing fiction and try to get published.  Your enthusiasm has bolstered my enthusiasm, and a blog whose entries were spotty at best quickly became a frequent, regular news feed of my meager musings. 

But alas, as I said before, times are a-changin'.  I'm currently signed up for six classes (17 credits total) this fall.  And with such a heavy workload I'm afraid I must put more of my focus, my time and my energy into my education.  In an attempt to avoid slacking off (yet again) this summer, I posted with almost religious regularity.  But now, rather than my usual four or five posts per week, I will limit my entries to probably about once a week.  I'm not abandoning writing; if anything I'm more encouraged by this blog to continue writing.  Part of me really does want to take some of your advice and try my hand at fiction, should time allow.


But, truth be told, I can't blame homework entirely for my backing off.  I feel like I've been sort of spinning my wheels a little for the past few weeks.  My posts have veered off-topic.  Rather than talk about how we're working out our bug(g)s, I've selfishly sunk into simple reminiscences or rampaging rants.  I mean, I know we're a pretty crazy couple, but there's only so much dysfunction I can use for material.

I feel myself starting to run out of things to say.

Well, things of value, anyway.  That's a good sign it's time to shift gears. 

I shouldn't have to force anything.  I don't want to feel like I'm stretching to keep your attention.  I don't want you to stop enjoying what you read because the posts feel were only written to meet some arbitrary self-imposed deadline.  Some of these posts I'm really proud of.  Others I might end up deleting.  I have editing rights as a writer, right?  Think of this summer writing blitz as making up for time lost in my long hiatus last year when I started this blog.  Regardless, limiting posts to weekly updates will really allow me time to edit, ponder, and mull over what exactly I think should be said, rather than just what I could say.

Plus, I really enjoy including little illustrations with some of these stories, so spacing them out allows me time to add visual embellishments.

Good luck to all of you this fall.  Hopefully we'll all come out relatively sane by Christmas.  In the meantime keep reading, keep commenting, and keep sharing.  I love to see new people reading, asking questions and participating in this conversation.



See you next week.

Promise.



S

Two Terrifying Types

I was absent-mindedly scraping cream cheese onto a bagel one morning when something fluttered by my head.  Many of you recall my reaction the last time we had an uninvited guest in our house, particularly when it flexed its wing in our tub.  This was on a much smaller scale, but it still got me thinking.

I think there are two things we are scared of.


There are fears.
And there are phobias.


Fears are those rational, adult anxieties we all suffer through in life.  Will I make it home safely on these icy roads?  Is the front door locked?  Can I defend myself and my family if I have to?  Will this pregnancy go all right?  Will this marriage survive the bumps and scrapes of life?  Will we make it til next payday? Will I be a good enough parent?  Will I find a job after college?  The little monsters that creaked and groaned under our beds as children crawl up under our pillows to whisper seeds of real, legitimate doubts and concerns into our ears and remind us just how little control we have in life.  These are the dangerous fears that we have to bridle with confidence, faith, trust in our loved ones, and even a little self-delusion.

Phobias are the much less serious, at times even silly things that give us the willies.  I'm not talking about the temporary, post-traumatic shivers caused by a late-night horror flick; this is more individualized, more personal.  The stuff we scoff at now that we've outgrown such petty anxieties and moved on to much more daunting demons.  We all had them, maybe you still do.  A little.  Maybe part of you still does get uneasy at the thought of being alone in the dark.  Heights make your head spin.  Clowns are still a little creepy.  You're a confident swimmer, but you can't ever fully submerge that fear of drowning.  Ever since that big angry dog bit you, you've been a bit put off by canines.  Spiders in particular are enough to make my wife screech.  And as I mentioned earlier, I was inspired to write this by one of my old childhood demons revisiting me one morning.

Don't laugh.

It was a moth.

Growing up I hated moths.  They would flutter harmlessly into my bedroom at night, nestle in a comfy corner of my ceiling and perch there, waiting for me to notice.  I invariably would.  Which sent my seven-year-old head reeling with horrific images of it fluttering down and poking its fuzzy feelers into my nostrils, invading my face as I slept.  I would stare at it for hours, daring it to move, flinching and hiding under the covers if it did.  I know they're just like butterflies.  Cute little fluttery bugs that pollinate flowers.  But if there are flowery meadows in hell, only moths flutter there.  They unfurl their wings like bats, their insect faces are covered with tiny feelers, and worst of all, they fly.  No, they don't just fly, they flutter in hurried, scatterbrained patterns that make it impossible to preemptively strike it from the air.  Flies and bees just fly in relatively straight paths; easy to track, easy to kill.  Spiders are grounded (it is a merciful God that didn't give them wings) and easily squished.  But moths...  Moths are evil.

I know it's irrational.  But that's what a phobia is, an irrational fear that you can't explain to others.  A private anxiety that's latched itself onto your psyche, annoying you throughout all your childhood days and sometimes even beyond.


Just keep a swatter handy.  Or a boot.




What are some of your fears?

What were/are your phobias?  Please tell me I'm not the only weird one here.


S

Homeless

People often ask me where I'm from.

I have never liked that, of all the sundry minutia of our backgrounds to inquire after, that is what has become standard.

My answer?

"Well, I'm from a military family..."

People nod appreciatively, sometimes referencing a distant relative or obscure acquaintance who shares my lifestyle.  I've never understood our obsession with place.  Does my placelessness make people uncomfortable?  On the first day of class, everyone can usually be geographically pigeon-holed as the Californian beach bum, the Texan bigwig, the East Coast liberal, the born-and-raised Utahn, the tough-as-nails New Yorker... and then there's me.


The geographical gypsy.


Where was I born?  Provo, Utah.

Where am I from - most recently? Suffolk, England. 

Where's home?  Well, my family is stationed in Maryland...


Where's my favorite place I've lived?  Umm, you heard me say England, right?  Like a train ride from Paris, 2-hour drive from London?  Also, Virginia was awesome, I loved it there.

I never know what people mean when they ask, "Where are you from?"  Origin?  Birthplace?   Most memories?  Longest duration of stay?

It shouldn't make me such an oddball, right?  People move all the time, we're a mobile society!  But I can't honestly look at one past home and call that my one and only home.

Most of my childhood occurred under the shadow of Utah mountains and the Pike's Peak in Colorado, interrupted briefly by a year of kindergarten in a smoky suburb if L.A., California.  Middle school was spent in the sweltering heat of Tucson, AZ.  High school happened in verdant Virginia.  A year of work in New Mexico precluded two years volunteering in the heavy humid summers and harsh Siberian winters of Bulgaria.  A few months of respite in England were all I had before returning to my birth state to attend college.  Same town, too.  I actually got my tonsils taken out two years ago in the same hospital where I was born.  How's that for full circle.


UT, CO, AZ, NM, CA, VA, BG, UK... see how I might have trouble nailing one point on the map as "home"?


Once we moved, I usually tried to just focus on the new home, new friends and new opportunities.  I got very used to relationships with deadlines and looked forward to the latest clean slate to redefine myself.  This might have socially stunted me a bit, but I seem normal enough.

Point is, I don't see much purpose in looking back.  Where am I from?  Do you actually want to know?  Do you really care?  This is just small talk in order to facilitate you in the process of dumping any and all assumptions you might have about whatever you've heard about wherever I'm from on me and my personality.  No thanks.

Maybe I should just refuse to answer.  Maybe I should take a leaf from the book of Yul Brynner, the famous cue-ball actor from The Ten Commandments, The King and I and The Magnificent Seven (NOT the big, mean "pride and power" guy from Cool Runnings).  He just let people guess his background, and some of the stories circulating were fun and fantastical.  Until Wikipedia ruined it all.



B. and I are now looking at grad schools for her and job opportunities for me all over the place.  We're particularly fond of  Washington State, but she's eying graduate programs offered as far as Australia.  I'm hoping to avoid getting sucked into California or New York, but if there is work I must go.

I understand that people ask about our origins to get a sense of our past experiences (i.e., B. is from Nevada and South Utah - she basks in the heat and is a total wimp in the cold), but unless you were there and met the people we did in each of our respective homes, you have no clue where we're really coming from.

It's people that make the place.




Where are you headed?  Where have you been?  Are you "from" somewhere?



S

Feathers, Fur and "Fin."

Stop.

Before we go any further, watch this video.

Watch it very closely and hold out your hands to catch your chin because your jaw will drop:

Right?

Crazy!  This is the kind of thing B. learns about in class.  I'm so glad she loves science and can maintain a constant wonder at the world around her.  I'm no scientist, but she does a good job dumbing down all the details into stuff like this that I can understand, appreciate, and geek out over.

Every week it seems that she wants to specialize in some new animal study in grad school.  When she was learning about mushrooms and fungus, she was set to be a mycologist.  We went fungus hunting over Christmas break one morning with my little brother, taking pictures of cool samples - this is what I married.  Then it was all about whales.  My B., the marine biologist.  She's considered ornithology (after watching the lyrebird rock out, so would I!), mammal studies, and a bunch of other -ologies I can't pronounce.  Except botany.  Plants are pretty boring.  Oh, and entomology.  I think her new last name might be a bit of a deterrent.  Plus she hates spiders.


I didn't have pets, I had brothers.

Well, there was a goldfish when I was an infant.  But I never had a dog or a housecat (ugh) or a gerbil or anything.  I always just assumed pets were for kids who got lonely.  I never got the chance to be lonely.  My brother was my annoying little shadow growing up.  I never pressed the issue with pets because I never wanted to clean up after myself, why would I want to clean up after something that wasn't potty trained?   I got chased by a German Shepherd more than once, so I was terrified of dogs until I finally grew to be taller than them.


You'll recall I made it very clear that I don't like cats.  I much prefer non-traditional, non-domesticated animals to Fluffy or Mr Bigglesworth or whatever you've dubbed your mangy furball.  Well, I'm here to elaborate further on this opinion:


I love tigers.  They don't count.


During the course of her studies about evolution, biology and animal behavior, she's developed a real fondness for tigers.  Did you know only 6 of the 9 species still exist?  This last semester I redesigned an article of National Geographic for a typography class and chose to do an expose on the troubles of the endangered Sumatran tiger, the smallest subspecies.


Her enthusiasm rubs off on me.  They're beautiful creatures.

She follows (and not just on facebook!) a nonprofit organization dedicated to conserving the dwindling tiger populations called Panthera.  We root for the bigger cats at the Bugg home.



We watched Life of Pi again recently.  I really love this movie because both B. and I love it for such different reasons.  She just adores all of the animals, especially the tiger.

The idea of animals having souls, a certain oneness between us and the beasts of the field really appeals to her.  She loves seeing the man and beast embracing their natures in such an unusual battle against the elements.  


My love for it stems from different interests.  I like the tiger, I can appreciate Nature's majesty and the wondrous design behind the evolutionary destinies of all creatures.  I do like the tiger.  But I also like that it's not really about the tiger in the end.  You get attached to him, and you feel an aching pang in your heart at the end of the film, but the story goes on past him.  It's not Life of Richard Parker, it's Life of Pi.  It's his story, his path to coming to know God and himself.

I've talked to a few people about how this movie ends, and several people left disappointed.  They wanted a definite answer, a clean-cut reveal-all.  But does everything have to be resolved for a story to end well?  The best stories aren't the ones that answer the deep questions of life, they're the ones that ask the great questions.  Something that makes you ask the right questions, makes you aware of daunting cosmic queries and leaves you to figure it out on your own.

Those are the stories we tell over and over again.  Hamlet doesn't ever clearly define sanity.  Frankenstein raises real dilemmas about parenthood and the power to create life without asserting any answers.  I'm not saying that Pi is of the same calibur as those literary classics.  I'm just pointing out that it's often better to be left wondering, thinking for yourself.  That's what this story does to me.  I think deep thoughts about God and man and nature when I see it.  I don't begrudge it its ambiguous end.

I read somewhere about a study the found that people who read more (particularly more fiction) were less perturbed by ambiguity.  I don't know why the lack of clarity doesn't bother me when it drives other people up the wall.  I like an ending that leaves me to wonder.  Others demand a concise, cut-and-dry resolution.



What about you?  How do you like your endings?

Can you endure ambiguity?



S

27 Days

Renowned composer George Frederic Handel gave us one of the most influential pieces of classical music in history:  The Messiah.

Anyone who has heard the famous "Hallelujah" chorus - in whatever context - knows his work.  The twinkling harmonies of "For Unto Us a Child is Born" is a staple of traditional Christmas music.  His gift changed our ears forever.

Not only is his daunting musical genius echoed in its frantic interwoven melodies, but also his speed and efficiency.  A professor of mine told me a few weeks ago that Handel composed the entire oratorio celebrating the birth of Christ in less than a month.  I asked him why.  Was it really just that easy for him?  Was he a musical savant of sorts?  Did the music spill out of him as if written by the hand of God?  Was he but a conduit for angelic choruses in heaven?

What prompted him to bless us with such an enduring masterpiece in record time?


Debt.



Handel wrote The Messiah in 27 days to avoid debtor's prison.




Why do some of us crumble under pressure when others excel?

Some of us prefer to take a nice leisurely pace through life, school and work, planning things out methodically so as to never be caught unprepared or unawares.  My sister is like that, always scheduling out her assignments so as to never be behind.  Ever the perfectionist, she thrives on staying ahead of the curve.

Others, however, don't mind putting things on the back burner, only to turn up the heat at the last moment.  I'm afraid in many cases I fall into this latter category.  I've stayed up late working on enough papers due the next day, blowing the glue dry on my way to school on a diorama I'd known about for weeks (sorry, Mom), I even pulled an all-nighter for a project my freshman year of high school.

I had a portfolio review the other day.  This was super important.  Like life-changing, career-affecting kind of important.  It determined when I would graduate, what classes I would take, etc.  I had to include about 20 images of my best work.  I have known about this review for over a year.  I had to print out all of my projects and mount them on mat boards to make them look more professional.  I had worked on several paintings and other illustrations months ago.  But of the 20 images I chose to include for review, I finished putting the final touches on, printing, cutting and mounting about 14 of them.  How's that for preparation?

B. and I have both been known to be up until 3am working on papers and paintings, respectively.  We both seem to thrive when the heat is on.  Grace under fire, efficiency under pressure, we're deadline folks.  I wonder what we could come up with in 27 days if we had prison looking us in the face?


Where do you fall?  Do you have grace under pressure or are you always prepared?

What could you do in 27 days?


S

You should be ashamed.

Guilty pleasures.

We all have 'em.

The first time I heard this term was when my mom was chuckling at the flaming antics on an episode of Will & Grace.  It's a silly show, she knew that.  It can be risque and stupid, she knew that, too.  But there are some things for which we abandon our usual snobbishness or high-minded preferences.

Let's be clear.  That we all have "guilty" foods is a given.  B. loves her brownies.  I indulge in crappy fast food every once in a while.  We know it's bad for us, but we ignore that fact and pig out.  I'm not talking so much about food here, though.  We all have something non-edible that for one reason or another, we just can't let go of.

What is it about that particular shamefully tasteless piece of junk that pervades our walls of classiness and strikes a chord with us?  It could be a Hank Williams, Jr. album, a Dixie Chicks poster left discarded under our bed, an old Aquaman comic book brought to light, those parachute pants left at the bottom of our drawer, the action figures/dolls we're suddenly too old/cool for... or so we claim.



I'll admit it, I have one.   A few, actually.


I know they look ratty.  I know they're faded and wafer thin.  I know they have holes everywhere and the edges are frayed.  I know I've had them since sophomore year of high school.  But I looooooooove my comfy jeans.  They're like an old friend, fitting the contours of my oddly shaped raptor legs and prominent calves perfectly.  They're baggy where they should be baggy, they fit snugly where I need them to.  It's a dance, it's teamwork.  I love them so.  B. has threatened to throw them out on more than one occasion.  I've thought about hiding them until I can patch them up and start wearing them in public again (they're my Saturday jeans, usually).  Everyone should have some comfy jeans, no matter what Stacey London or Clinton Kelly or Tim Gunn or... ok I'm out of fashion gurus, but no matter what anyone says I will always love those jeans.




I remember buying NSYNC's album No Strings Attached and bringing it to a friend's house.  We started rocking out to "Bye Bye Bye" (come on, who hasn't?) when my friend's older brother scorned us into submission.  The oldest myself, I was new to the "bully older brother" element.  His derision was enough to spoil our fun.

... Until the second track, during which all three of us sat around the kitchen belting along in cracked falsetto, "It's Gonna Be MEEE!"





I've never really watched any Fast or Furious films (it feels like there are enough now to rival the Land Before Time franchise).  I saw The Pacifier and nearly died laughing it was so bad.  XXX should have been nixed from production before ever hitting the box office.  Vin Diesel is a joke.  We all know it... but... Chronicles of Riddick is this weird, space-age acid trip for your eyes.  And there's Vinny, standing in all of his awkwardly stoic theatrical splendor.  But I don't hate it, dang it!  It's so stupid and so cool.  Maybe it's the conceptual design riddled through the film, maybe it appeals to my inner nine-year-old.

...a nine-year-old with a concussion.

I'm fully aware it's a weak movie.  Starring a weak actor who got hired for his biceps and chrome dome.  I know I shouldn't like it, but I do anyway.  Against my better judgement, I don't hate it.  Other guilty pleasure movies I wish I didn't secretly think are cool?  Hellboy.  League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Speed Racer.  Insert other franchise-less sci-fi/fantasy niche here, the list goes on.




Why can't we just enjoy what we like, unafraid of the judgement of others?  




My wife shocked me a few weeks ago by suggesting we go see Pacific Rim.  Even I had dismissed it as just a transparent conglomeration of Power Rangers, Transformers, and Godzilla.  We knew going in that it would be Independence Day underwater.  We didn't expect a moving script or a twisty, convoluted plot.  No depth, just big robots beating monsters senseless with their mechanical, rocket-powered fists.

And we got what we wanted.

We both loved it, ignoring the film critics looking down their noses at our enjoyment.


I think it helps having someone in which to share the burden of others' judgement.Geek out, embrace the corniness of your guilty pleasures, you might just find a kindred spirit in the process.




What are you ashamed to enjoy?  What's your guilty pleasure?

Come on, give.



S

Eden and Mecca

GeoMagnetism.

I’m sure this is an actual scientific phenomenon having to do with the earth’s polarity and such, but for my own purposes I’m going to botch that and make it my own.  This is what I’m calling something I’ve noticed about the places we seem to be drawn to inexplicably.  Some of us feel that life won’t be complete without a pilgrimage to Paris.  Others have to make it to the Big Apple before they die.  Why does this happen?  Why are our souls drawn to a place we’ve never before been?   

Why do we feel so at home in a far away place?

My wife loves to travel.  Being an evolutionary biology buff, one of her several personal Meccas is the Galapagos Islands.  She also dreams of going to Istanbul, Cambodia, New Zealand... the list goes on.  We have a map on our wall that is speckled with stickers indicating our eventual travel destinations.  I want more than anything to be able to take her all over.  I want to give her the world.

She was able to break away from work one Saturday and we made the mistake of buying a National Geographic special issue describing the 100 most beautiful places in the world.  We were depressed the rest of the weekend.  There is so much this wonderful world has to offer, and we can’t afford to break away and have adventures while still in school.

But I digress.   

I think there are two reasons we can be drawn somewhere:  

(1)    We feel like we were made from that patch of earth. (Edens)

(2)    We won’t feel complete until we make it there. (Meccas)

Not the same thing. 

Just because a place is pretty doesn’t mean we feel incomplete without going there.  Reaching one's Eden instills a sense of inexplicable return, as if we belong there, as if we've somehow been there before and have come home.

Not so with Meccas; going there fills a void we were born with.  Going to the Mecca(s) of our souls does more than check off an item on our Bucket list- it fulfills an inexplicable, very personal longing.  I want to kiss my wife underneath the Northern Lights, but I want that for us, not for myself.

I’ve found several personal Edens while I’ve traveled.  A dock by the James River in Virginia.  A brisk pine forest in Colorado’s mountains.  But regardless of where I am, I feel most at peace when I’m near the water and the woods.   

Which is why, if pressed to choose one place, my Eden would be here:

I was fortunate enough to go to Scotland with my family over Spring Break in 2011.  We saw wonderful things, gorgeous countrysides, vast lochs, misty glens, rolling hills, sparse, harsh rocky cliffs… It’s the only place I can think of visiting and hoping for bad weather.   When it’s sunny, it’s a lovely sight.  But in the drizzle and mist and fog and rain – magnificent.  

 I love it there.  I hope when God took the dust with which to make me, He scooped up Scottish soil.

My Mecca, however, is not a tourist hotspot.  I don’t want to vacation there, I want to help there.  This place has held a special place in my heart since I was 16 years old.  I remember learning a lot and growing up a lot when I took a class called Advanced American Studies my junior year of high school (isn’t your disillusionment/fall into Nietzsche-inspired atheism supposed to happen in college?), and in my studies I came across reports about Rwanda, Darfur, the LRA, Sudanese civil war, and the bajillion other troubles Africa has.  I remember seeing a photograph of children captured by Joseph Kony’s LRA trapped behind barbed wire.  I had recently learned a lot about the Holocaust as well, so what kept me up at night was the burning question: 

Why isn’t someone doing something?  I thought we’d learned better.

Then I thought:

Would the world be more upset if the children behind that fence were white?

I remember staying up late telling my poor little brother about it, trying so hard not to cry at the injustice of it all.  I can’t explain why this bothers me more than other problems in the world.  The truth is, I’m still more shaken by pictures of child soldiers in Kenya or news of unrest in Sudan than by a tornado or a hurricane or something that "should" hit closer to home. 

Maybe I’m the racist.

I’ve felt Tyndale’s fire in my bones since learning about the troubles Kony has caused.  I don’t think my soul will ever rest until I am able to go there and physically help these children.  That is my pilgrimage.  That is my Mecca.

There are a myriad of reasons we can be called to the far reaches of the globe.  Some we can trace back to revelatory moments of self-discovery, some are more abstract, slipping through our fingers every time we try to grasp why that particular spot on the map holds more sway than others.


What are your reasons?

Where’s your Eden?  Where’s your Mecca?

S

What about the Horses?

B. and I had a good conversation with my baby sister the other night.  I never really called her my "baby" sister when we were growing up, but I've lately adopted the title to nurture my newfound sense of denial.

She's growing up.

It was hard enough to come home after 2 years abroad to find that the tan ten-year-old tomboy I left was now wearing makeup and oggling Daniel Radcliffe.  Now she's passed through the gauntlet of high school freshman year.  And it's just...

Weird.

We talked about, like, mature things.  Not gross stuff, just things that were pretty deep for a high school sophomore.  She was able to understand and expound on concepts and subjects that would stump many people I know in college.  I guess I shouldn't be so surprised, she's different; she's always been a bit above the general backbiting and drama characteristic of her female peers (which I and my bros take full credit for)  Girls are dramatic, all the time around boys mellowed her out.

She's the one sister.  One girl to five boys, poor thing was born to be outnumbered.


This isn't the first time I've had to shift from seeing my siblings as younger underlings in desperate need of knowledge and noogies to intellectual peers.  Well, peers is a generous term.  The two brothers between sis and I dwarf my intelligence easily.  They take AP classes like it's cake, they watch Kahn Academy youtube videos to keep up on calculus.  They have the minds of engineers; even music is more mechanical and architectural to them than it is expressive or emotional. 

Now, just in case you think I'm related to absolute geniuses who spend their free time splicing genes and curing cancer, let me be clear.  They're smart, they're older, we can talk about deeper, more mature subjects.  But one beatboxes incessantly, quotes Nacho Libre, and spurts random AC/DC lyrics without provocation.  The other is an obsessive gamer and, I'm ashamed to say, a Brony.  Both giggle through episodes of Adventure Time like four-year-olds.  I know this because my four-year-old brother giggles with them.

I remember avoiding including the brother closest to my age in any event or gathering with my high school friends.  I was "too cool."  I couldn't have my home life and my social life mixing (see "Keep Your Friends Close").  My parents forced me to take him, and I was surprised to find he fit in really well.  It was fun having him around (not that I'd ever tell the punk).  Sure he cramped my style around my girlfriend, but no more than my bros who weren't related to me did.

He was becoming less a little brother and more of a... friend.  Weird.  We had been sworn enemies since he was about three and now here we were with our separate social circles, getting along.

My brothers and I really became friends in the nebulous year between when I graduated high school and when I left for Europe.  When Dark Knight came out, I went with my bros.  We started hanging out, replaying old N64 games and just spending time together.  Even in middle school and high school, I would take my siblings out for ice cream, to a movie, whatever struck our fancy.  Little one-on-one outings, just to get to know them in a setting outside of home.

Baby sis was probably the most frequent guest on these impromptu outings.  My "sister dates" usually involved just walking over to the Base theater, getting her some candy and seeing whatever latest Abigail Breslin movie came out.  We'd talk on the way over, she'd confide in me all the drama of being ten, mean teachers, tough homework, swimming lessons, an occasional mention of a boy that would put my hair on end.

I was waiting for her horse phase.  Isn't that how it works?  Girls move from Dora the Explorer to Hello Kitty to Hannah Montana to Horses to Boy Bands.  I still had the horses before boys became an issue, right?  Nope.  She went straight to One Direction.  ... No comment.  

I've been gone for most of her adolescence, so it's been strange to see how much she's changed each time we meet or talk.  She's crazy smart and driven, she's enjoying a biomedical program at her school, she's dabbling in ceramics and painting.  She (along with B.) drools over Man of Steel's steely bod.  All the jokes that once flew over head, she gets now.

She's growing up.  But she's also growing well.  She's kind and wise beyond her years.  She respects her parents, she's patient with her little brothers (as much as can be expected).  I'm sad to lose the tan ten-year-old, but this young woman, this friend of mine is an exciting new discovery.


My family is changing, our home is becoming less juvenile, and after so many years with someone always in diapers, I think we're all excited to be done with the Nick Jr. phase.  Not long ago my brother, always the clown, came across this hilarious song, and had the courage to share it with my parents, lords of all things G-rated.  They laughed and loved it, as did we older kids.I think they're excited to have older kids, intellectual peers with whom they can have real, unedited conversations.

Baby sis is growing up.  But so are the rest of us. 


How are you growing?  What do you get to enjoy as an older kid?



S

We're Not Desperados

On our way back from BM, NV it was my turn to drive.

I figured out a little trick driving our manual sedan on long road trips.  To avoid cramping up your calf working the gas for 5 hours, don't drive in shoes.  Well, not in regular shoes (pretty barefoot driving is either discouraged or illegal).  B. and I treated each other a long time ago to a pair of vibram running shoes for each of us.  Happy birthday to us!  They look weird, and it took a while to get used to the toes, but I discovered they're not only fantastic for street running, but they're great for driving.  Instead of straining my ankle and cramping up my leg muscles controlling the gas, these nifty shoes let me just apply pressure with my big toe through the hours.

BM seems to be in a constant state of construction.  Cones line the highway for no apparent reason for literally over 15 miles.  I counted.  This periodic construction happens on and off for the first hour or so from BM to another small town called Elko, then continues for another stretch.  75mph down to 55 mph and back again.   Over and over.  Speed up, slow down, try not to get stuck behind yet another semi-truck.  As we passed Elko, finally free from the cones for a while, I looked over at a billboard.  B. and I were talking, and I didn't see him until it was too late.

He started to follow us, turned on his lights, and I pulled over, resigned to the fact that I would have to kiss a fair chunk of change goodbye because I had been going 82 in a 75 mph zone. I just didn't pay attention long enough to ease off the gas.

Some people have a lead foot.  I guess I have a steel toe.

We went through the usual drill, license and registration (just barely renewed, phew!) and then he informed me that I had been going over 80 in a 65mph zone.  Somewhere in all of the switchbacks between 75 and 55 I had missed the sign that said 65.

Crap.

Now my $90 ticket looked like it would be over $300.


He took quite a while back inputting our info into the system, making B. and I sweat a little.  I apologized to her profusely, she was very tender and understanding.  He came back and surprised me with an off-topic query:

"You two going to college?"

I was so nervous about the cash that I didn't understand his question.  I thought he was asking if we were physically traveling to a college campus.  B. interjected through my confused stuttering and told the officer that yes we were both students.  ... Oh, that's what he meant.

He then explained that this ticket would cost upwards of $300, but when he was attending college in Idaho he lived on $200 a month.  He didn't want to clean us out because we "don't exactly look like desperados."  We weren't the kind of people he was out on the road trying to find.

And we weren't.  We were two struggling college students with a campus parking pass hanging from our rearview mirror, our car recently vacuumed, washed and detailed, new tires and new registration.  We were just trying to get home, and I didn't notice the speed limit change.  Honest mistake.

He pulled some strings for us and wrote up the offense as a rural speeding ticket, which keeps it from appearing on my record and drops the cost down to a mere $75.

I think B. could have kissed him.

We thanked him over and over again and drove off at a timid, grandmotherly pace for the rest of the way home.

God bless Nevada Highway Patrolmen.  God bless vibrams.  God bless my wife who was so adamant about vamping up the car before making the trip.


But someone's gotta do something about those cones.



S

Exclusive Humor and Rock Stars

I posted about flavors of friends earlier.

I neglected to mention one particular brand that I think a lot of us have.  This relationship thrives, even at times wholly depends, on one strange phenomenon:

Inside jokes.

It's not hard to believe that shared experience is a foundation of humor.  Think of the classic you-had-to-be-there anecdotes or any bit or routine from Seinfeld ever.  We love feeling included.  We're "in" on the joke.

I've got a good buddy, very talented guy, a lot of fun to be around, but we're very different.


*seriously, click the link and listen to this kid, he's awesome*


He's the life of the party, spastically jumping around, strumming madly on his guitar, and serenading the ladies.  He's a crowd pleaser, a clown, a rock star.

I'm more of a wallflower, reserved and deep-thinking.  I like to know what I'm going to say, when, how and to whom before I open my mouth.

We worked together as volunteers in Bulgaria and had a lot of fun doing so.  He was a master of guitar and had brought one over with him; I had bought one for cheap from a guy who was headed home to the States and didn't want to lug it around and was learning slowly by myself.  He took me under my wing and taught me some basic songs, and we ended up doing a few street performances for fun as well as a low-key talent show.  We dubbed ourselves the next Rob Thomas and Dave Grohl and had a blast (guess who was who).  Our voices blended really well and I hope to be able to collaborate again sometime.

Somehow, the chemistry worked and we got along really well.  We were just different enough to create a lot of funny memories.  We served together only 6 weeks, but I probably got more stories from  those six weeks than from any other period of time in Eastern Europe.  We always found humor in the silliest and most obscure, trite things.

I called him to catch up while still out in Bulgaria and those listening in on my half of the conversation remarked:

"You guys just ran through like an hour's worth of inside jokes"

Looking back, I realized we had skipped over most of the pleasantries of catching up and gunned straight for our shared references and private humor.

B. and I had lunch with him last year, same thing.  She was lost 3 minutes in.



Is that all that's left of our friendship now?




Nah.

It's not that we're not friends anymore. We live in different cities, we study different subjects, we're headed for different careers.  But we can still enjoy each other's company.  It's fun to reminisce, but we can still live in the present.  He's the kind of guy where you can pick up where you left off no matter how long it's been.  I love people like that, who wear their hearts on their sleeve and emote so transparently.  They don't change, they stay just as positive and fun as they were in years past.

Besides, there are always more opportunities for inside jokes.


The key to being in on those great jokes?

You have to BE there.




What are your inside jokes?  With whom do you share the most?




S

Keep Your Friends Close, But Far From Each Other

We've all been there.  You go meet your buddy from high school and talk about old high school pranks and that kid who was high as a kite in the middle of chemistry.  You call another friend and have a heart to heart about her family and how she's handling her parents' divorce.  You have a couple from church over for dinner and a game of cards.

Each friend a separate entity, a different strand of your social web.

When left alone, you have great conversations, you reminisce, you laugh, you cry, you people-watch, you dream about a big scary future.  Each friend serves his or her purpose.  Each brings out a different side of you.  But these varied friends could never assemble at the same social gathering and feel comfortable around each other.

Friends are like different compartments in your social utility belt, but I think if you try to use them all at once, you'll explode.  Batman presses one button at a time on his, why shouldn't you do the same?

I remember the first time I noticed the classification of friendships.  I turned ten.  I had a legit birthday party, lots of kids over at the house, running around hyped up on candy, cake, and that high, that playground fever that transcends what sugar can do - that berserker craze that only the company of other kids can bring out in even the calmest child.  There were games, there was cake, there were oh so many presents, including a very cool Beast Wars transformer toy that I lost pieces to in about 5 seconds.

It was during the roundtable cake and candles ceremony that I first noticed it.  A lot of my friends were seated in factions.  My church friends sat and talked with church friends.  My school friends sat with school friends.  Some were even sitting in uncomfortable silence, trying to remain in peaceful anonymity.

As a socially developing ten-year-old, this was one of my first recollections of a major social faux pas:


Just because they like you doesn't mean they'll like each other.


Oops.  Sorry guys.

This rule has remained true as I've delved and dabbled in my sundry extracurriculars.

My swim team friends belonged in their sphere.  My scout camp buddies in theirs.  My band friends had their place, as did my fellow cast members in high school theatre productions. 

Even now as a married adult, I have friends that like me, but I know them well enough not to mix them with each other.

One friend always makes me feel like I need to be a poli-sci major to even compete intellectually in our conversations.  His political savvy is daunting, as is his inherent ability to read people and social situations.  He's so dang smart and witty, and he doesn't pull punches.  On insults.  Or on compliments.  It's all so unsettlingly sincere.

Another friend is a fellow I served with as a volunteer from my days as a missionary.  We were assigned a very tough, unresponsive area.  It really made us rely on each other for sanity, made us "war buddies."  He was my best man at my wedding.

I've got a buddy who's a big idea man.  We'll get together every once in a while and talk about design concepts or half-baked business plans.  He'll vomit ideas like balloons, and I'll stand there with a pin to pop the ones that won't go far.  If he's George Clooney, I'm his Brad Pitt, grounding him with the details that will get us into that casino.

I have another dear friend whom I've watched from afar.  Her life has served as a sort of premonition, a small peek at the future.  When she got married, I saw how happy she was and got so excited for that day to come in my life.  She's always one step ahead of me in life's milestones, and her previews always give me hope.  She's like a sort of big sister I never had.

Please understand, I'm sure if I blew a conch shell and told these dear friends to "Assemble!" at Starbucks or something, they'd be cordial and polite and get along well enough; we're all adults.


It's not them.

It's me I'm worried about.


My friends each bring out such unique sides of my personality, the transformations would be frustrating for them and exhausting for me. 


Does this make me two-faced? 


I used to worry about that, but I don't think so.

Our personalities are complex, multifaceted things.  There are countless sides to a person's interests, likes and dislikes, quirks, habits, jokes, mannerisms, faults and flaws.  One of the great things about having such a variety of friends is that they can pull and stretch you, help you grow, and build you up in so many different ways.



Are your friends different?  Would they all get along at, say, a barbecue?  How do they build you?



S

Words, Words, Words

Bravo to those of you who picked up on the Shakespeare reference.

We had a discussion in my English class a few months ago about texting and its effects on relationships.  Is the ability to have a conversation through text messages inhibiting our communication skills as couples?  Are we less likely to feel comfortable in a face-to-face conversation with our significant other?  Is texting a crutch?

Some said it might, most of us weren't sure.  It brings up an interesting idea:


Some people are talkers.

Some people are writers.


Some excel in verbal communication, words just pour out of their mouths and serve any purpose the speaker wishes.  They say everything right, their grandiloquence is humbling.

Others need a little mental editing to work out and tweak their abstract thoughts until their sentence is sculpted into the beautiful poetry they intend.

One skill isn't necessarily better than the other, I think they're just different avenues to the same destination: communication.

B. is a speaker.  She has the confidence and commanding presence of a seasoned public speaker.  When she talks, people listen; she has a boisterous voice and a wonderful laugh.  I admire that so much in her.

Meanwhile, I sit in another camp; I'm admittedly more reserved and soft-spoken.  I won't say timid, though; get me started on something  about which I'm passionate and I'll be lawyering you 'til your ears fall off.  I'm verbose enough to be comprehended, but I like being able to plot out my thoughts into coherent sentences and guide my audience/listener/reader through the logic and reasoning of my point.  This is hard for me to do verbally.  I favor writing, which is why I've loved this blog so far.  I think I get my point across much clearer in writing.  Plus, I can go back and edit my words and tailor them to appeal to my reader much easier than I can pause mid-sentence and plan out my next discourse.

Even as I write this, there are roughly twenty other posts waiting for some final expounding and editing before being published onto the blog. 

I can think of a few times when I stopped and edited a text before sending it to B. while we were dating.  I'm almost certain this avoided a fight, which is just miserable when you're in a long-distance relationship, because you can't fight it out face-to-face, and even after the fight's over, you have to postpone making up.

That's not to say that I have to verbally tiptoe around B., either.

On those rare instances where I did go back and edit my texts before sending, it was because I saw something in the wording that could be misconstrued as offensive when no offense was meant.  We don't bully each other, but we don't walk on eggshells either.  We can disagree and still have a healthy marriage.

All I'm saying is, choosing your words is a vital skill in school, work, and especially relationships.  Different people communicate in different ways.


I just happen to be better in writing.



How do you choose your words?  Are you a speaker or a writer?


Does texting help or hurt you?



S

Aimer

aimer. (v.):    1. to like.
                     2. to love.

This French verb always left me a little frazzled.  I took 3 French classes in high school and I could never figure out why the language didn't allow for any discrepancy between the two (in my opinion) drastically different actions.

I love that about English.

You can like something.

You can love something.

A friend of mine gave me a bit of insight into the need for this distinction years ago.  We stopped by her house before going to a rehearsal so she could pick up some things.  She briefly introduced me to her mom, grabbed the stuff and we left.

On our way out the door, she hollered:

"Bye mom, I like you!"

An echoed response came down the hall,

"I like you, too!"

Confused, I inquired on our way to the car, "... Like?"

Smiling to herself, she explained.



"Everybody loves their family," she said; that's a given. "You don't always like them."



My friend is so awesome.  I've looked up to her for a long time, she's an inspiration as a woman of faith, as a writer, and just as a genuinely good person who always leaves you feeling better than you were before.  She has kept that trademark candid honesty, contagious optimism, and love of life - as evidenced on her own blog.  Check it out!

True, our loved ones can drive us crazy sometimes.  We don't always like what they do, but we always love them.  I spent most of my childhood loving but not necessarily liking one of my brothers (we've since become really good friends).  It's important to celebrate and savor those moments when we don't just feel that obligatory familial bond, that genetic tie to our loved ones, but also those instances when we genuinely like them.  We don't just put up with them because they're blood; we can really enjoy their company and seek it out.




How often do you like the people you love? 


And for that matter, when was the last time you were likable?


S

...Get it?

Here's a tip:

If you have to use "get it?" as an addendum to a joke, it's not funny.

I was washing my hands in the bathroom at work when an older man tried to use humor with another guy a few sinks down.

"Oh, this must be another slight against the dance department," he smirked to the poor kid soaping up at the sink.

The kid turned with a quizzical look to see what on earth this man was talking about.  I saw through the mirror as he indicated a sign placed on the wall above the urinals:

"To avoid clogging PLEASE do not flush paper towels."

Get it?   

clogging.

Like dancing.  In wooden shoes.


...Ha.


You feel awkward reading it?  I promise you, it was much worse hearing it out loud.  Oi.

This poor kid at the sink caught on before I did.  Feigning appreciation, he did his best to force a smile and resist rolling his eyes at such lame humor before drying his hands and leaving.

Now, my father has been known to insert a lame pun or two in conversation, to which we would all reply with our false, obligatory laughter.  It's a compulsion for him, and I slip into it occasionally as well.  I think it's a rite of passage when you abandon bachelorhood for marriage and family.

Personally I look forward to that day when I can roll up in the family SUV or minivan to pick up my embarrassed, insecure teens and tweens, put my blinkers on, pop open the car door and usher them into the vehicle as NSYNC and Backstreet Boys blasts from the speakers (which will be even less cool then than it is now).  I yearn for the day I can stand there in all my glory: my stained khaki shorts, baggy multi-colored hawaiian shirt so obviously pilfered off of a rack at goodwill in 1983, black dress socks and plastic sandals covering my pasty yet hairy legs.

Having that dad sucks.

But being that "lame" dad is going to ROCK.

Now, I realize there are readers out there who think their dad is nothing compared to the propensity for humiliation possessed by their mother.  I don't mean to single out dads as the only embarrassing parent; I'm just personally looking forward to becoming that cruel, unforgiving stereotype.  Once you're married, you only have one person to impress, and your kids' reputation is usually expendable.

Mwahaha.



Do you have a tendency for lame puns?  What do you do that embarrasses your loved ones?  Do you relish it as I plan to?



S

Shopping and Dropping

Impulse buys. 

We all have them.

I had one the other day.  I’m getting into John LeCarre novels lately, and there’s one with a great cover illustration at Barnes & Noble that I’ve had my eye on for a while (my major gives me full license to judge books by their cover, and I'm loving the graphic style that Matt Taylor brought to the series).  Every time I walked by it, flipped through the pages, thumbed that coveted cover, I would rationalize my way out of buying it.

…I could get it at the library if I’m so keen to read it…

…If I love the cover so much I can just google it and print it out…

…There are other things, more important uses for $15…

Why did I cave this week?

Let’s just say I had a bad day.  Something I was gunning for fell through, throwing off my schedule and my mood in a major way. 

What to do?

I didn’t want to drown my sorrow in food that I’d have to run off later. 

I didn’t have time to go to the gym and work out the frustration.

I had twenty minutes to kill before picking up B. from class and as the car was coming up on Barnes,  on an impulse I turned into the parking lot. 

The next thing I knew I was back in the parking lot on page 4.

B. was tickled to see I had “actually bought something” for myself. 

Every once in a while, she’ll get a little something for herself after payday as a treat, but I, the pathological sourpuss, won’t bite on such occasions.  She buys on positive impulses – when she’s in a good mood.  Normal, right? 

But when I’m off work, blissfully enjoying my weekend, my wallet seems to clam up. When I’m feeling great, I want to go swim or hike or do something that usually doesn’t require much cash.  The  proper impetus to crack open my bank account seems to be a really sour mood. 

Why am I this way?   

Is it a guy thing?  Maybe dudes are more prone to buy when we’re feeling low, and women shop more when they’re loving life:

Women shop until they drop.

Men shop because they drop.

Maybe…

I’m keeping the book, regardless.

What was your last impulse buy?

What did you get?  Why did you get it?

S