Wow

I was absolutely floored when I went to youtube today.

There's a funny little video I participated in.  This video, which I think is quite funny, has only 800 views.

Then there's a clip that's less than a minute long.  This little gem has over four thousand views and has twice the number of comments that mine has.

Good for my sons.  Humbling for me.

A Good Day

Following a funeral today I found myself in a real life version of one of my favorite scenes in any movie.

As it is natural to dwell on death having just been confronted with the subject, two of my closest friends began to discuss what they were thinking about, and then Sissney asked me if I thought divorce or death of a spouse would be worse.  My answer to that question is probably another post entirely, but I realized I was  living "City Slickers" and expressed that to them.  What followed was profound and beautiful as we each shared our best and our worst days.

It is probably not fitting for me to share their stories, but since I bear my soul on this site anyway, I will give my answers to any who might care to read them.
My best day was preceded by my grandfather's desire to donate a car to the church where I worked in order to receive a tax break.  The only problem was that I was in Minnesota and the car was in Phoenix, AZ.  So it was decided that Heather would visit her family in Texas, I would fly to Phoenix, and I would drive to Texas to pick her up and return to Minnesota.  On my best day, I woke up early to leave my grandparent's condo.  I drove out over the hills surrounding Phoenix just as the sun was climbing over their peaks.  As I blared Neil Young's "Cripple Creek Ferry" on the car stereo, I was compelled to stop at a dried creek bed in order to explore and savor the moment.  This was the first of several serendipitous stops on that road trip, with my favorite being in New Mexico.  You see, I had decided to take no major highways on the trip, and so I accidentally ran into White Sands National Monument--a beautiful, snow-like desert surround by a sea of red rock.  As the moon rose, the sun set, and the temperature dropped, I sat in utter silence, completely alone without a soul around me for miles...and I thought of the words of God to Israel, "I will lead her into the desert and I will speak tenderly to her."  I didn't hear the voice of God, but I felt his presence and the impression of his word on my heart.  The moment was transcendent in its beauty. When it was over I drove on through most of the night to reach Heather in Texas.  That was my best day.

I could not think of my worst day without tearing up.  The story has been told here: how the boys fell into the creek, how the cold made them shiver but the fear that they might not be discovered froze their hearts even more, and how we spent a day in the hospital getting Aydan's core temperature back to normal.  I blame myself for not being there when they needed me.  It scares and saddens me to think I could have lost them.  That was my worst day.

I see in my best day my present-day love for adventuring, for retreating to new, far-off, isolated places.  I see that my worst day ended well, so I should count it as a good day, because I appreciate my sons more as a result of it.  But even more, I see today as a good day.  A time to reflect on the deep things of life; to have good conversations with great friends; to remember to live well.

Playing Grown Up

This is a glorious Saturday morning.  Tuesday is the last game of the season, and our play-off hopes are pretty slim.  Last night, on Senior Night, we won big in our last home game, so today there is no practice.  The boys' basketball games aren't until this afternoon.  So I woke up a little later than normal, didn't get out of bed for an hour or so, took the dog for a walk, then sat down to a quiet house.

Do you remember when you were a little kid and you tried on your dad's clothes?  Or when you saw him shaving and wanted to do it with him?  (I'm sure girls remember something similar: trying on heels, wanting to put on make-up.)  It was fun trying to feel "grown up."

But when you do grow up, all the anticipation is gone with the reality that those tasks aren't really all they're cracked up to be.  Shaving is a chore.  Driving can be a hassle.  But what I discovered this morning is that there are still moments when I feel like I'm trying to play grown up.  I made myself some orange rolls, brewed some coffee, grabbed my well-worn copy of "Walden" off the bookshelf, turned on my Classical Best-Sellers album, and settled down on my nice, warm (albeit somewhat dog-smelling) couch.   The first sensation was, "Ah....  Nowhere to be.  Nothing to do.  Nice and quiet.  Relaxing.  Rich and sweet tastes.  Stimulating thought.  Beautiful, soothing sounds.  What a perfect morning!"  Then I thought, "This feels so weird!  It feels like I'm trying to be some uber-sophisticated adult, soaking in all the luxuries of life.  I feel like I'm still trying to be an adult...and maybe trying too hard."  It was odd, but it was still glorious.

And in the middle of this thinking, I read the following passage from Thoreau.

Meanwhile my host told me his story, how hard he worked "bogging" for a neighboring farmer, turning up a meadow with a spade or bog hoe at the rate of ten dollars an acre and the use of the land with manure for one year, and his little broad-faced son worked cheerfully at his father's side the while, not knowing how poor a bargain the latter had made.  I tried to help him with my experience, telling him that he was one of my nearest neighbors, and that I too, who came a-fishing here, and looked like a loafer, was getting my living like himself; that I lived in a tight, light, and clean house, which hardly cost more than the annual rent of a such a ruin as his race commonly amounts to; and how, if he chose, he might in a month or two build himself a palace of his own; that I did not use tea, nor coffee, nor butter, nor milk, nor fresh meat, and so did not have to work to get them; again, as I did not work hard, I did not have to eat hard, and it cost me but a trifle for my food; but as he began with tea, and coffee, and butter, and milk, and beef, he had to work hard to pay for them, and when he had worked hard he had to eat hard again to repair the waste of his system--and so it was as broad as it was long, indeed it was broader than it was long, for he was discontented and wasted his life into the bargain; and yet he had rated it as a gain in coming to America, that here you could get tea, and coffee, and meat every day.  But the only true America is that country where you are at liberty to pursue such a mode of life as may enable you to do without these, and where the state does not endeavor to compel you to sustain the slavery and war and other superfluous expenses which directly or indirectly result from the use of such things.  For I purposely talked to him as if he were a philosopher, or desired to be one.  I should be glad if all the meadows on the earth were left in a wild state, if that were the consequence of men's beginning to redeem themselves.  A man will not need to study history to find out what is best for his own culture.  But alas! the culture of an Irishman is an enterprise to be undertaken with a sort of moral bog hoe.  I told him, that as he worked so hard at bogging, he required thick boots and stout clothing, which yet were soon soiled and worn out, but I wore light shoes and thin clothing, which cost not half so much, though he might think that I was dressed like a gentleman (which, however, was not the case), and in an hour or two, without labor, but as a recreation, I could, if I wished, catch as many fish as I should want for two days, or earn enough money to support me a week.  If he and his family would live simply, they might all go a-huckleberrying in the summer for their amusement.  John heaved a sigh at this, and his wife stared with arms akimbo, and both appeared to be wondering if they had capital enough to begin such a course with, or arithmetic enough to carry it through.  It was sailing by dead reckoning to them, and they saw not clearly how to make their port so; therefore I suppose they still take life bravely, after their fashion, face to face, giving it tooth and nail, not having skill to split its massive columns with any fine entering wedge, and rout it in detail; - thinking to deal with it roughly, as one should handle a thistle.  But they fight an overwhelming disadvantage--living, John Field, alas! without arithmetic, and failing so.

I love "Walden" so much because of passages like these.  Thoreau constantly challenges me to live simply.  So much so that the word, "Simplify" hangs on my living room wall.  Elsewhere he says, "Instead of three meals a day, if it be necessary eat but one.  Instead of a hundred dishes, five; and reduce everything else in proportion."  The hour in bed this morning was spent researching rain suits.  Since I'll be in Scotland in early March, and since my current rain suit is at least 15 years old (when it was my constant companion at every Ohio high school track meet), I want to get something new.  My four-fold goal is durability, wearability, light weight, and economical.  You probably don't need me to tell you that the four rarely meet in one jacket.  Quality is not cheap.  Durable clothing isn't always light.  So I've been researching exactly what I want for the past several days and I think I've come to a contender I might actually buy.  But in the midst of this, Thoreau whispers, "Why not just use the ratty old rain suit? Sure it leaks a little.  Sure it's not 'breathable' like newer materials.  Sure it doesn't stretch, it's a little worn, it's kind of ugly...but in the end, doesn't it basically get the job done?"  Maybe that's not Thoreau.  Maybe it's the Holy Spirit reminding me to be a good steward of my finances.  Maybe it's neither.  Maybe I'm just a cheapskate.

In any case, the reminder to simplify doesn't end there.  In the past six months I've done the exact opposite of Thoreau's recommendation.  Instead of three meals, I now eat six.  Instead of starting simply and working easily, I start with meat and wear my body out.  I have always said such a fitness regimen would only be an experiment, but I have liked the results enough that I want it to be a lifestyle.  But is that the life I've always said that I wanted?  See what I mean?  "Walden" is great stuff: challenging, thought-provoking, and constant in its reminder to "front only the essentials of life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not truly lived."

A Hero Falls

My whole life I have wanted to be a hero.  When I was little, I used to dress up like Zorro and zoom around the church parking lot on my bike.  When I was in junior high, I fell in love with comic books and superheroes.  As an adult, I have come to regard Don Quixote as the greatest hero of all: mad enough to believe that, though he is small and frail and largely inadequate, he can make a difference.   Within every hero is one common thread: a likeness to Jesus in laying down one's life for the good of another.

In the movie "The Dark Knight", Bruce Wayne asks his butler, "People are dying, Alfred.  What would you have me do?" And Alfred responds by saying, "Endure, Master Wayne.  Take it.  They'll hate you for it, but that's the point with Batman.  He can be the outcast.  He can make the choice that no one else can make: the right choice."

In my favorite episode of "Scrubs," the Blanks sing a capela versions of cartoon theme songs, and at the pivotal moment of the show, they sing the theme to "Underdog": "Now unleash the dog of wonder, tearing evil spawns asunder...Underdog."  At that moment Dr. Cox steps up and acts like the hero that J.D. has always considered him to be.  He does the right thing, even though it's uncomfortable for him

There is no greater love than to lay down your life for a friend, humanly speaking.  Jesus trumped even such heroic love by giving his life for his enemies.

But today I think of Mr. Incredible.  Within the first five minutes of the movie, Mr. Incredible steps away from public service...he stops being a hero...because mankind won't let themselves be saved.  In court, he bursts out in anger against his litigant, "I SAVED YOUR LIFE!!" and the ungrateful man screams back, "You didn't save my life, you ruined my death, that's what you did!"  How can one continue to be a hero when the one in danger won't be rescued?  You can throw the life preserver to the drowning man a million times, but if he is determined to drown you will eventually end up wasting your time.

I wanted to be a hero.  I wanted to fight to the end.  I wanted to endure.  But I have to lay that romantic notion aside.  I must let things come to an end.  The hero within me, at least in this realm, will retire.

Explanation, or Excuse?

In case you didn't know, National Public Radio is simply fantastic.  Yesterday I caught the tail end of an interview between Audie Cornish and John Tierney.  Tierney's new book, "Willpower: Rediscovering the Greatest Human Strength" talks about the mental muscle of self control.  As I listened to the interview, it seemed to answer a question I have long struggled to adequately answer on my own--"Why don't I paint more?"
Heather used to express some exasperation when asking this question, but I've faced this question even more in recent months.  Every other week, I should theoretically have more time and less commitments, which should then yield more time to paint.  This will be more true when basketball season is over.   Still, why don't I come home and snatch the free moments I have in order to be productive and to produce the painting I so long to create?
Up until hearing the interview (which really made me want to read the book), I had always explained it as a time management issue.  In order to paint, I must arrange paints on the palette to begin, and then clean the paints off when I am done (preserving the good, unpolluted paint for future use, and wiping the palette clean of all mixed paints, disposing of them).  In addition, I must clean every brush that I use (which is often 6-10 brushes) in order to keep them in peak condition.  Since they are fine, high quality brushes, they require some tender loving care.  First I use something akin to turpentine to break down the oil paint and rinse it from my brush, then I use Dove bar soap to clean the mineral spirits from the bristles, and finally I put conditioner on the brushes (it is hair, after all--right?).  All told, set up and clean up can take nearly thirty minutes.  Maybe twenty if I hustle.  That means on any given night when I have an hour to paint, nearly half the time will be spent on something other than the actual painting itself.  That analysis of the time seems depressing.  So often I psyche myself out of painting, telling myself I'd rather wait for the large blocks of time which will be more productive.  Those large blocks of time never come.
I would encourage you to listen to the interview on the book, or at least check out the brief write-up here.  Essentially, scientists have discovered a link between willpower or self-control and positive outcomes in life (academic and occupational success, positive relationships, not going to prison, etc.).  That seems pretty obvious.  There is also research that seems to suggest that willpower is like a muscle: it can be exercised and caused to grow.  Again, that doesn't appear all that novel.  But the author points out that like a muscle, willpower can be fatigued.  I don't know why I wouldn't have thought of this before, but this notion struck me.  In addition, Tierney mentions that willpower is not simply used in resisting temptation, but also for the task of decision-making.  And this is what finally made things click for me.
Dealing with my relational crisis is completely draining.  A divorce care class that attended made me aware that in a divorce, nearly 80% or your energy is spent dealing with emotional upheaval.  That means physical, mental, and spiritual resources take a strong hit.  It also means that while I have wrestled with decisions about how to handle what is happening in my marriage, my willpower has been taxed to the extreme.  At the same time, I've applied rigid discipline to my diet and fitness regimen, I've gone to work and acted as normally as I can (things I don't particularly want to do), and I come home to manage the house on my own, paying bills, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, etc. (none of which I'm particularly fond of).  You cannot flex a muscle indefinitely and expect it to continue to respond.  So at the end of the day, I tell myself, "You should go paint."  And the response that comes back is, "I just can't."  I don't have the energy or the willpower to make myself face that additional challenge.  "Challenge?!", you may say, "Why is painting a challenge?  I thought having strong emotions and getting them out on the canvas was what being an artist is all about?"  Many people have asked this.  But it takes a painter to understand--or at least a certain kind of painter.  My friend and mentor, John, explains the type of painting we do as something similar to brain surgery.  It is analytical, critical, and very precise.  Jackson Pollock could probably paint through a crisis (and in fact, his life was something of a perpetual, drunken crisis), but Ernest Meissonier certainly could not (read about him in Ross King's stupendous book, "The Judgment of Paris").  Certain painters work certain ways.  It takes a lot of energy and thought to paint the way I do.  And nobody was ever foolish enough to suggest to a surgeon that he operate on a brain after pulling an all-nighter.
Empowered with this understanding now, I feel like I'm not such a schlub for being unable to paint.  There may be legitimate reasons that explain why it has been so hard to go out to the studio.  But is it really an explanation, or just another excuse?

12 Years

Today is my anniversary.  I have been married 12 years.  The twelfth year seems like it might be my last.  That's alright though, because 13 is unlucky anyway.

Unscrewed and Tipping the Deuce: A Look Back at 2011

(Please forgive the lack of pictures.  I had intended to include them, but it's late and I wanted to get this done on the first day of the new year.  Perhaps I'll have time to add them soon.)

Have you ever felt yourself coming down with an illness and you say to yourself, “Man!  I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck!”  Not only am I in that situation right now (I have completely lost my voice), but I can say that both literally and metaphorically for the year 2011. 

There were small glitches from the very beginning.  February is the big competition for my high school art students.  For each of my past four years, I’ve had at least one of my students advance to the state level of competition.  This year no one got out of regionals.  It was a small blow to my pride, but I took note of it nonetheless.  The greater calamity in February was an ice storm, followed by a five-day deep freeze.  While sledding, the boys had a close call, falling into the creek and being exposed to the freezing temperatures.  That was by far the worst moment of the year: feeling like I might have lost one or both of my sons. 

In the spring, I undertook a fast for Lent.  It was a great time of spiritual reawakening, and I am thankful to God for leading me into that process.  Looking back, it seems instrumental in preparing me for what was to come next.  At the conclusion of the fast, I weighed 155 lbs.   After I started eating again, I began biking to school once more.  On my way to work one morning, I was hit by a car as I rode my bicycle.  The process of recovery has been a long and slow one, culminated by the removal of the screws in my left ankle just last week.  [Although they could have remained in my leg indefinitely, I chose to have them removed, because as I was returning to normal functioning with my leg, I noticed that I could feel the tendon in my ankle catching on one of the screws, which was too long for my skinny bone and was projecting out of it.]  So after being laid up for several weeks, I was skinny, weak and broken.  Which is a perfect time to receive life altering news. 

And so, while I was still hobbling around on my broken leg, my wife left me, telling me she just couldn’t be married anymore.  This put something of a damper on my first visit to Montana (something I’ve been looking forward to for years) in particular, and the summer in general.  The saga of this portion of the year is still ongoing.  Will she stay, will she go?  2011 left with a sort of cliff-hanger ending, with me trying to sort out what I really want and wondering what will happen. 

The year has not been all doom and gloom, however.  We had a new head coach start with the girls basketball program, and not only is he a great leader for our teams, he has become a great friend.  Also, since I needed a project to keep me busy after Heather left, I threw myself into working out, and after three intense months, I reached my goal of adding muscle mass until I weighed 200 lbs.  I’ve watched my kids grow.  I’ve enjoyed friends.  I’ve travelled.  I’ve learned a lot.  2011 was an interesting and jam-packed year.  I can only imagine what twists and turns will come in 2012.